62255	----	STELLAR SHOWBOAT By MALCOLM JAMESON A drama more fantastic than any the stage had ever produced was being plotted behind the curtains of the Showboat of Space. And between its presentation and inter-world disaster, waiting for his cue, stood only the lone figure of Investigator Neville. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Special Investigator Billy Neville was annoyed, and for more reasons than one. He had just done a tedious year in the jungles of Venus stamping out the gooroo racket and then, on his way home to a well-deserved leave and rest, had been diverted to Mars for a swift clean-up of the diamond-mine robbery ring. And now, when he again thought he would be free for a while, he found himself shunted to little Pallas, capital of the Asteroid Confederation. But clever, patient Colonel Frawley, commandant of all the Interplanetary Police in the belt, merely smiled indulgently while Neville blew off his steam. "You say," said Neville, still ruffled, "that there has been a growing wave of blackmail and extortion all over the System, coupled with a dozen or so instances of well-to-do, respectable persons disappearing without a trace. And you say that that has been going on for a couple of years and several hundred of our crack operatives have been working on it, directed by the best brains of the force, and yet haven't got anywhere. And that up to now there have been no such cases develop in the asteroids. Well, what do you want _me_ for? What's the emergency?" The colonel laughed and dropped the ash from his cigar, preparatory to lying back in his chair and taking another long, soothing drag. The office of the Chief Inspector of the A.C. division of the I.P. was not only well equipped for the work it had to do, but for comfort. "I am astonished," he remarked, "to hear an experienced policeman indulge in such loose talk. Who said anything about having had the _best_ brains on the job? Or that no progress had been made? Or that there was no emergency? Any bad crime situation is always an emergency, no matter how long it lasts. Which is all the more reason why we have to break it up, and quickly. I tell you, things are becoming very serious. Lifelong partners in business are becoming suspicious and secretive toward each other; husbands and wives are getting jittery and jealous. Nobody knows whom to trust. The most sacred confidences have a way of leaking out. Then they are in the market for the highest bidder. No boy, this thing is a headache. I never had a worse." "All right, all right," growled Neville, resignedly. "I'm stuck. Shoot! How did it begin, and what do you know?" * * * * * The colonel reached into a drawer and pulled out a fat jacket bulging with papers, photostats, and interdepartmental reports. "It began," he said, "about two years ago, on Io and Callisto. It spread all over the Jovian System and soured Ganymede and Europa. The symptoms were first the disappearances of several prominent citizens, followed by a wave of bankruptcies and suicides on both planetoids. Nobody complained to the police. Then a squad of our New York men picked up a petty chiseler who was trying to gouge the Jovian Corporation's Tellurian office out of a large sum of money on the strength of some damaging documents he possessed relating to a hidden scandal in the life of the New York manager. From that lead, they picked up a half-dozen other small fry extortionists and even managed to grab their higher-up--a sort of middleman who specialized in exploiting secret commercial information and scandalous material about individuals. There the trail stopped. They put him through the mill, but all he would say is that a man approached him with the portfolio, sold him on its value for extortion purposes, and collected in advance. There could be no follow up for the reason that after the first transaction what profits the local gang could make out of the dirty work would be their own." "Yes," said Neville, "I know the racket. When they handle it that way it's hard to beat. You get any amount of minnows, but the whales get away." "Right. The disturbing thing about the contents of the portfolio was the immense variety of secrets it contained and that it was evidently prepared by one man. There were, for example, secret industrial formulas evidently stolen for sale to a competitor. The bulk of it was other commercial items, such as secret credit reports, business volume, and the like. But there was a good deal of rather nasty personal stuff, too. It was a gold mine of information for an unscrupulous blackmailer, and every bit of it originated on Callisto. Now, whom do you think, could have been in a position to compile it?" "The biggest corporation lawyer there, I should guess," said Neville. "Priests and doctors know a lot of personal secrets, but a good lawyer manages to learn most everything." "Right. Very right. We sent men to Callisto and learned that some months earlier the most prominent lawyer of the place had announced one day he must go over to Io to arrange some contracts. He went to Io, all right, but was never seen again after he stepped out of the ship. It was shortly after, that the wave of Callistan suicides and business failures took place." "All right," agreed Neville, "so what? It has happened before. Even the big ones go wrong now and then." "Yes, but wait. That fellow had nothing to go wrong about. He was tremendously successful, rich, happily married, and highly respected for his outstanding integrity. Yet he could hardly have been kidnaped, as there has never been a ransom demand. Nor has there ever been such a demand in any of the other cases similar to it. "The next case to be partially explained was that of the disappearance of the president of the Jupiter Trust Company at Ionopolis. All the most vital secrets of that bank turned up later in all parts of the civilized system. We nabbed some peddlers, but it was the same story as with the first gang. The facts are all here in this jacket. After a little you can read the whole thing in detail." "Uh, huh," grunted Neville, "I'm beginning to see. But why _me_, and why at Pallas?" "Because you've never worked in the asteroids and are not known here to any but the higher officers. Among other secrets this ring has, are a number of police secrets. That is why setting traps for them is so difficult. I haven't told you that one of their victims seems to have been one of us. That was Jack Sarkins, who was district commander at Patroclus. He received an apparently genuine ethergram one day--and it was in our most secret code--telling him to report to Mars at once. He went off, alone, in his police rocket. He never got there. As to Pallas, the reason you are here is because the place so far is clean. Their system is to work a place just once and never come back. They milk it dry the first time and there is no need to. Since we have no luck tracing them after the crime, we are going to try a plant and wait for the crime to come to it. You are the plant." "I see," said Neville slowly. He was interested, but not enthusiastic. "Some day, somehow, someone is coming here and in some manner force someone to yield up all the local dirt and then arrange his disappearance. My role is to break it up before it happens. Sweet!" "You have such a way of putting things, Neville," chuckled the colonel, "but you do get the point." He rose and pushed the heavy folder toward his new aide. "Bone this the rest of the afternoon. I'll be back." * * * * * It was quite late when Colonel Frawley returned and asked Neville cheerily how he was getting on. "I have the history," Neville answered, slamming the folder shut, "and a glimmering of what you are shooting at. This guy Simeon Carstairs, I take it, is the local man you have picked as the most likely prospect for your Master Mind crook to work on?" "He is. He is perfect bait. He is the sole owner of the Radiation Extraction Company which has a secret process that Tellurian Radiant Corporation has made a standing offer of five millions for. He controls the local bank and often sits as magistrate. In addition, he has substantial interests in Vesta and Juno industries. He probably knows more about the asteroids and the people on them than any other living man. Moreover, his present wife is a woman with an unhappy past and who happens also to be related to an extremely wealthy Argentine family. Any ring of extortionists who could worm old Simeon's secrets out of him could write their own ticket." "So I am to be a sort of private shadow." "Not a bit of it. _I_ am his bodyguard. We are close friends and lately I have made it a rule to be with him part of the time every day. No, your role is that of observer from the sidelines. I shall introduce you as the traveling representative of the London uniform house that has the police contract. That will explain your presence here and your occasional calls at headquarters. You might sell a few suits of clothes on the side, or at least solicit them. Work that out for yourself." Neville grimaced. He was not fond of plainclothes work. "But come, fellow. You've worked hard enough for one day. Go up to my room and get into cits. Then I'll take you over to the town and introduce you around. After that we'll go to a show. The showboat landed about an hour ago." "Showboat? What the hell is a showboat?" "I forget," said the colonel, "that your work has been mostly on the heavy planets where they have plenty of good playhouses in the cities. Out here among these little rocks the diversions are brought around periodically and peddled for the night. The showboat, my boy, is a floating theater--a space ship with a stage and an auditorium in it, a troupe of good actors and a cracking fine chorus. This one has been making the rounds quite a while, though it never stopped here before until last year. They say the show this year is even better. It is the "Lunar Follies of 2326," featuring a chorus of two hundred androids and with Lilly Fitzpatrick and Lionel Dustan in the lead. Tonight, for a change, you can relax and enjoy yourself. We can get down to brass tacks tomorrow." "Thanks, chief," said Neville, grinning from ear to ear. The description of the showboat was music to his ears, for it had been a long time since he had seen a good comedy and he felt the need of relief from his sordid workaday life. "When you're in your makeup," the colonel added, "come on down and I'll take you over in my copter." * * * * * It did not take Billy Neville long to make his transformation to the personality of a clothing drummer. Every special cop had to be an expert at the art of quick shifts of disguise and Neville was rather better than most. Nor did it take long for the little blue copter to whisk them halfway around the knobby little planetoid of Pallas. It eased itself through an airlock into a doomed town, and there the colonel left it with his orderly. The town itself possessed little interest for Neville though his trained photographic eye missed few of its details. It was much like the smaller doomed settlements on the Moon. He was more interested in meeting the local magnate, whom they found in his office in the Carstairs Building. The colonel made the introductions, during which Neville sized up the man. He was of fair height, stockily built, and had remarkably frank and friendly eyes for a self-made man of the asteroids. Not that there was not a certain hardness about him and a considerable degree of shrewdness, but he lacked the cynical cunning so often displayed by the pioneers of the outer system. Neville noted other details as well--the beginning of a set of triple chins, a little brown mole with three hairs on it alongside his nose, and the way a stray lock of hair kept falling over his left eye. "Let's go," said the colonel, as soon as the formalities were over. Neville had to borrow a breathing helmet from Mr. Carstairs, for he had not one of his own and they had to walk from the far portal of the dome across the field to where the showboat lay parked. He thought wryly, as he put it on, that he went from one extreme to another--from Venus, where the air was over-moist, heavy and oppressive from its stagnation, to windy, blustery Mars, and then here, where there was no air at all. As they approached the grounded ship they saw it was all lit up and throngs of people were approaching from all sides. Flood lamps threw great letters on the side of the silvery hull reading, "Greatest Show of the Void--Come One, Come All--Your Money Back if Not Absolutely Satisfied." They went ahead of the queue, thanks to the prestige of the colonel and the local tycoon, and were instantly admitted. It took but a moment to check their breathers at the helmet room and then the ushers had them in tow. "See you after the show, Mr. Allington," said the colonel to Neville, "I will be in Mr. Carstairs box." * * * * * Neville sank into a seat and watched them go. Then he began to take stock of the playhouse. The seats were comfortable and commodious, evidently having been designed to hold patrons clad in heavy-dust space-suits. The auditorium was almost circular, one semi-circle being taken up by the stage, the other by the tiers of seats. Overhead ranged a row of boxes jutting out above the spectators below. Neville puzzled for a long time over the curtain that shut off the stage. It seemed very unreal, like the shimmer of the aurora, but it affected vision to the extent that the beholder could not say with any certainty _what_ was behind it. It was like looking through a waterfall. Then there was eerie music, too, from an unseen source, flooding the air with queer melodies. People continued to pour in. The house gradually darkened and as it did the volume and wildness of the music rose. Then there was a deep bong, and lights went completely out for a full second. The show was on. Neville sat back and enjoyed it. He could not have done otherwise, for the sign on the hull had not been an empty plug. It was the best show in the void--or anywhere else, for that matter. A spectral voice that seemed to come from everywhere in the house announced the first number--The Dance of the Wood-sprites of Venus. Instantly little flickers of light appeared throughout the house--a mass of vari-colored fireflies blinking off and on and swirling in dizzy spirals. They steadied and grew, coalesced into blobs of living fire--ruby, dazzling green, ethereal blue and yellow. They swelled and shrank, took on human forms only to abandon them; purple serpentine figures writhed among them, paling to silvery smoke and then expiring as a shower of violet sparks. And throughout was the steady, maddening rhythm of the dance tune, unutterably savage and haunting--a folk dance of the hill tribes of Venus. At last, when the sheer beauty of it began to lull the viewers into a hypnotic trance, there came the shrill blare of massed trumpets and the throb of mighty tom-toms culminating in an ear-shattering discord that broke the spell. The lights were on. The stage was bare. Neville sat up straighter and looked, blinking. It was as if he were in an abandoned warehouse. And then the scenery began to grow. Yes, grow. Almost imperceptible it was, at first, then more distinct. Nebulous bodies appeared, wisps of smoke. They wavered, took on shape, took on color, took on the appearance of solidity. The scent began to have meaning. Part of the background was a gray cliff undercut with a yawning cave. It was a scene from the Moon, a hangout of the cliffdwellers, those refugees from civilization who chose to live the wild life of the undomed Moon rather than submit to the demands of a more ordered life. Characters came on. There was a little drama, well conceived and well acted. When it was over, the scene vanished as it had come. A comedy team came out next and this time the appropriate scenery materialized at once as one of them stumbled over an imaginary log and fell on his face. The log was not there when he tripped, but it was there by the time his nose hit the stage, neatly turning the joke on his companion who had started to laugh at his unreasonable fall. On the show went, one scene swiftly succeeding the next. A song that took the fancy of the crowd was a plaintive ballad. It ran: _They tell me you did not treat me right,_ _Nor are grateful for all I've done._ _I fear you're fickle as a meteorite_ _Though my love's constant as the Sun._ There was a ballet in which a witch rode a comet up into the sky, only to turn suddenly into a housewife and sweep all the cobwebs away. The featured stars came on with the chorus, and Lilly Fitzpatrick sang the big hit song, "You're a Big, Bad Nova to Burn Me Up This Way!" Then a novelty quartet appeared, to play on the curious Callistan _bourdelangs_, those reeds of that planet that grow in bundles. When dried and cut properly, they make multiple-barreled flutes with a tonal quality that makes the senses quiver. The show closed with a grand finale and flooded the house with the Nova song. It was over. The stage was bare and the shimmering curtain that was not a curtain was back in place. People began to rise and stream into the aisles. * * * * * "La-deez and gen-tul-men!" The voice boomed out and people stopped where they stood. A man in evening clothes had stepped through the curtain and was calling for attention. "You have seen our regular performance. We hope it has pleased you and you will come again next year. But if you will kindly remain in your seats, the ushers will pass around with tickets for the after-show. We have prepared for your especial delectation a little farce entitled, 'It Happens on Pallas.' Now, ladeez and gen'men, I assure you that this sketch was prepared solely for your entertainment and any resemblance of any character in it to any real person is purely coincidental. It is all in fun, and no offense intended. I thank you." Billy Neville was bolt upright in his seat by then and his eyes glinted hard through narrow slits. Something had rung the bell in his memory, but he did not know what. He would have sworn he had never seen that announcer before, and yet.... The man stepped backward into the curtain and appeared to vanish. The audience were grinning widely and resuming their seats. "This is going to be good," said the man next to him as he dug for the required fee. "It is their specialty. It beats the regular show, I think." Neville paid the usher, too, and sat where he was. He shot a glance upward at the box and saw Mr. Carstairs and the colonel in animated conversation and apparently having a grand time. Presently the ushers had done their work. The hall began to darken and the scenery come up. The scene was the main street of New Athens, as some called Pallas' principal town. Neville relaxed and forgot his recent sudden tension for a moment. But it was only for a moment. For an instant later he was sitting up straight again, watching the development of the act with cold intentness. For the two main characters were comedy parodies of Mr. Carstairs and Colonel Frawley. At first glance they _were_ Mr. Carstairs and the colonel, but a second look showed it was only an impression. The police inspector's strutting walk was overdone, as were his other mannerisms, and the same was true of the magnate's character. Their makeup was also exaggerated, Mr. Carstair's mole being much enlarged and a great deal made of his plumpness. Yet the takeoff was deliriously funny and the audience rolled with laughter. Neville stole another look upward and could make out that both the subjects of the sketch were grinning broadly. It was a silly, frothy skit about a dog, a lost dog. It seems that Mr. Carstairs had a dog and it strayed. He asked the police to help him find it and they helped. The inspector brought out the whole force. It was excruciatingly funny, and Neville roared at times along with the rest, though there were many local references that he did not understand, nor did he know some of the minor characters were so splittingly entertaining. The man next to him writhed in spasms of delight and almost strangled at one episode. "Oh, dear," he managed to gasp, "what a scream ... ho, ho, ho, ho, ... gup! It happened ... just like that ... he _did_ lose a dog and all the cops on Pallas couldn't find it ... oh me, oh my...." Peals of laughter drowned out the rest. The postlude came to its merry end. This time, the show was over for keeps and the audience began trooping out. Neville got up and looked around for his friend, but the box was empty. So he strolled down the aisle and had a closer look at the illusion of a curtain. He understood some of the effects achieved that night, but the curtain was a new one to him. After standing there a moment he discovered that he could hear voices through it. One was Colonel Frawley's. He was saying: "Certainly I am not offended. I enjoyed it. I would like to meet the man and congratulate him on the takeoff." Neville climbed up onto the stage and walked boldly through the curtain. There was a brief tingly feeling, and then he was backstage. Most of the actors had gone to their dressing rooms, but several stood about chatting with the colonel and Mr. Carstairs. At that moment the man who had made the announcement came on the stage and spoke to Colonel Frawley. "I dislike interrupting you, Inspector," he said obsequiously, "but one of our patrons is making trouble in the wash-room. She claims her pocket was picked. Would you come?" "Nonsense!" exclaimed the colonel. "I stationed an operative there to prevent that very thing. No doubt it is a mistake. However, I'll do what I can." He excused himself and hurried off. Then the man in black turned to Neville and said in an icy voice, "And you, sir--what is it you wish?" * * * * * Neville's mind worked instantly. He did not want to express interest in Mr. Carstairs, nor did he care to reveal to the showman his acquaintance with the colonel. So he said quickly: "The curtain ... I was curious as to how it worked ... you see, once I...." "Joe," called the man, wheeling, "explain the curtain to the gentleman." Joe came. He led the way to the switchboard and began a spiel about its intricacies. Neville looked on, understanding it only in the high spots, for the board was a jumble of gadgets and doodads, and it was not long before he began to suspect that the long-winded explanation was a unique variety of double-talk. "See?" finished the man, "it's as simple as that. Clever, eh?" "Yes, indeed. Thanks." Neville started back to the stage, but the announcer barred his way. "The exit is right behind you, sir," he said in a chilly voice. The words and intonation were polite, but the voice had that iron-hand-in-velvet-glove quality used by tough bouncers in night clubs when handling obstreperous members of the idle rich. They were accompanied as well by a glance so uncanny and so charged with malignancy that Neville was hard put to keep on looking him in the eye and murmur another "Thank you." But before Neville reached the exit, Colonel Frawley came through. "Oh, hello. Where is Carstairs?" Neville shook his head. "A moment ago he was talking with his impersonator," offered the announcer, seeming to lose all interest in Neville's departure. "I'll see if he is still here. He may have gone into the actor's dressing room." But as he spoke a dressing room door opened and Carstairs came out of it, smiling contentedly. He turned and called back to the actor inside: "Thanks again for an enjoyable evening. You bet I'll see you next year." Then he came straight over to Frawley and hooked his arm in his. "All right, Colonel, shall we go? And Mr. Allington, too?" Neville nodded, luckily recognizing his latest assumed name. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the dressing-room door slammed shut by the actor inside of it. "I hate to hurry you, gentlemen," said the announcer, "but we blast out at once." The trio retrieved their helmets and strode off into the night. By then, the skyport was deserted and the floodlights taken in. When they reached the copter they saw the flash and heard the woosh as the big ship roared away on her rockets. "Back to the old routine and bedroom," sighed Mr. Carstairs as he heard it leave. "It was good while it lasted, though." "Yep," chuckled the colonel. "Hop in and we'll drop you at home." Three minutes later they were before the Carstairs' truly-palatial mansion. "Come in a second and speak to Mariquita," invited the magnate. "No, thanks. It's late...." Neville's elbow dug into his superior's ribs with a vicious nudge. "... but if you insist...." Mrs. Carstairs met them in the ante-room, greeted the inspector cordially and kissed her husband affectionately. They stood for the rest of the brief visit with their arms circled about one another. Her Spanish blood heritage was evident in her warm dark eyes and proud carriage. Equally evident, were the lines of past suffering in her face. It did not take a detective to see that here was a pair who had at last found mutual consolation. On the way back to headquarters nothing was said. But later, while they were undressing, the colonel remarked: "Good show. Did it throw your mind off your troubles?" "No," said Neville curtly. "Well," said the inspector, "a good night's sleep will. G'night." There was no sleep that night for Billy Neville, though. He spent it mentally digesting all the stuff he had read that afternoon, and all that he had seen and heard that night. He devoted many weary hours to a review of his own mind's copy of the famous rogue's gallery at the Luna Central Base. The picture he wanted wasn't there. He wished fervently he had taken that refresher course on hypnotism when they had offered it to him two years ago. He wished he had not been such a softy as to let himself be shunted off to look at that dizzy switchboard. He should have taken a closer look at the showboat people. He wished ... but hell, what was the use? Pallas' half-sized sun was up and today was another day. * * * * * The meanest of all trails to follow is a cold trail. Or almost. Perhaps the worst is no trail. It is hard to keep interest up. Then, too, Pallas was a dull place--orderly as a church, where people simply worked and behaved themselves. The days dragged by, and nothing out of the way happened. Neville went through the motions of trying to sell clothing in majestic lots of hundreds, but no one was interested. He even talked vaguely of looking for a site for an outer warehouse for his company. He saw Mr. Carstairs often and became a welcome guest at the house. Yet with this lack of incident, Neville was at all times alert in his study of the man he was watching. He could not help remembering that little while after the showboat performance that Carstairs had been absent from them. He particularly kept his mind open for any slow change in him, such as could be the result of a mysterious delayed-action drug or from post-hypnotic effect. But there was none that he could detect, nor did the colonel notice anything of the sort, though Neville spoke to him on the subject several times. The first indication that all was not well came from Mariquita Carstairs herself. Neville happened in one day for lunch and found her red-eyed and weeping. Then she added that she had worried a great deal the last few days about her husband's health. "When I watch him when he doesn't know it," she said anxiously, "he looks _different_--so wily, crafty and wicked. And he is not like that. He is the dearest man in the world. He _must_ be sick." Neville left as early as possible, and at once consulted Frawley. "Yes," said the inspector thoughtfully, "she's right. In the last day or so I've noticed a subtle change myself. I blundered into his office the other day and he had his safe open and mountains of files all over the floor. He was actually rude to me. Wanted to know what I meant by barging in on him like that. Imagine!" The communicator on the wall buzzed. The signal light showed it was the skyport calling. Neville could overhear what the rasping voice was saying. "Peters at airport reporting. Mr. Carstairs has made reservation on ship _Fanfare_ for passage to Vesta. Ship arrives in half an hour; departs immediately." By the time Frawley had acknowledged and cut the connection, Neville had already ordered the copter. "I'm on my way," he cried. "This is _it_! Give me a complete travel-kit quick and an Extra-Special transformation outfit." Two minutes later Neville was on his way to the landing field, the two valuable bags between his knees. He was there when the spaceship landed, and was inside it before Simeon Carstairs showed up. The copter soared away the moment he had left it. Carstairs would not know he had a shadow. Neville went straight to the captain, whom he found resting momentarily in his cabin. He flashed his badge. "I am your steward from here to Vesta," he told him. "Send for your regular one at once and give him his instructions." "But my dear sir," objected the captain, rising from his bunk, "as much as I would like to cooperate, I cannot do that. You must know that under the new regulations all members of a ship's crew must be photographed and the pictures posted in prominent parts of the ship. It is your own police rule and is for the protection of passengers from imposters." "Never mind that," snapped Neville, "get him in here." The steward came and Neville studied him carefully. He was a swarthy man with heavy shoulders and thick features. His eyes were jet black. But his height was little different from that of the special investigator. "Say something," directed Neville, "I want to hear your voice. Recite the twelve primary duties of a steward." The man obeyed. "It's okay," announced Neville when he had finished. "I can do it." He gave the captain a word of warning, then went with the steward to his room. There he handed the astonished man a hundred-sol credit note and told him to hit the bunk. "Here's your chance to catch up on your rest and reading," said Neville grimly. "You don't leave that bunk until I tell you to, y'understand? If you do, it will cost you five years in the mines of Oberon." The steward gasped and lay back on the pillow. He gasped some more when Neville yanked his box of transformations open and spread its contents on the table. His eyes fairly bulged as he watched Neville shoot injections of wax into his deltoids and biceps until the policeman's shoulders were the twins of his own. He saw him puff up his face, thicken the nose and load the jowls, and after that paint himself with dye, not omitting the hair. Then, marvel of marvels, he saw him drop something in his eyes and sit shuddering for a few seconds while the stuff worked. When the eyes were opened again they were as black as his own! "How's dis, faller?" asked Neville in the same flat, sullen tone the steward had used in the cabin. "Lanch is sarved, sor ... zhip gang land in one hour, marm ... hokay?" "Gard!" was the steward's last gasp. Then he lapsed into complete speechlessness. * * * * * Neville darted out into the passage. The baggage of the sole passenger to get on at Pallas lay in the gangway, and its owner, Mr. Carstairs, stood impatiently beside it. He growled something about the rotten service on the Callisto-Earth run, but let the steward pick up the bags. Then he followed close behind. "Lay out your t'ings, sor?" queried Neville, once inside the room. "No," said Carstairs savagely. "When I want anything I will ask for it. Otherwise, stay out of my room." "Yas, sor," was what Neville said in return, but to himself "Phew! The old boy _has_ changed. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way." He had no intention of obeying Carstairs' injunction to stay out of his room. That night he served the evening meal, and with it was a glass of water. He had taken the precaution to drop a single minim of somnolene in it--that efficacious sleep-producer permitted to only seven members of the I.P., tasteless, colorless and odorless, and without after-effect. In the second hour of the sleep period, the false steward stole down the passage and with a pass key unfastened the door lock. There was an inside bolt to deal with as well, but an ingenious tool that came with the travel-kit took care of that. A moment later Neville was in the slumbering man's room. Five minutes later he was back in his own, and stacked on the deck beside him was all the baggage the magnate of Pallas had brought with him. One piece opened readily enough, and its contents seemed innocuous. But the methodical police officer was not content with superficial appearances. He examined the articles of clothing in it, and the more he looked the more his amazement grew. There were no less than four sets of costumes in it. Moreover, they were for men of different build. One stout, two medium, one spare. In the bottom was a set of gray canvas bags--slip-covers with handles. Neville puzzled over them a moment, then recognized their function. They were covers for the very baggage he was examining. He had to use special tools to open the second bag and found it contained a makeup kit quite the equal of his own. "Ouch," he muttered. "This guy is as good as I am." The third and heaviest bag was a tougher job. It was double-locked and strapped, and heavy seals had been put on the straps. The Extra-Special travel-kit equipment took care of the locks and seals, but the contents of the bag were beyond anything a travel-kit could handle. They were documents--damning documents--neatly bundled up, each bound with its own ribbon and seal. Had Neville had twenty-four hours in a well-equipped laboratory with a sufficient number of assistants, he might have forged passable but less incriminating substitutes for them. As it was, he was helpless to do a very artistic job of switching. One package dealt with certain long-forgotten passages in Mrs. Carstairs' life, while others dealt with certain business transactions. From that case, Neville chose to abstract all of them except the one which formed the outer wrapper. To make up the bulk he filled the bundle with blank paper, tied it up again and resealed it. He dealt likewise with the packet that contained the formulae for the radiation extraction process. And, for the good of the Service, he pursued the same course with regard to a rather detailed report on the foibles and weaknesses of a certain police colonel stationed in Pallas. There was not a hint of scandal or corruption in that, but often ridicule is as potent a weapon as vilification. After that came the tedious business of censoring the rest, repacking the bag as it had been, and restoring the locks and seals. The gently snoring Carstairs never knew when his bags were returned to him, nor heard the faint scuffling as his door was rebolted and relocked. * * * * * "Vasta, sor, in one hour," announced his steward to him eight hours later. "Bags out, sor?" "When we get there," growled the magnate, yawning heavily, glancing suspiciously about the room. He locked the door behind the steward, didn't leave until the ship was cradled. Neville watched him go ashore. Then he hurried in to see the skipper again. "You will be compensated for this," he said hurriedly. "You can have your steward back on the job again. How long do you stay here?" "Three hours, curse the luck. We usually touch and go, but this time I have an ethergram ordering me to wait here for a special passenger. Why in hell can't these hicks in the gravel belt learn to catch a ship on time?" "Ah," breathed Neville. "That makes a difference. I think I'll stay with you. Have you a vacant room where I can hang out for the remainder of the voyage?" "Yes." Neville did another lightning change--back to Special Investigator Billy Neville of the I.P.--uniform and all. He was standing near the spacelock when the expected passenger came aboard. Neville could not suppress a murmur of approval as he saw his quarry approaching. As an artist in his own right, he appreciated artistry when he saw it. The man coming down the field was Carstairs, but what a different Carstairs! He was more slender, he had altogether different clothes on, he had a different gait. His complexion was not the same. But the height was the same, and the bags he carried were the same shape and size, except for their gray canvas coverings. There was a little notch in the right ear that he had not troubled to rectify in the brief time he had had for his transformation in what was undoubtedly his pre-arranged hideaway on Vesta. "What is the next stop, skipper?" Neville whispered to the captain. "New York." "I'll stay out of sight until then." Any passenger on that voyage of the _Fanfare_ will tell you that her captain should have been retired years before. He made three bad tries before he succeeded in lowering his ship into the dock at the skyport. The passengers did not know, of course, that he had to stall to permit a certain member of the I.P. to make a parachute landing from the stratosphere. Billy Neville hit the ground not four miles from the designated skyport. A commandeered copter took him to it just in time to see the squat passenger vessel jetting down into her berth. He looked anxiously about the station. There was not a uniformed man in sight except a couple of traffic men of the local detachment. He needed help and lots of it. Neville had no choice but to play his trump card. It was a thing reserved only for grave emergencies. But he considered the present one grave. He took his police whistle out of his vest pocket and shrilled it three times. It was a supersonic whistle--its tone only audible to first-class detectives having tuned vibrators strapped over their hearts. To sound a triple supersonic call was the police equivalent of sending out an eighth alarm fire-call. But Neville blew the blast. Then waited. A man strolled up and asked the way to Newark. "Wait," said Neville, only he did not use words but merely lifted his right eye-brow slightly. It was not long before four others came up and craved directions as to how to get to Newark. He lit a cigarette as they gathered around. "The ship _Fanfare_ has just landed--out of Callisto with wayside stops in the Belt. There is a passenger carrying three bags covered by gray canvas. Tail him. Tail everybody he contacts. If you need help, ask local HQ. If they can't give enough, ask Luna. But whatever you do, don't make a pinch. This guy is small fry. My code number is...." Neville knew better than to flash a badge on these men, even if he was in uniform. Both badges and uniforms could be counterfeited. But he knew that they knew from his procedure that he was a department agent. "There he comes," he warned, and promptly ducked behind a fruit stall and walked away. * * * * * Headquarters readily gave him a rocket and a driver to take him to Lunar Base. He had no trouble breaking down the barriers between him and the second most important man in the I.P.--the first being the General-General in Charge of Operations. The man he wanted to see was the Colonel-General, Head of the Bureau of Identification. Neville allowed himself to be ushered into the office, but it was not without trepidation, for old Col.-General O'Hara had a vile reputation as a junior-baiter. He was not at all reassured when he heard the door click to behind him with the click which meant to his trained ears that the door would never be opened again without the pressure of a foot on a certain secret pedal concealed somewhere in the room. Nor did the appearance of the man behind the desk do anything to relieve his own lack of ease. O'Hara was a gnome, scarcely five feet tall, with bulging eyes and wild hair that stood helter-skelter above his wrinkled face. He was staring at his desk blotter with a venomous expression, and his lower lip hung out a full half-inch. Neville stood rigidly at attention before him for a full three minutes before the old man spoke. Then he looked up and barked a caustic, "Well?" "I am Special Investigator Neville, sir," he said, "and I want the pedigree of a certain notorious criminal whose picture is lacking in the gallery." "Stuff and nonsense!" snorted the Colonel-General. "There is no such criminal. Man and boy, I have run this bureau since they moved it to the Moon. Why--oh, why--do they let you rookies in here to bother me?" "Sir," said Neville stiffly, "I am no rookie. I am a...." "Bah! We have--or had, at last night's report--eight hundred and ninety-three of your 'specials' half of them on probation. When you've spent, as I have spent, sixty-two years...." "I'm sorry, sir," urged Neville, "we can't go into that now. Do what you want to with me afterwards, but I assure you this is urgent. I am on the trail of a higher-up in the Callisto-Trojan extortion racket. Do I get the information I am after, or do I turn in my agent badge?" "Huh?" said the old general, sitting up and looking him straight in the face. "What's that?" "I mean it, sir. I have trailed one of the higher-up stooges to Earth and set shadows on him. I _think_ I have seen the king-pin of the mob, and I want to know who he is," Neville went on to describe the presentation of the showboat entertainment, with special emphasis on his hunches and suspicions. To the civilian mind, the things he told might seem silly, but to a policeman they were fraught with meaning. His description of the suspect was not one of appearance; it was a psychological description--a description based wholly on intuition and not at all on tangibles. He had not proceeded far before the wrinkled old man thumped the desk with a gnarled fist. "Hold it," he said, "I think I know the man you mean. But give me time--my memory is not what it used to be." Neville waited patiently at the rigid attitude of attention while the shriveled old veteran before him rocked back and forth in his chair with the lids closed over his bulging eyes, cracking his bony knuckles like castanets. O'Hara seemed to have gone into something like a trance. Suddenly, after a quiver of the eyelids, he stared up at Neville. "It all comes back now. You were a member of the class of '14 and I was instructor--a major then. I took all of you to see a certain show on Broadway, as they call it, in order...." "Yes, sir," cried Neville, eagerly, "that was it! You told us the principal character in the play was the most dangerous potential criminal of our generation and that we should mark him well and remember. It was a very hard assignment, for we only saw him from before the foot-lights and he was acting the part of a Viking chieftain and most of his face was covered with false white whiskers." Old O'Hara smiled. "You seem to have been an apt pupil. At any rate, that man was Milo Lunko, a thoroughly unprincipled and remarkably clever blackmailer. He was so clever, in fact, that we were never able to make an arrest stick, let alone bring him to trial. That accounts for the absence of his picture from the gallery. He was also clever enough to fake his own death. The evidence we have as to that was so convincing we closed the file on him." "It's open again," said Neville grimly. "How did he work?" * * * * * "Lunko was not only an actor, but a producer and clever playwright as well. He might have achieved fame and fortune legitimately, but he became greedy. He teamed up with a shady character named Krascbik who ran a private investigating agency, specializing in social scandals. Krascbik's men would study the private life of influential individuals and dig out their scandals. They would provide Lunko with slow-motion camera studies of them so he could learn the peculiarities of their carriage, mannerisms, voice, and all their other idiosyncracies. "Lunko's next step would be to write a scurrilous play based on the confidential information provided by Krascbik, and put it in rehearsal, using characters that resemble the actual principals...." "But that's libel," objected Neville, "why couldn't you haul him in?" "Blackmail, young man, is a delicate matter to handle. The injured party shrinks from publicity and usually prefers to pay rather than have his scandal aired. Lunko never actually publicly produced any of those nauseous plays. His trick was to invite the victim to a preview--a dress rehearsal, then let Nature take its course. Invariably, the victim was frightened and tried to induce him to call off the presentation. Lunko would protest that the play had been written in good faith and had already cost him a great deal of money. The pay-off, of course, was always big. Lunko drove many people to the brink of ruin. "One man did refuse to play with him, and turned the case over to us. Lunko carried out his threat and produced the show, much to the delight of the scandal-mongers. It was outrageously libelous and we promptly closed the joint and took him in...." "And then...." "And then," croaked O'Hara, rolling his pop-eyes toward the ceiling and pursing his lips, "and then we let him go. He had a trunkful of data on many, many important people. Some of them, I hate to tell you, were my seniors in this very Service. We could do nothing about it, for, unfortunately, all the stuff he had on them was true. We might have sent him to the mines for a short term, but he would have retaliated by standing our entire civilization on its head with his exposures. We compromised by letting him escape and go into exile. The understanding was that he was never to come inside the orbit of Mars. A while after that, he was reported killed in a landslide on Europa. We shut the book and proceeded to forget him." "He mimicked the character exactly?" "Not exactly. Just enough to clearly indicate them. Although, I am convinced that, if he chose, he could have taken off any person he had studied, with enough fidelity to fool anybody except perhaps a man's own wife." Neville gave a little start. That was the item that had slowed him the most. Had Lunko improved his technique to the extent that he could even fool a wife? Was the Carstairs he was trailing really Carstairs, or an understudy? He had deceived both his old friend and his own wife for a time, but even they had admitted noting a subtle change. Who was this phoney Carstairs? Where was the real Carstairs? Or, Neville wondered, was his original theory of drugs or hypnotism correct? "Thank you, General," he said. "You have been a big help. I have to go over to Operations now and get the past and future itineraries of the showboat. In another hour, I may begin to know something about this case." "It's nothing," said O'Hara, promptly closing his eyes and folding his knotty fingers on his breast. "It's all in the day's work. Luck to you." Neville heard the click as the secret door lock was released and he knew the interview was terminated. He backed away, stepped through the door and out into the corridor. * * * * * Neville went straight to the great library where the I.P. records are kept. An attendant brought him the bulky folder on the old Lunko gang. Neville found it engrossing reading, and the day waned and night came before he had committed all its contents to memory. Billy Neville obtained a televise connection with Tellurian headquarters. "How are your shadows doing?" He had already learned the real identity of the man he had trailed from Pallas; he was an actor belonging to the original ring and went by the name of Hallam. "Our shadows are doing fine," replied the officer at the other end, "but your friend Hallam seems unhappy. He made two calls on a high officer of the Radiation Corporation and after the second one he came very angry and ruffled looking. He has also called on several other persons, known to us as extortioners, and at least two of those are on his trail with blood in their eye." "I know," chuckled Neville. "He sold 'em a bill of goods--rolls of blank paper. They think they've been double-crossed. And they have, only I'm the guy that did it. But say, we can't have him killed--not yet. Better round up all his contacts and put 'em away, incommunicado. I'm hopping a rocket right now and will be with you in a jiffy." It did not take the police long to make the little jump from Luna to Tellus, and a couple of hours later Neville was confronting Hallam in a special cell. In his hands he held a first-class ticket to Titan in the Saturn group, which had come out of Hallam's pocket, as well as a handbill of the showboat announcing an appearance there in the near future. "I just wanted to study your current rig, Hallam," explained Neville, opening up his makeup kit. "Impersonation is a game that more than one can play at. I'm going in your place to Titan. I'm a _teeny-weeny_ bit curious as to what happens to your victims. Extortion carries good stiff sentences, but they lack the finality of that for murder." * * * * * The Neville that left the cell was the exact duplicate of Hallam, and by dint of exacting search of the actor's trick garments and the use of adroit questioning under pressure, the Special Investigator knew exactly what he had to do. And he knew ever better, after the spaceship he was riding settled down into the receiving berth on Titan. An actor of Lunko's--a skinny, gaunt fellow--was on hand to meet him, and a little later they conferred in a well-screened spot with three of Lunko's jackals. "The layout here is a cinch," explained the skinny actor. "The two biggest shots are the president of the Inter-satellite Transportation Company and the fellow who owns the bulk of shares in the _phlagis_ plantations. A year or so ago they were mixed up in a most ludicrous near-scandal that people are still tittering over. A situation like that is a natural for us. Lunko has already sent the script on ahead. It's funny enough to tickle the town, but not so raw it will make the principals sore. We will deal with them in the usual way, when they come backstage after the show." "Uh, huh," said Neville, and asked to see the descriptions. They lit up the projector and began running three-dimensional views of their intended victims. The preliminary studies had been most comprehensive and Neville knew before the hour was up that not a mannerism or intonation of voice had been overlooked. To persons skilled in disguise the problem was not so much one of imitation, but of introducing a telling imperfection that would allay suspicion of a possible more perfect imitation later. The remainder of their time until the showboat came, they spent in gruelling rehearsals. * * * * * Neville watched the show from the wings and was gratified to note the considerable sprinkling of plainclothes-men in the audience. The show was good, as it had been before, and the audience was highly enthusiastic. Then came the curtain call and the announcement of the special performance. When the lights were down and his cue came, Neville walked on and performed his silly role. Then there was a hubbub of applause and wild calls for an encore. A few minutes later the two men they had lampooned came backstage, grinning sheepishly, yet apparently resolved to show themselves good sports. "You would have more privacy in the dressing rooms," suggested Lunko suavely, and ushered each into the private closet of the man who had just mimicked him. Neville found himself face to face with a near-double. "Step on it," said Lunko harshly, who had followed. He flicked on a peculiarly brilliant overhead light, and the startled victim looked up at it with the helpless, hopeless gaze of a lamb being led to the slaughter. "Change your makeup while I drag the dope out of him. I've got another one to do after this, you know." Neville grunted and began plucking away the comedy elements of his burlesque get-up. Then, with the deftness of long experience he made his appearance match the poor dupe's to the chair. Meanwhile Lunko had forced his victim into the depths of hypnotic trance and was extracting all the secret knowledge that the snooping jackals had been unable to obtain indirectly. "You've got it all, now?" asked Lunko, impatiently, "The combination of his safe, his office and home habits? I've drained him dry, I believe." Neville nodded. "Stand back, you fool!" screamed Lunko, as Neville awkwardly stepped against him just as he was about to swing the bludgeon that would finish the now valueless victim, "we've just time to get this one into the incinerator...." He never finished, for at that instant Neville sprang from the balls of his feet and a heavy fist smashed into the blackmailer's jaw with a crash that told of a shattered jawbone. Another battering ram of a fist smashed him to the floor. Neville's high-frequency whistle was out and the shrill, inaudible alarm tingling on the breasts of the key men waiting outside. Then he was dashing for the adjoining dressing room where a similar little drama was just being brought to its close. A swift jab of fire from the blaster that appeared magically in Neville's hand sent the actor to his death. Other policemen were dashing up and the second hypnotist suddenly lost interest in his surroundings, going down onto his knees, a mass of battered pulp. Then Neville sat down and began thoughtfully removing the makeup he so detested. "I wonder," he complained to himself, "whether I'm ever going to get that leave." 
4039	----	VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX By Ben Jonson INTRODUCTION The greatest of English dramatists except Shakespeare, the first literary dictator and poet-laureate, a writer of verse, prose, satire, and criticism who most potently of all the men of his time affected the subsequent course of English letters: such was Ben Jonson, and as such his strong personality assumes an interest to us almost unparalleled, at least in his age. Ben Jonson came of the stock that was centuries after to give to the world Thomas Carlyle; for Jonson's grandfather was of Annandale, over the Solway, whence he migrated to England. Jonson's father lost his estate under Queen Mary, "having been cast into prison and forfeited." He entered the church, but died a month before his illustrious son was born, leaving his widow and child in poverty. Jonson's birthplace was Westminster, and the time of his birth early in 1573. He was thus nearly ten years Shakespeare's junior, and less well off, if a trifle better born. But Jonson did not profit even by this slight advantage. His mother married beneath her, a wright or bricklayer, and Jonson was for a time apprenticed to the trade. As a youth he attracted the attention of the famous antiquary, William Camden, then usher at Westminster School, and there the poet laid the solid foundations of his classical learning. Jonson always held Camden in veneration, acknowledging that to him he owed, "All that I am in arts, all that I know;" and dedicating his first dramatic success, "Every Man in His Humour," to him. It is doubtful whether Jonson ever went to either university, though Fuller says that he was "statutably admitted into St. John's College, Cambridge." He tells us that he took no degree, but was later "Master of Arts in both the universities, by their favour, not his study." When a mere youth Jonson enlisted as a soldier, trailing his pike in Flanders in the protracted wars of William the Silent against the Spanish. Jonson was a large and raw-boned lad; he became by his own account in time exceedingly bulky. In chat with his friend William Drummond of Hawthornden, Jonson told how "in his service in the Low Countries he had, in the face of both the camps, killed an enemy, and taken opima spolia from him;" and how "since his coming to England, being appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary which had hurt him in the arm and whose sword was ten inches longer than his." Jonson's reach may have made up for the lack of his sword; certainly his prowess lost nothing in the telling. Obviously Jonson was brave, combative, and not averse to talking of himself and his doings. In 1592, Jonson returned from abroad penniless. Soon after he married, almost as early and quite as imprudently as Shakespeare. He told Drummond curtly that "his wife was a shrew, yet honest"; for some years he lived apart from her in the household of Lord Albany. Yet two touching epitaphs among Jonson's "Epigrams," "On my first daughter," and "On my first son," attest the warmth of the poet's family affections. The daughter died in infancy, the son of the plague; another son grew up to manhood little credit to his father whom he survived. We know nothing beyond this of Jonson's domestic life. How soon Jonson drifted into what we now call grandly "the theatrical profession" we do not know. In 1593, Marlowe made his tragic exit from life, and Greene, Shakespeare's other rival on the popular stage, had preceded Marlowe in an equally miserable death the year before. Shakespeare already had the running to himself. Jonson appears first in the employment of Philip Henslowe, the exploiter of several troupes of players, manager, and father-in-law of the famous actor, Edward Alleyn. From entries in "Henslowe's Diary," a species of theatrical account book which has been handed down to us, we know that Jonson was connected with the Admiral's men; for he borrowed 4 pounds of Henslowe, July 28, 1597, paying back 3s. 9d. on the same day on account of his "share" (in what is not altogether clear); while later, on December 3, of the same year, Henslowe advanced 20s. to him "upon a book which he showed the plot unto the company which he promised to deliver unto the company at Christmas next." In the next August Jonson was in collaboration with Chettle and Porter in a play called "Hot Anger Soon Cold." All this points to an association with Henslowe of some duration, as no mere tyro would be thus paid in advance upon mere promise. From allusions in Dekker's play, "Satiromastix," it appears that Jonson, like Shakespeare, began life as an actor, and that he "ambled in a leather pitch by a play-wagon" taking at one time the part of Hieronimo in Kyd's famous play, "The Spanish Tragedy." By the beginning of 1598, Jonson, though still in needy circumstances, had begun to receive recognition. Francis Meres--well known for his "Comparative Discourse of our English Poets with the Greek, Latin, and Italian Poets," printed in 1598, and for his mention therein of a dozen plays of Shakespeare by title--accords to Ben Jonson a place as one of "our best in tragedy," a matter of some surprise, as no known tragedy of Jonson from so early a date has come down to us. That Jonson was at work on tragedy, however, is proved by the entries in Henslowe of at least three tragedies, now lost, in which he had a hand. These are "Page of Plymouth," "King Robert II. of Scotland," and "Richard Crookback." But all of these came later, on his return to Henslowe, and range from August 1599 to June 1602. Returning to the autumn of 1598, an event now happened to sever for a time Jonson's relations with Henslowe. In a letter to Alleyn, dated September 26 of that year, Henslowe writes: "I have lost one of my company that hurteth me greatly; that is Gabriel [Spencer], for he is slain in Hogsden fields by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer." The last word is perhaps Henslowe's thrust at Jonson in his displeasure rather than a designation of his actual continuance at his trade up to this time. It is fair to Jonson to remark however, that his adversary appears to have been a notorious fire-eater who had shortly before killed one Feeke in a similar squabble. Duelling was a frequent occurrence of the time among gentlemen and the nobility; it was an impudent breach of the peace on the part of a player. This duel is the one which Jonson described years after to Drummond, and for it Jonson was duly arraigned at Old Bailey, tried, and convicted. He was sent to prison and such goods and chattels as he had "were forfeited." It is a thought to give one pause that, but for the ancient law permitting convicted felons to plead, as it was called, the benefit of clergy, Jonson might have been hanged for this deed. The circumstance that the poet could read and write saved him; and he received only a brand of the letter "T," for Tyburn, on his left thumb. While in jail Jonson became a Roman Catholic; but he returned to the faith of the Church of England a dozen years later. On his release, in disgrace with Henslowe and his former associates, Jonson offered his services as a playwright to Henslowe's rivals, the Lord Chamberlain's company, in which Shakespeare was a prominent shareholder. A tradition of long standing, though not susceptible of proof in a court of law, narrates that Jonson had submitted the manuscript of "Every Man in His Humour" to the Chamberlain's men and had received from the company a refusal; that Shakespeare called him back, read the play himself, and at once accepted it. Whether this story is true or not, certain it is that "Every Man in His Humour" was accepted by Shakespeare's company and acted for the first time in 1598, with Shakespeare taking a part. The evidence of this is contained in the list of actors prefixed to the comedy in the folio of Jonson's works, 1616. But it is a mistake to infer, because Shakespeare's name stands first in the list of actors and the elder Kno'well first in the dramatis personae, that Shakespeare took that particular part. The order of a list of Elizabethan players was generally that of their importance or priority as shareholders in the company and seldom if ever corresponded to the list of characters. "Every Man in His Humour" was an immediate success, and with it Jonson's reputation as one of the leading dramatists of his time was established once and for all. This could have been by no means Jonson's earliest comedy, and we have just learned that he was already reputed one of "our best in tragedy." Indeed, one of Jonson's extant comedies, "The Case is Altered," but one never claimed by him or published as his, must certainly have preceded "Every Man in His Humour" on the stage. The former play may be described as a comedy modelled on the Latin plays of Plautus. (It combines, in fact, situations derived from the "Captivi" and the "Aulularia" of that dramatist). But the pretty story of the beggar-maiden, Rachel, and her suitors, Jonson found, not among the classics, but in the ideals of romantic love which Shakespeare had already popularised on the stage. Jonson never again produced so fresh and lovable a feminine personage as Rachel, although in other respects "The Case is Altered" is not a conspicuous play, and, save for the satirising of Antony Munday in the person of Antonio Balladino and Gabriel Harvey as well, is perhaps the least characteristic of the comedies of Jonson. "Every Man in His Humour," probably first acted late in the summer of 1598 and at the Curtain, is commonly regarded as an epoch-making play; and this view is not unjustified. As to plot, it tells little more than how an intercepted letter enabled a father to follow his supposedly studious son to London, and there observe his life with the gallants of the time. The real quality of this comedy is in its personages and in the theory upon which they are conceived. Ben Jonson had theories about poetry and the drama, and he was neither chary in talking of them nor in experimenting with them in his plays. This makes Jonson, like Dryden in his time, and Wordsworth much later, an author to reckon with; particularly when we remember that many of Jonson's notions came for a time definitely to prevail and to modify the whole trend of English poetry. First of all Jonson was a classicist, that is, he believed in restraint and precedent in art in opposition to the prevalent ungoverned and irresponsible Renaissance spirit. Jonson believed that there was a professional way of doing things which might be reached by a study of the best examples, and he found these examples for the most part among the ancients. To confine our attention to the drama, Jonson objected to the amateurishness and haphazard nature of many contemporary plays, and set himself to do something different; and the first and most striking thing that he evolved was his conception and practice of the comedy of humours. As Jonson has been much misrepresented in this matter, let us quote his own words as to "humour." A humour, according to Jonson, was a bias of disposition, a warp, so to speak, in character by which "Some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his spirits, and his powers, In their confluctions, all to run one way." But continuing, Jonson is careful to add: "But that a rook by wearing a pied feather, The cable hat-band, or the three-piled ruff, A yard of shoe-tie, or the Switzers knot On his French garters, should affect a humour! O, it is more than most ridiculous." Jonson's comedy of humours, in a word, conceived of stage personages on the basis of a ruling trait or passion (a notable simplification of actual life be it observed in passing); and, placing these typified traits in juxtaposition in their conflict and contrast, struck the spark of comedy. Downright, as his name indicates, is "a plain squire"; Bobadill's humour is that of the braggart who is incidentally, and with delightfully comic effect, a coward; Brainworm's humour is the finding out of things to the end of fooling everybody: of course he is fooled in the end himself. But it was not Jonson's theories alone that made the success of "Every Man in His Humour." The play is admirably written and each character is vividly conceived, and with a firm touch based on observation of the men of the London of the day. Jonson was neither in this, his first great comedy (nor in any other play that he wrote), a supine classicist, urging that English drama return to a slavish adherence to classical conditions. He says as to the laws of the old comedy (meaning by "laws," such matters as the unities of time and place and the use of chorus): "I see not then, but we should enjoy the same licence, or free power to illustrate and heighten our invention as they [the ancients] did; and not be tied to those strict and regular forms which the niceness of a few, who are nothing but form, would thrust upon us." "Every Man in His Humour" is written in prose, a novel practice which Jonson had of his predecessor in comedy, John Lyly. Even the word "humour" seems to have been employed in the Jonsonian sense by Chapman before Jonson's use of it. Indeed, the comedy of humours itself is only a heightened variety of the comedy of manners which represents life, viewed at a satirical angle, and is the oldest and most persistent species of comedy in the language. None the less, Jonson's comedy merited its immediate success and marked out a definite course in which comedy long continued to run. To mention only Shakespeare's Falstaff and his rout, Bardolph, Pistol, Dame Quickly, and the rest, whether in "Henry IV." or in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," all are conceived in the spirit of humours. So are the captains, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish of "Henry V.," and Malvolio especially later; though Shakespeare never employed the method of humours for an important personage. It was not Jonson's fault that many of his successors did precisely the thing that he had reprobated, that is, degrade "the humour: into an oddity of speech, an eccentricity of manner, of dress, or cut of beard. There was an anonymous play called "Every Woman in Her Humour." Chapman wrote "A Humourous Day's Mirth," Day, "Humour Out of Breath," Fletcher later, "The Humourous Lieutenant," and Jonson, besides "Every Man Out of His Humour," returned to the title in closing the cycle of his comedies in "The Magnetic Lady or Humours Reconciled." With the performance of "Every Man Out of His Humour" in 1599, by Shakespeare's company once more at the Globe, we turn a new page in Jonson's career. Despite his many real virtues, if there is one feature more than any other that distinguishes Jonson, it is his arrogance; and to this may be added his self-righteousness, especially under criticism or satire. "Every Man Out of His Humour" is the first of three "comical satires" which Jonson contributed to what Dekker called the poetomachia or war of the theatres as recent critics have named it. This play as a fabric of plot is a very slight affair; but as a satirical picture of the manners of the time, proceeding by means of vivid caricature, couched in witty and brilliant dialogue and sustained by that righteous indignation which must lie at the heart of all true satire--as a realisation, in short, of the classical ideal of comedy--there had been nothing like Jonson's comedy since the days of Aristophanes. "Every Man in His Humour," like the two plays that follow it, contains two kinds of attack, the critical or generally satiric, levelled at abuses and corruptions in the abstract; and the personal, in which specific application is made of all this in the lampooning of poets and others, Jonson's contemporaries. The method of personal attack by actual caricature of a person on the stage is almost as old as the drama. Aristophanes so lampooned Euripides in "The Acharnians" and Socrates in "The Clouds," to mention no other examples; and in English drama this kind of thing is alluded to again and again. What Jonson really did, was to raise the dramatic lampoon to an art, and make out of a casual burlesque and bit of mimicry a dramatic satire of literary pretensions and permanency. With the arrogant attitude mentioned above and his uncommon eloquence in scorn, vituperation, and invective, it is no wonder that Jonson soon involved himself in literary and even personal quarrels with his fellow-authors. The circumstances of the origin of this 'poetomachia' are far from clear, and those who have written on the topic, except of late, have not helped to make them clearer. The origin of the "war" has been referred to satirical references, apparently to Jonson, contained in "The Scourge of Villainy," a satire in regular form after the manner of the ancients by John Marston, a fellow playwright, subsequent friend and collaborator of Jonson's. On the other hand, epigrams of Jonson have been discovered (49, 68, and 100) variously charging "playwright" (reasonably identified with Marston) with scurrility, cowardice, and plagiarism; though the dates of the epigrams cannot be ascertained with certainty. Jonson's own statement of the matter to Drummond runs: "He had many quarrels with Marston, beat him, and took his pistol from him, wrote his "Poetaster" on him; the beginning[s] of them were that Marston represented him on the stage."* * The best account of this whole subject is to be found in the edition of "Poetaster" and "Satiromastrix" by J. H. Penniman in "Belles Lettres Series" shortly to appear. See also his earlier work, "The War of the Theatres," 1892, and the excellent contributions to the subject by H. C. Hart in "Notes and Queries," and in his edition of Jonson, 1906. Here at least we are on certain ground; and the principals of the quarrel are known. "Histriomastix," a play revised by Marston in 1598, has been regarded as the one in which Jonson was thus "represented on the stage"; although the personage in question, Chrisogonus, a poet, satirist, and translator, poor but proud, and contemptuous of the common herd, seems rather a complimentary portrait of Jonson than a caricature. As to the personages actually ridiculed in "Every Man Out of His Humour," Carlo Buffone was formerly thought certainly to be Marston, as he was described as "a public, scurrilous, and profane jester," and elsewhere as the "grand scourge or second untruss [that is, satirist], of the time" (Joseph Hall being by his own boast the first, and Marston's work being entitled "The Scourge of Villainy"). Apparently we must now prefer for Carlo a notorious character named Charles Chester, of whom gossipy and inaccurate Aubrey relates that he was "a bold impertinent fellow... a perpetual talker and made a noise like a drum in a room. So one time at a tavern Sir Walter Raleigh beats him and seals up his mouth (that is his upper and nether beard) with hard wax. From him Ben Jonson takes his Carlo Buffone ['i.e.', jester] in "Every Man in His Humour" ['sic']." Is it conceivable that after all Jonson was ridiculing Marston, and that the point of the satire consisted in an intentional confusion of "the grand scourge or second untruss" with "the scurrilous and profane" Chester? We have digressed into detail in this particular case to exemplify the difficulties of criticism in its attempts to identify the allusions in these forgotten quarrels. We are on sounder ground of fact in recording other manifestations of Jonson's enmity. In "The Case is Altered" there is clear ridicule in the character Antonio Balladino of Anthony Munday, pageant-poet of the city, translator of romances and playwright as well. In "Every Man in His Humour" there is certainly a caricature of Samuel Daniel, accepted poet of the court, sonneteer, and companion of men of fashion. These men held recognised positions to which Jonson felt his talents better entitled him; they were hence to him his natural enemies. It seems almost certain that he pursued both in the personages of his satire through "Every Man Out of His Humour," and "Cynthia's Revels," Daniel under the characters Fastidious Brisk and Hedon, Munday as Puntarvolo and Amorphus; but in these last we venture on quagmire once more. Jonson's literary rivalry of Daniel is traceable again and again, in the entertainments that welcomed King James on his way to London, in the masques at court, and in the pastoral drama. As to Jonson's personal ambitions with respect to these two men, it is notable that he became, not pageant-poet, but chronologer to the City of London; and that, on the accession of the new king, he came soon to triumph over Daniel as the accepted entertainer of royalty. "Cynthia's Revels," the second "comical satire," was acted in 1600, and, as a play, is even more lengthy, elaborate, and impossible than "Every Man Out of His Humour." Here personal satire seems to have absorbed everything, and while much of the caricature is admirable, especially in the detail of witty and trenchantly satirical dialogue, the central idea of a fountain of self-love is not very well carried out, and the persons revert at times to abstractions, the action to allegory. It adds to our wonder that this difficult drama should have been acted by the Children of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel, among them Nathaniel Field with whom Jonson read Horace and Martial, and whom he taught later how to make plays. Another of these precocious little actors was Salathiel Pavy, who died before he was thirteen, already famed for taking the parts of old men. Him Jonson immortalised in one of the sweetest of his epitaphs. An interesting sidelight is this on the character of this redoubtable and rugged satirist, that he should thus have befriended and tenderly remembered these little theatrical waifs, some of whom (as we know) had been literally kidnapped to be pressed into the service of the theatre and whipped to the conning of their difficult parts. To the caricature of Daniel and Munday in "Cynthia's Revels" must be added Anaides (impudence), here assuredly Marston, and Asotus (the prodigal), interpreted as Lodge or, more perilously, Raleigh. Crites, like Asper-Macilente in "Every Man Out of His Humour," is Jonson's self-complaisant portrait of himself, the just, wholly admirable, and judicious scholar, holding his head high above the pack of the yelping curs of envy and detraction, but careless of their puny attacks on his perfections with only too mindful a neglect. The third and last of the "comical satires" is "Poetaster," acted, once more, by the Children of the Chapel in 1601, and Jonson's only avowed contribution to the fray. According to the author's own account, this play was written in fifteen weeks on a report that his enemies had entrusted to Dekker the preparation of "Satiromastix, the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet," a dramatic attack upon himself. In this attempt to forestall his enemies Jonson succeeded, and "Poetaster" was an immediate and deserved success. While hardly more closely knit in structure than its earlier companion pieces, "Poetaster" is planned to lead up to the ludicrous final scene in which, after a device borrowed from the "Lexiphanes" of Lucian, the offending poetaster, Marston-Crispinus, is made to throw up the difficult words with which he had overburdened his stomach as well as overlarded his vocabulary. In the end Crispinus with his fellow, Dekker-Demetrius, is bound over to keep the peace and never thenceforward "malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings of Quintus Horatius Flaccus [Jonson] or any other eminent man transcending you in merit." One of the most diverting personages in Jonson's comedy is Captain Tucca. "His peculiarity" has been well described by Ward as "a buoyant blackguardism which recovers itself instantaneously from the most complete exposure, and a picturesqueness of speech like that of a walking dictionary of slang." It was this character, Captain Tucca, that Dekker hit upon in his reply, "Satiromastix," and he amplified him, turning his abusive vocabulary back upon Jonson and adding "an immodesty to his dialogue that did not enter into Jonson's conception." It has been held, altogether plausibly, that when Dekker was engaged professionally, so to speak, to write a dramatic reply to Jonson, he was at work on a species of chronicle history, dealing with the story of Walter Terill in the reign of William Rufus. This he hurriedly adapted to include the satirical characters suggested by "Poetaster," and fashioned to convey the satire of his reply. The absurdity of placing Horace in the court of a Norman king is the result. But Dekker's play is not without its palpable hits at the arrogance, the literary pride, and self-righteousness of Jonson-Horace, whose "ningle" or pal, the absurd Asinius Bubo, has recently been shown to figure forth, in all likelihood, Jonson's friend, the poet Drayton. Slight and hastily adapted as is "Satiromastix," especially in a comparison with the better wrought and more significant satire of "Poetaster," the town awarded the palm to Dekker, not to Jonson; and Jonson gave over in consequence his practice of "comical satire." Though Jonson was cited to appear before the Lord Chief Justice to answer certain charges to the effect that he had attacked lawyers and soldiers in "Poetaster," nothing came of this complaint. It may be suspected that much of this furious clatter and give-and-take was pure playing to the gallery. The town was agog with the strife, and on no less an authority than Shakespeare ("Hamlet," ii. 2), we learn that the children's company (acting the plays of Jonson) did "so berattle the common stages... that many, wearing rapiers, are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither." Several other plays have been thought to bear a greater or less part in the war of the theatres. Among them the most important is a college play, entitled "The Return from Parnassus," dating 1601-02. In it a much-quoted passage makes Burbage, as a character, declare: "Why here's our fellow Shakespeare puts them all down; aye and Ben Jonson, too. O that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow; he brought up Horace, giving the poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him bewray his credit." Was Shakespeare then concerned in this war of the stages? And what could have been the nature of this "purge"? Among several suggestions, "Troilus and Cressida" has been thought by some to be the play in which Shakespeare thus "put down" his friend, Jonson. A wiser interpretation finds the "purge" in "Satiromastix," which, though not written by Shakespeare, was staged by his company, and therefore with his approval and under his direction as one of the leaders of that company. The last years of the reign of Elizabeth thus saw Jonson recognised as a dramatist second only to Shakespeare, and not second even to him as a dramatic satirist. But Jonson now turned his talents to new fields. Plays on subjects derived from classical story and myth had held the stage from the beginning of the drama, so that Shakespeare was making no new departure when he wrote his "Julius Caesar" about 1600. Therefore when Jonson staged "Sejanus," three years later and with Shakespeare's company once more, he was only following in the elder dramatist's footsteps. But Jonson's idea of a play on classical history, on the one hand, and Shakespeare's and the elder popular dramatists, on the other, were very different. Heywood some years before had put five straggling plays on the stage in quick succession, all derived from stories in Ovid and dramatised with little taste or discrimination. Shakespeare had a finer conception of form, but even he was contented to take all his ancient history from North's translation of Plutarch and dramatise his subject without further inquiry. Jonson was a scholar and a classical antiquarian. He reprobated this slipshod amateurishness, and wrote his "Sejanus" like a scholar, reading Tacitus, Suetonius, and other authorities, to be certain of his facts, his setting, and his atmosphere, and somewhat pedantically noting his authorities in the margin when he came to print. "Sejanus" is a tragedy of genuine dramatic power in which is told with discriminating taste the story of the haughty favourite of Tiberius with his tragical overthrow. Our drama presents no truer nor more painstaking representation of ancient Roman life than may be found in Jonson's "Sejanus" and "Catiline his Conspiracy," which followed in 1611. A passage in the address of the former play to the reader, in which Jonson refers to a collaboration in an earlier version, has led to the surmise that Shakespeare may have been that "worthier pen." There is no evidence to determine the matter. In 1605, we find Jonson in active collaboration with Chapman and Marston in the admirable comedy of London life entitled "Eastward Hoe." In the previous year, Marston had dedicated his "Malcontent," in terms of fervid admiration, to Jonson; so that the wounds of the war of the theatres must have been long since healed. Between Jonson and Chapman there was the kinship of similar scholarly ideals. The two continued friends throughout life. "Eastward Hoe" achieved the extraordinary popularity represented in a demand for three issues in one year. But this was not due entirely to the merits of the play. In its earliest version a passage which an irritable courtier conceived to be derogatory to his nation, the Scots, sent both Chapman and Jonson to jail; but the matter was soon patched up, for by this time Jonson had influence at court. With the accession of King James, Jonson began his long and successful career as a writer of masques. He wrote more masques than all his competitors together, and they are of an extraordinary variety and poetic excellence. Jonson did not invent the masque; for such premeditated devices to set and frame, so to speak, a court ball had been known and practised in varying degrees of elaboration long before his time. But Jonson gave dramatic value to the masque, especially in his invention of the antimasque, a comedy or farcical element of relief, entrusted to professional players or dancers. He enhanced, as well, the beauty and dignity of those portions of the masque in which noble lords and ladies took their parts to create, by their gorgeous costumes and artistic grouping and evolutions, a sumptuous show. On the mechanical and scenic side Jonson had an inventive and ingenious partner in Inigo Jones, the royal architect, who more than any one man raised the standard of stage representation in the England of his day. Jonson continued active in the service of the court in the writing of masques and other entertainments far into the reign of King Charles; but, towards the end, a quarrel with Jones embittered his life, and the two testy old men appear to have become not only a constant irritation to each other, but intolerable bores at court. In "Hymenaei," "The Masque of Queens," "Love Freed from Ignorance," "Lovers made Men," "Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue," and many more will be found Jonson's aptitude, his taste, his poetry and inventiveness in these by-forms of the drama; while in "The Masque of Christmas," and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed" especially, is discoverable that power of broad comedy which, at court as well as in the city, was not the least element of Jonson's contemporary popularity. But Jonson had by no means given up the popular stage when he turned to the amusement of King James. In 1605 "Volpone" was produced, "The Silent Woman" in 1609, "The Alchemist" in the following year. These comedies, with "Bartholomew Fair," 1614, represent Jonson at his height, and for constructive cleverness, character successfully conceived in the manner of caricature, wit and brilliancy of dialogue, they stand alone in English drama. "Volpone, or the Fox," is, in a sense, a transition play from the dramatic satires of the war of the theatres to the purer comedy represented in the plays named above. Its subject is a struggle of wit applied to chicanery; for among its dramatis personae, from the villainous Fox himself, his rascally servant Mosca, Voltore (the vulture), Corbaccio and Corvino (the big and the little raven), to Sir Politic Would-be and the rest, there is scarcely a virtuous character in the play. Question has been raised as to whether a story so forbidding can be considered a comedy, for, although the plot ends in the discomfiture and imprisonment of the most vicious, it involves no mortal catastrophe. But Jonson was on sound historical ground, for "Volpone" is conceived far more logically on the lines of the ancients' theory of comedy than was ever the romantic drama of Shakespeare, however repulsive we may find a philosophy of life that facilely divides the world into the rogues and their dupes, and, identifying brains with roguery and innocence with folly, admires the former while inconsistently punishing them. "The Silent Woman" is a gigantic farce of the most ingenious construction. The whole comedy hinges on a huge joke, played by a heartless nephew on his misanthropic uncle, who is induced to take to himself a wife, young, fair, and warranted silent, but who, in the end, turns out neither silent nor a woman at all. In "The Alchemist," again, we have the utmost cleverness in construction, the whole fabric building climax on climax, witty, ingenious, and so plausibly presented that we forget its departures from the possibilities of life. In "The Alchemist" Jonson represented, none the less to the life, certain sharpers of the metropolis, revelling in their shrewdness and rascality and in the variety of the stupidity and wickedness of their victims. We may object to the fact that the only person in the play possessed of a scruple of honesty is discomfited, and that the greatest scoundrel of all is approved in the end and rewarded. The comedy is so admirably written and contrived, the personages stand out with such lifelike distinctness in their several kinds, and the whole is animated with such verve and resourcefulness that "The Alchemist" is a new marvel every time it is read. Lastly of this group comes the tremendous comedy, "Bartholomew Fair," less clear cut, less definite, and less structurally worthy of praise than its three predecessors, but full of the keenest and cleverest of satire and inventive to a degree beyond any English comedy save some other of Jonson's own. It is in "Bartholomew Fair" that we are presented to the immortal caricature of the Puritan, Zeal-in-the-Land Busy, and the Littlewits that group about him, and it is in this extraordinary comedy that the humour of Jonson, always open to this danger, loosens into the Rabelaisian mode that so delighted King James in "The Gipsies Metamorphosed." Another comedy of less merit is "The Devil is an Ass," acted in 1616. It was the failure of this play that caused Jonson to give over writing for the public stage for a period of nearly ten years. "Volpone" was laid as to scene in Venice. Whether because of the success of "Eastward Hoe" or for other reasons, the other three comedies declare in the words of the prologue to "The Alchemist": "Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known No country's mirth is better than our own." Indeed Jonson went further when he came to revise his plays for collected publication in his folio of 1616, he transferred the scene of "Every Man in His Humour" from Florence to London also, converting Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi to Old Kno'well, Prospero to Master Welborn, and Hesperida to Dame Kitely "dwelling i' the Old Jewry." In his comedies of London life, despite his trend towards caricature, Jonson has shown himself a genuine realist, drawing from the life about him with an experience and insight rare in any generation. A happy comparison has been suggested between Ben Jonson and Charles Dickens. Both were men of the people, lowly born and hardly bred. Each knew the London of his time as few men knew it; and each represented it intimately and in elaborate detail. Both men were at heart moralists, seeking the truth by the exaggerated methods of humour and caricature; perverse, even wrong-headed at times, but possessed of a true pathos and largeness of heart, and when all has been said--though the Elizabethan ran to satire, the Victorian to sentimentality--leaving the world better for the art that they practised in it. In 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare, Jonson collected his plays, his poetry, and his masques for publication in a collective edition. This was an unusual thing at the time and had been attempted by no dramatist before Jonson. This volume published, in a carefully revised text, all the plays thus far mentioned, excepting "The Case is Altered," which Jonson did not acknowledge, "Bartholomew Fair," and "The Devil is an Ass," which was written too late. It included likewise a book of some hundred and thirty odd "Epigrams," in which form of brief and pungent writing Jonson was an acknowledged master; "The Forest," a smaller collection of lyric and occasional verse and some ten "Masques" and "Entertainments." In this same year Jonson was made poet laureate with a pension of one hundred marks a year. This, with his fees and returns from several noblemen, and the small earnings of his plays must have formed the bulk of his income. The poet appears to have done certain literary hack-work for others, as, for example, parts of the Punic Wars contributed to Raleigh's "History of the World." We know from a story, little to the credit of either, that Jonson accompanied Raleigh's son abroad in the capacity of a tutor. In 1618 Jonson was granted the reversion of the office of Master of the Revels, a post for which he was peculiarly fitted; but he did not live to enjoy its perquisites. Jonson was honoured with degrees by both universities, though when and under what circumstances is not known. It has been said that he narrowly escaped the honour of knighthood, which the satirists of the day averred King James was wont to lavish with an indiscriminate hand. Worse men were made knights in his day than worthy Ben Jonson. From 1616 to the close of the reign of King James, Jonson produced nothing for the stage. But he "prosecuted" what he calls "his wonted studies" with such assiduity that he became in reality, as by report, one of the most learned men of his time. Jonson's theory of authorship involved a wide acquaintance with books and "an ability," as he put it, "to convert the substance or riches of another poet to his own use." Accordingly Jonson read not only the Greek and Latin classics down to the lesser writers, but he acquainted himself especially with the Latin writings of his learned contemporaries, their prose as well as their poetry, their antiquities and curious lore as well as their more solid learning. Though a poor man, Jonson was an indefatigable collector of books. He told Drummond that "the Earl of Pembroke sent him 20 pounds every first day of the new year to buy new books." Unhappily, in 1623, his library was destroyed by fire, an accident serio-comically described in his witty poem, "An Execration upon Vulcan." Yet even now a book turns up from time to time in which is inscribed, in fair large Italian lettering, the name, Ben Jonson. With respect to Jonson's use of his material, Dryden said memorably of him: "[He] was not only a professed imitator of Horace, but a learned plagiary of all the others; you track him everywhere in their snow.... But he has done his robberies so openly that one sees he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him." And yet it is but fair to say that Jonson prided himself, and justly, on his originality. In "Catiline," he not only uses Sallust's account of the conspiracy, but he models some of the speeches of Cicero on the Roman orator's actual words. In "Poetaster," he lifts a whole satire out of Horace and dramatises it effectively for his purposes. The sophist Libanius suggests the situation of "The Silent Woman"; a Latin comedy of Giordano Bruno, "Il Candelaio," the relation of the dupes and the sharpers in "The Alchemist," the "Mostellaria" of Plautus, its admirable opening scene. But Jonson commonly bettered his sources, and putting the stamp of his sovereignty on whatever bullion he borrowed made it thenceforward to all time current and his own. The lyric and especially the occasional poetry of Jonson has a peculiar merit. His theory demanded design and the perfection of literary finish. He was furthest from the rhapsodist and the careless singer of an idle day; and he believed that Apollo could only be worthily served in singing robes and laurel crowned. And yet many of Jonson's lyrics will live as long as the language. Who does not know "Queen and huntress, chaste and fair." "Drink to me only with thine eyes," or "Still to be neat, still to be dressed"? Beautiful in form, deft and graceful in expression, with not a word too much or one that bears not its part in the total effect, there is yet about the lyrics of Jonson a certain stiffness and formality, a suspicion that they were not quite spontaneous and unbidden, but that they were carved, so to speak, with disproportionate labour by a potent man of letters whose habitual thought is on greater things. It is for these reasons that Jonson is even better in the epigram and in occasional verse where rhetorical finish and pointed wit less interfere with the spontaneity and emotion which we usually associate with lyrical poetry. There are no such epitaphs as Ben Jonson's, witness the charming ones on his own children, on Salathiel Pavy, the child-actor, and many more; and this even though the rigid law of mine and thine must now restore to William Browne of Tavistock the famous lines beginning: "Underneath this sable hearse." Jonson is unsurpassed, too, in the difficult poetry of compliment, seldom falling into fulsome praise and disproportionate similitude, yet showing again and again a generous appreciation of worth in others, a discriminating taste and a generous personal regard. There was no man in England of his rank so well known and universally beloved as Ben Jonson. The list of his friends, of those to whom he had written verses, and those who had written verses to him, includes the name of every man of prominence in the England of King James. And the tone of many of these productions discloses an affectionate familiarity that speaks for the amiable personality and sound worth of the laureate. In 1619, growing unwieldy through inactivity, Jonson hit upon the heroic remedy of a journey afoot to Scotland. On his way thither and back he was hospitably received at the houses of many friends and by those to whom his friends had recommended him. When he arrived in Edinburgh, the burgesses met to grant him the freedom of the city, and Drummond, foremost of Scottish poets, was proud to entertain him for weeks as his guest at Hawthornden. Some of the noblest of Jonson's poems were inspired by friendship. Such is the fine "Ode to the memory of Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Moryson," and that admirable piece of critical insight and filial affection, prefixed to the first Shakespeare folio, "To the memory of my beloved master, William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us," to mention only these. Nor can the earlier "Epode," beginning "Not to know vice at all," be matched in stately gravity and gnomic wisdom in its own wise and stately age. But if Jonson had deserted the stage after the publication of his folio and up to the end of the reign of King James, he was far from inactive; for year after year his inexhaustible inventiveness continued to contribute to the masquing and entertainment at court. In "The Golden Age Restored," Pallas turns the Iron Age with its attendant evils into statues which sink out of sight; in "Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue," Atlas figures represented as an old man, his shoulders covered with snow, and Comus, "the god of cheer or the belly," is one of the characters, a circumstance which an imaginative boy of ten, named John Milton, was not to forget. "Pan's Anniversary," late in the reign of James, proclaimed that Jonson had not yet forgotten how to write exquisite lyrics, and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed" displayed the old drollery and broad humorous stroke still unimpaired and unmatchable. These, too, and the earlier years of Charles were the days of the Apollo Room of the Devil Tavern where Jonson presided, the absolute monarch of English literary Bohemia. We hear of a room blazoned about with Jonson's own judicious "Leges Convivales" in letters of gold, of a company made up of the choicest spirits of the time, devotedly attached to their veteran dictator, his reminiscences, opinions, affections, and enmities. And we hear, too, of valorous potations; but in the words of Herrick addressed to his master, Jonson, at the Devil Tavern, as at the Dog, the Triple Tun, and at the Mermaid, "We such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad, And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine." But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben." Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods", including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages--which Jonson never intended for publication--plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction. When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey: "O rare Ben Jonson." FELIX E. SCHELLING. THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A. The following is a complete list of his published works:-- DRAMAS: Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601; The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609; Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600; Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601; Poetaster, 4to, 1602; Sejanus, 4to, 1605; Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605; Volpone, 4to, 1607; Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616; The Alchemist, 4to, 1612; Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611; Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631; The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631; The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631; The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692; The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640; A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640; The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641; Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640. To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher. POEMS: Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works. PROSE: Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640. Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios. WORKS: Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41); fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729; edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756; by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846; re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871; in 9 volumes., 1875; by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838; by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction by C. H. Herford, 1893, etc.; Nine Plays, 1904; ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc; Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (Universal Library), 1885; Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905; Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907; Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890. SELECTIONS: J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay, (Canterbury Poets), 1886; Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895; Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901; Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905; Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books, No. 4, 1906; Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest known setting, Eragny Press, 1906. LIFE: See Memoirs affixed to Works; J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886; Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden; Shakespeare Society, 1842; ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906; Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889. VOLPONE; OR, THE FOX By Ben Jonson TO THE MOST NOBLE AND MOST EQUAL SISTERS, THE TWO FAMOUS UNIVERSITIES, FOR THEIR LOVE AND ACCEPTANCE SHEWN TO HIS POEM IN THE PRESENTATION, BEN JONSON, THE GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGER, DEDICATES BOTH IT AND HIMSELF. Never, most equal Sisters, had any man a wit so presently excellent, as that it could raise itself; but there must come both matter, occasion, commenders, and favourers to it. If this be true, and that the fortune of all writers doth daily prove it, it behoves the careful to provide well towards these accidents; and, having acquired them, to preserve that part of reputation most tenderly, wherein the benefit of a friend is also defended. Hence is it, that I now render myself grateful, and am studious to justify the bounty of your act; to which, though your mere authority were satisfying, yet it being an age wherein poetry and the professors of it hear so ill on all sides, there will a reason be looked for in the subject. It is certain, nor can it with any forehead be opposed, that the too much license of poetasters in this time, hath much deformed their mistress; that, every day, their manifold and manifest ignorance doth stick unnatural reproaches upon her: but for their petulancy, it were an act of the greatest injustice, either to let the learned suffer, or so divine a skill (which indeed should not be attempted with unclean hands) to fall under the least contempt. For, if men will impartially, and not asquint, look toward the offices and function of a poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the impossibility of any man's being the good poet, without first being a good man. He that is said to be able to inform young men to all good disciplines, inflame grown men to all great virtues, keep old men in their best and supreme state, or, as they decline to childhood, recover them to their first strength; that comes forth the interpreter and arbiter of nature, a teacher of things divine no less than human, a master in manners; and can alone, or with a few, effect the business of mankind: this, I take him, is no subject for pride and ignorance to exercise their railing rhetoric upon. But it will here be hastily answered, that the writers of these days are other things; that not only their manners, but their natures, are inverted, and nothing remaining with them of the dignity of poet, but the abused name, which every scribe usurps; that now, especially in dramatic, or, as they term it, stage-poetry, nothing but ribaldry, profanation, blasphemy, all license of offence to God and man is practised. I dare not deny a great part of this, and am sorry I dare not, because in some men's abortive features (and would they had never boasted the light) it is over-true; but that all are embarked in this bold adventure for hell, is a most uncharitable thought, and, uttered, a more malicious slander. For my particular, I can, and from a most clear conscience, affirm, that I have ever trembled to think toward the least profaneness; have loathed the use of such foul and unwashed bawdry, as is now made the food of the scene: and, howsoever I cannot escape from some, the imputation of sharpness, but that they will say, I have taken a pride, or lust, to be bitter, and not my youngest infant but hath come into the world with all his teeth; I would ask of these supercilious politics, what nation, society, or general order or state, I have provoked? What public person? Whether I have not in all these preserved their dignity, as mine own person, safe? My works are read, allowed, (I speak of those that are intirely mine,) look into them, what broad reproofs have I used? where have I been particular? where personal? except to a mimic, cheater, bawd, or buffoon, creatures, for their insolencies, worthy to be taxed? yet to which of these so pointingly, as he might not either ingenuously have confest, or wisely dissembled his disease? But it is not rumour can make men guilty, much less entitle me to other men's crimes. I know, that nothing can be so innocently writ or carried, but may be made obnoxious to construction; marry, whilst I bear mine innocence about me, I fear it not. Application is now grown a trade with many; and there are that profess to have a key for the decyphering of every thing: but let wise and noble persons take heed how they be too credulous, or give leave to these invading interpreters to be over-familiar with their fames, who cunningly, and often, utter their own virulent malice, under other men's simplest meanings. As for those that will (by faults which charity hath raked up, or common honesty concealed) make themselves a name with the multitude, or, to draw their rude and beastly claps, care not whose living faces they intrench with their petulant styles, may they do it without a rival, for me! I choose rather to live graved in obscurity, than share with them in so preposterous a fame. Nor can I blame the wishes of those severe and wise patriots, who providing the hurts these licentious spirits may do in a state, desire rather to see fools and devils, and those antique relics of barbarism retrieved, with all other ridiculous and exploded follies, than behold the wounds of private men, of princes and nations: for, as Horace makes Trebatius speak among these, "Sibi quisque timet, quanquam est intactus, et odit." And men may justly impute such rages, if continued, to the writer, as his sports. The increase of which lust in liberty, together with the present trade of the stage, in all their miscelline interludes, what learned or liberal soul doth not already abhor? where nothing but the filth of the time is uttered, and with such impropriety of phrase, such plenty of solecisms, such dearth of sense, so bold prolepses, so racked metaphors, with brothelry, able to violate the ear of a pagan, and blasphemy, to turn the blood of a Christian to water. I cannot but be serious in a cause of this nature, wherein my fame, and the reputation of divers honest and learned are the question; when a name so full of authority, antiquity, and all great mark, is, through their insolence, become the lowest scorn of the age; and those men subject to the petulancy of every vernaculous orator, that were wont to be the care of kings and happiest monarchs. This it is that hath not only rapt me to present indignation, but made me studious heretofore, and by all my actions, to stand off from them; which may most appear in this my latest work, which you, most learned Arbitresses, have seen, judged, and to my crown, approved; wherein I have laboured for their instruction and amendment, to reduce not only the ancient forms, but manners of the scene, the easiness, the propriety, the innocence, and last, the doctrine, which is the principal end of poesie, to inform men in the best reason of living. And though my catastrophe may, in the strict rigour of comic law, meet with censure, as turning back to my promise; I desire the learned and charitable critic, to have so much faith in me, to think it was done of industry: for, with what ease I could have varied it nearer his scale (but that I fear to boast my own faculty) I could here insert. But my special aim being to put the snaffle in their mouths, that cry out, We never punish vice in our interludes, etc., I took the more liberty; though not without some lines of example, drawn even in the ancients themselves, the goings out of whose comedies are not always joyful, but oft times the bawds, the servants, the rivals, yea, and the masters are mulcted; and fitly, it being the office of a comic poet to imitate justice, and instruct to life, as well as purity of language, or stir up gentle affections; to which I shall take the occasion elsewhere to speak. For the present, most reverenced Sisters, as I have cared to be thankful for your affections past, and here made the understanding acquainted with some ground of your favours; let me not despair their continuance, to the maturing of some worthier fruits; wherein, if my muses be true to me, I shall raise the despised head of poetry again, and stripping her out of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times have adulterated her form, restore her to her primitive habit, feature, and majesty, and render her worthy to be embraced and kist of all the great and master-spirits of our world. As for the vile and slothful, who never affected an act worthy of celebration, or are so inward with their own vicious natures, as they worthily fear her, and think it an high point of policy to keep her in contempt, with their declamatory and windy invectives; she shall out of just rage incite her servants (who are genus irritabile) to spout ink in their faces, that shall eat farther than their marrow into their fames; and not Cinnamus the barber, with his art, shall be able to take out the brands; but they shall live, and be read, till the wretches die, as things worst deserving of themselves in chief, and then of all mankind. From my House in the Black-Friars, this 11th day of February, 1607. DRAMATIS PERSONAE VOLPONE, a Magnifico. MOSCA, his Parasite. VOLTORE, an Advocate. CORBACCIO, an old Gentleman. CORVINO, a Merchant. BONARIO, son to Corbaccio. SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE, a Knight. PEREGRINE, a Gentleman Traveller. NANO, a Dwarf. CASTRONE, an Eunuch. ANDROGYNO, an Hermaphrodite. GREGE (or Mob). COMMANDADORI, Officers of Justice. MERCATORI, three Merchants. AVOCATORI, four Magistrates. NOTARIO, the Register. LADY WOULD-BE, Sir Politick's Wife. CELIA, Corvino's Wife. SERVITORI, Servants, two Waiting-women, etc. SCENE: VENICE. THE ARGUMENT. V olpone, childless, rich, feigns sick, despairs, O ffers his state to hopes of several heirs, L ies languishing: his parasite receives P resents of all, assures, deludes; then weaves O ther cross plots, which ope themselves, are told. N ew tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: when bold, E ach tempts the other again, and all are sold. PROLOGUE. Now, luck yet sends us, and a little wit Will serve to make our play hit; (According to the palates of the season) Here is rhime, not empty of reason. This we were bid to credit from our poet, Whose true scope, if you would know it, In all his poems still hath been this measure, To mix profit with your pleasure; And not as some, whose throats their envy failing, Cry hoarsely, All he writes is railing: And when his plays come forth, think they can flout them, With saying, he was a year about them. To this there needs no lie, but this his creature, Which was two months since no feature; And though he dares give them five lives to mend it, 'Tis known, five weeks fully penn'd it, From his own hand, without a co-adjutor, Novice, journey-man, or tutor. Yet thus much I can give you as a token Of his play's worth, no eggs are broken, Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted, Wherewith your rout are so delighted; Nor hales he in a gull old ends reciting, To stop gaps in his loose writing; With such a deal of monstrous and forced action, As might make Bethlem a faction: Nor made he his play for jests stolen from each table, But makes jests to fit his fable; And so presents quick comedy refined, As best critics have designed; The laws of time, place, persons he observeth, From no needful rule he swerveth. All gall and copperas from his ink he draineth, Only a little salt remaineth, Wherewith he'll rub your cheeks, till red, with laughter, They shall look fresh a week after. ACT 1. SCENE 1.1. A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER VOLPONE AND MOSCA. VOLP: Good morning to the day; and next, my gold: Open the shrine, that I may see my Saint. [MOSCA WITHDRAWS THE CURTAIN, AND DISCOVERS PILES OF GOLD, PLATE, JEWELS, ETC.] Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad than is The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his; That lying here, amongst my other hoards, Shew'st like a flame by night; or like the day Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol, But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, With adoration, thee, and every relick Of sacred treasure, in this blessed room. Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age which they would have the best; Thou being the best of things: and far transcending All style of joy, in children, parents, friends, Or any other waking dream on earth: Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe, They should have given her twenty thousand Cupids; Such are thy beauties and our loves! Dear saint, Riches, the dumb God, that giv'st all men tongues; That canst do nought, and yet mak'st men do all things; The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise,-- MOS: And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature. VOLP: True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory More in the cunning purchase of my wealth, Than in the glad possession; since I gain No common way; I use no trade, no venture; I wound no earth with plough-shares; fat no beasts, To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron, Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder: I blow no subtle glass; expose no ships To threat'nings of the furrow-faced sea; I turn no monies in the public bank, Nor usure private. MOS: No sir, nor devour Soft prodigals. You shall have some will swallow A melting heir as glibly as your Dutch Will pills of butter, and ne'er purge for it; Tear forth the fathers of poor families Out of their beds, and coffin them alive In some kind clasping prison, where their bones May be forth-coming, when the flesh is rotten: But your sweet nature doth abhor these courses; You lothe the widdow's or the orphan's tears Should wash your pavements, or their piteous cries Ring in your roofs, and beat the air for vengeance. VOLP: Right, Mosca; I do lothe it. MOS: And besides, sir, You are not like a thresher that doth stand With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs; Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines, Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar: You will not lie in straw, whilst moths and worms Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds; You know the use of riches, and dare give now From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite, Your eunuch, or what other household-trifle Your pleasure allows maintenance. VOLP: Hold thee, Mosca, [GIVES HIM MONEY.] Take of my hand; thou strik'st on truth in all, And they are envious term thee parasite. Call forth my dwarf, my eunuch, and my fool, And let them make me sport. [EXIT MOS.] What should I do, But cocker up my genius, and live free To all delights my fortune calls me to? I have no wife, no parent, child, ally, To give my substance to; but whom I make Must be my heir: and this makes men observe me: This draws new clients daily, to my house, Women and men of every sex and age, That bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, With hope that when I die (which they expect Each greedy minute) it shall then return Ten-fold upon them; whilst some, covetous Above the rest, seek to engross me whole, And counter-work the one unto the other, Contend in gifts, as they would seem in love: All which I suffer, playing with their hopes, And am content to coin them into profit, To look upon their kindness, and take more, And look on that; still bearing them in hand, Letting the cherry knock against their lips, And draw it by their mouths, and back again.-- How now! [RE-ENTER MOSCA WITH NANO, ANDROGYNO, AND CASTRONE.] NAN: Now, room for fresh gamesters, who do will you to know, They do bring you neither play, nor university show; And therefore do entreat you, that whatsoever they rehearse, May not fare a whit the worse, for the false pace of the verse. If you wonder at this, you will wonder more ere we pass, For know, here is inclosed the soul of Pythagoras, That juggler divine, as hereafter shall follow; Which soul, fast and loose, sir, came first from Apollo, And was breath'd into Aethalides; Mercurius his son, Where it had the gift to remember all that ever was done. From thence it fled forth, and made quick transmigration To goldy-lock'd Euphorbus, who was killed in good fashion, At the siege of old Troy, by the cuckold of Sparta. Hermotimus was next (I find it in my charta) To whom it did pass, where no sooner it was missing But with one Pyrrhus of Delos it learn'd to go a fishing; And thence did it enter the sophist of Greece. From Pythagore, she went into a beautiful piece, Hight Aspasia, the meretrix; and the next toss of her Was again of a whore, she became a philosopher, Crates the cynick, as it self doth relate it: Since kings, knights, and beggars, knaves, lords and fools gat it, Besides, ox and ass, camel, mule, goat, and brock, In all which it hath spoke, as in the cobler's cock. But I come not here to discourse of that matter, Or his one, two, or three, or his greath oath, BY QUATER! His musics, his trigon, his golden thigh, Or his telling how elements shift, but I Would ask, how of late thou best suffered translation, And shifted thy coat in these days of reformation. AND: Like one of the reformed, a fool, as you see, Counting all old doctrine heresy. NAN: But not on thine own forbid meats hast thou ventured? AND: On fish, when first a Carthusian I enter'd. NAN: Why, then thy dogmatical silence hath left thee? AND: Of that an obstreperous lawyer bereft me. NAN: O wonderful change, when sir lawyer forsook thee! For Pythagore's sake, what body then took thee? AND: A good dull mule. NAN: And how! by that means Thou wert brought to allow of the eating of beans? AND: Yes. NAN: But from the mule into whom didst thou pass? AND: Into a very strange beast, by some writers call'd an ass; By others, a precise, pure, illuminate brother, Of those devour flesh, and sometimes one another; And will drop you forth a libel, or a sanctified lie, Betwixt every spoonful of a nativity pie. NAN: Now quit thee, for heaven, of that profane nation; And gently report thy next transmigration. AND: To the same that I am. NAN: A creature of delight, And, what is more than a fool, an hermaphrodite! Now, prithee, sweet soul, in all thy variation, Which body would'st thou choose, to keep up thy station? AND: Troth, this I am in: even here would I tarry. NAN: 'Cause here the delight of each sex thou canst vary? AND: Alas, those pleasures be stale and forsaken; No, 'tis your fool wherewith I am so taken, The only one creature that I can call blessed: For all other forms I have proved most distressed. NAN: Spoke true, as thou wert in Pythagoras still. This learned opinion we celebrate will, Fellow eunuch, as behoves us, with all our wit and art, To dignify that whereof ourselves are so great and special a part. VOLP: Now, very, very pretty! Mosca, this Was thy invention? MOS: If it please my patron, Not else. VOLP: It doth, good Mosca. MOS: Then it was, sir. NANO AND CASTRONE [SING.]: Fools, they are the only nation Worth men's envy, or admiration: Free from care or sorrow-taking, Selves and others merry making: All they speak or do is sterling. Your fool he is your great man's darling, And your ladies' sport and pleasure; Tongue and bauble are his treasure. E'en his face begetteth laughter, And he speaks truth free from slaughter; He's the grace of every feast, And sometimes the chiefest guest; Hath his trencher and his stool, When wit waits upon the fool: O, who would not be He, he, he? [KNOCKING WITHOUT.] VOLP: Who's that? Away! [EXEUNT NANO AND CASTRONE.] Look, Mosca. Fool, begone! [EXIT ANDROGYNO.] MOS: 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate; I know him by his knock. VOLP: Fetch me my gown, My furs and night-caps; say, my couch is changing, And let him entertain himself awhile Without i' the gallery. [EXIT MOSCA.] Now, now, my clients Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite, Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey, That think me turning carcase, now they come; I am not for them yet-- [RE-ENTER MOSCA, WITH THE GOWN, ETC.] How now! the news? MOS: A piece of plate, sir. VOLP: Of what bigness? MOS: Huge, Massy, and antique, with your name inscribed, And arms engraven. VOLP: Good! and not a fox Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca? MOS: Sharp, sir. VOLP: Give me my furs. [PUTS ON HIS SICK DRESS.] Why dost thou laugh so, man? MOS: I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend What thoughts he has without now, as he walks: That this might be the last gift he should give; That this would fetch you; if you died to-day, And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow; What large return would come of all his ventures; How he should worship'd be, and reverenced; Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on By herds of fools, and clients; have clear way Made for his mule, as letter'd as himself; Be call'd the great and learned advocate: And then concludes, there's nought impossible. VOLP: Yes, to be learned, Mosca. MOS: O no: rich Implies it. Hood an ass with reverend purple, So you can hide his two ambitious ears, And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor. VOLP: My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in. MOS: Stay, sir, your ointment for your eyes. VOLP: That's true; Dispatch, dispatch: I long to have possession Of my new present. MOS: That, and thousands more, I hope, to see you lord of. VOLP: Thanks, kind Mosca. MOS: And that, when I am lost in blended dust, And hundred such as I am, in succession-- VOLP: Nay, that were too much, Mosca. MOS: You shall live, Still, to delude these harpies. VOLP: Loving Mosca! 'Tis well: my pillow now, and let him enter. [EXIT MOSCA.] Now, my fain'd cough, my pthisic, and my gout, My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs, Help, with your forced functions, this my posture, Wherein, this three year, I have milk'd their hopes. He comes; I hear him--Uh! [COUGHING.] uh! uh! uh! O-- [RE-ENTER MOSCA, INTRODUCING VOLTORE, WITH A PIECE OF PLATE.] MOS: You still are what you were, sir. Only you, Of all the rest, are he commands his love, And you do wisely to preserve it thus, With early visitation, and kind notes Of your good meaning to him, which, I know, Cannot but come most grateful. Patron! sir! Here's signior Voltore is come-- VOLP [FAINTLY.]: What say you? MOS: Sir, signior Voltore is come this morning To visit you. VOLP: I thank him. MOS: And hath brought A piece of antique plate, bought of St Mark, With which he here presents you. VOLP: He is welcome. Pray him to come more often. MOS: Yes. VOLT: What says he? MOS: He thanks you, and desires you see him often. VOLP: Mosca. MOS: My patron! VOLP: Bring him near, where is he? I long to feel his hand. MOS: The plate is here, sir. VOLT: How fare you, sir? VOLP: I thank you, signior Voltore; Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad. VOLT [PUTTING IT INTO HIS HANDS.]: I'm sorry, To see you still thus weak. MOS [ASIDE.]: That he's not weaker. VOLP: You are too munificent. VOLT: No sir; would to heaven, I could as well give health to you, as that plate! VOLP: You give, sir, what you can: I thank you. Your love Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswer'd: I pray you see me often. VOLT: Yes, I shall sir. VOLP: Be not far from me. MOS: Do you observe that, sir? VOLP: Hearken unto me still; it will concern you. MOS: You are a happy man, sir; know your good. VOLP: I cannot now last long-- MOS: You are his heir, sir. VOLT: Am I? VOLP: I feel me going; Uh! uh! uh! uh! I'm sailing to my port, Uh! uh! uh! uh! And I am glad I am so near my haven. MOS: Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must all go-- VOLT: But, Mosca-- MOS: Age will conquer. VOLT: 'Pray thee hear me: Am I inscribed his heir for certain? MOS: Are you! I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe To write me in your family. All my hopes Depend upon your worship: I am lost, Except the rising sun do shine on me. VOLT: It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca. MOS: Sir, I am a man, that hath not done your love All the worst offices: here I wear your keys, See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd, Keep the poor inventory of your jewels, Your plate and monies; am your steward, sir. Husband your goods here. VOLT: But am I sole heir? MOS: Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning: The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment. VOLT: Happy, happy, me! By what good chance, sweet Mosca? MOS: Your desert, sir; I know no second cause. VOLT: Thy modesty Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it. MOS: He ever liked your course sir; that first took him. I oft have heard him say, how he admired Men of your large profession, that could speak To every cause, and things mere contraries, Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law; That, with most quick agility, could turn, And [re-] return; [could] make knots, and undo them; Give forked counsel; take provoking gold On either hand, and put it up: these men, He knew, would thrive with their humility. And, for his part, he thought he should be blest To have his heir of such a suffering spirit, So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue, And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce Lie still, without a fee; when every word Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin!-- [LOUD KNOCKING WITHOUT.] Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you seen, sir. And yet--pretend you came, and went in haste: I'll fashion an excuse.--and, gentle sir, When you do come to swim in golden lard, Up to the arms in honey, that your chin Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood, Think on your vassal; but remember me: I have not been your worst of clients. VOLT: Mosca!-- MOS: When will you have your inventory brought, sir? Or see a coppy of the will?--Anon!-- I will bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone, Put business in your face. [EXIT VOLTORE.] VOLP [SPRINGING UP.]: Excellent Mosca! Come hither, let me kiss thee. MOS: Keep you still, sir. Here is Corbaccio. VOLP: Set the plate away: The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come! MOS: Betake you to your silence, and your sleep: Stand there and multiply. [PUTTING THE PLATE TO THE REST.] Now, shall we see A wretch who is indeed more impotent Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop Over his grave.-- [ENTER CORBACCIO.] Signior Corbaccio! You're very welcome, sir. CORB: How does your patron? MOS: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends. CORB: What! mends he? MOS: No, sir: he's rather worse. CORB: That's well. Where is he? MOS: Upon his couch sir, newly fall'n asleep. CORB: Does he sleep well? MOS: No wink, sir, all this night. Nor yesterday; but slumbers. CORB: Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor. MOS: He will not hear of drugs. CORB: Why? I myself Stood by while it was made; saw all the ingredients: And know, it cannot but most gently work: My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it. MOS: Sir, He has no faith in physic. CORB: 'Say you? 'say you? MOS: He has no faith in physic: he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir. CORB: Not I his heir? MOS: Not your physician, sir. CORB: O, no, no, no, I do not mean it. MOS: No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Before they kill him. CORB: Right, I do conceive you. MOS: And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so. CORB: It is true, they kill, With as much license as a judge. MOS: Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too. CORB: Ay, or me; Or any man. How does his apoplex? Is that strong on him still? MOS: Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer than 'twas wont-- CORB: How! how! Stronger then he was wont? MOS: No, sir: his face Drawn longer than 'twas wont. CORB: O, good! MOS: His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. CORB: Good. MOS: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. CORB: 'Tis good. MOS: His pulse beats slow, and dull. CORB: Good symptoms, still. MOS: And from his brain-- CORB: I conceive you; good. MOS: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. CORB: Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How does he, with the swimming of his head? B: O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. CORB: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again, a score of years. MOS: I was a coming for you, sir. CORB: Has he made his will? What has he given me? MOS: No, sir. CORB: Nothing! ha? MOS: He has not made his will, sir. CORB: Oh, oh, oh! But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here? MOS: He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament; As I did urge him to it for your good-- CORB: He came unto him, did he? I thought so. MOS: Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. CORB: To be his heir? MOS: I do not know, sir. CORB: True: I know it too. MOS [ASIDE.]: By your own scale, sir. CORB: Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate. MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir. This is true physic, this your sacred medicine, No talk of opiates, to this great elixir! CORB: 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. MOS: It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl. CORB: Ay, do, do, do. MOS: Most blessed cordial! This will recover him. CORB: Yes, do, do, do. MOS: I think it were not best, sir. CORB: What? MOS: To recover him. CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means. MOS: Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it. CORB: 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take my venture: Give me it again. MOS: At no hand; pardon me: You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all. CORB: How? MOS: All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny. CORB: How, how, good Mosca? MOS: I'll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover. CORB: I do conceive you. MOS: And, on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament: And shew him this. [POINTING TO THE MONEY.] CORB: Good, good. MOS: 'Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir. CORB: Yes, with all my heart. MOS: Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed; There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. CORB: And disinherit My son! MOS: O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking. CORB: O, but colour? MOS: This will sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do, Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, And last, produce your will; where, without thought, Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir: He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, But out of conscience, and mere gratitude-- CORB: He must pronounce me his? MOS: 'Tis true. CORB: This plot Did I think on before. MOS: I do believe it. CORB: Do you not believe it? MOS: Yes, sir. CORB: Mine own project. MOS: Which, when he hath done, sir. CORB: Publish'd me his heir? MOS: And you so certain to survive him-- CORB: Ay. MOS: Being so lusty a man-- CORB: 'Tis true. MOS: Yes, sir-- CORB: I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts! MOS: You have not only done yourself a good-- CORB: But multiplied it on my son. MOS: 'Tis right, sir. CORB: Still, my invention. MOS: 'Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things-- CORB: I do conceive, sweet Mosca. MOS: You are he, For whom I labour here. CORB: Ay, do, do, do: I'll straight about it. [GOING.] MOS: Rook go with you, raven! CORB: I know thee honest. MOS [ASIDE.]: You do lie, sir! CORB: And-- MOS: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. CORB: I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. MOS: Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing. CORB: I may have my youth restored to me, why not? MOS: Your worship is a precious ass! CORB: What say'st thou? MOS: I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. CORB: 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. [EXIT.] VOLP [LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.]: O, I shall burst! Let out my sides, let out my sides-- MOS: Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook. VOLP: O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour. MOS: Alas sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give them words; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence. VOLP: 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment Is avarice to itself! MOS: Ay, with our help, sir. VOLP: So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! nay, here was one; Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like Aeson, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air! [KNOCKING WITHIN.] Who's that there, now? a third? MOS: Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice: It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. VOLP [LIES DOWN AS BEFORE.]: Dead. MOS: Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [ANOINTING THEM.] --Who's there? [ENTER CORVINO.] Signior Corvino! come most wish'd for! O, How happy were you, if you knew it, now! CORV: Why? what? wherein? MOS: The tardy hour is come, sir. CORV: He is not dead? MOS: Not dead, sir, but as good; He knows no man. CORV: How shall I do then? MOS: Why, sir? CORV: I have brought him here a pearl. MOS: Perhaps he has So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir: He still calls on you; nothing but your name Is in his mouth: Is your pearl orient, sir? CORV: Venice was never owner of the like. VOLP [FAINTLY.]: Signior Corvino. MOS: Hark. VOLP: Signior Corvino! MOS: He calls you; step and give it him.--He's here, sir, And he has brought you a rich pearl. CORV: How do you, sir? Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract. MOS: Sir, He cannot understand, his hearing's gone; And yet it comforts him to see you-- CORV: Say, I have a diamond for him, too. MOS: Best shew it, sir; Put it into his hand; 'tis only there He apprehends: he has his feeling, yet. See how he grasps it! CORV: 'Las, good gentleman! How pitiful the sight is! MOS: Tut! forget, sir. The weeping of an heir should still be laughter Under a visor. CORV: Why, am I his heir? MOS: Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will, Till he be dead; but, here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too, I cannot number 'em, they were so many; All gaping here for legacies: but I, Taking the vantage of his naming you, "Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino," took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him, Whom he would have his heir? "Corvino." Who Should be executor? "Corvino." And, To any question he was silent too, I still interpreted the nods he made, Through weakness, for consent: and sent home th' others, Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse. CORV: O, my dear Mosca! [THEY EMBRACE.] Does he not perceive us? MOS: No more than a blind harper. He knows no man, No face of friend, nor name of any servant, Who 'twas that fed him last, or gave him drink: Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, Can he remember. CORV: Has he children? MOS: Bastards, Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, Gipsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk. Knew you not that, sir? 'tis the common fable. The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his; He's the true father of his family, In all, save me:--but he has giv'n them nothing. CORV: That's well, that's well. Art sure he does not hear us? MOS: Sure, sir! why, look you, credit your own sense. [SHOUTS IN VOL.'S EAR.] The pox approach, and add to your diseases, If it would send you hence the sooner, sir, For your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it Thoroughly, and thoroughly, and the plague to boot!-- You may come near, sir.--Would you would once close Those filthy eyes of yours, that flow with slime, Like two frog-pits; and those same hanging cheeks, Cover'd with hide, instead of skin--Nay help, sir-- That look like frozen dish-clouts, set on end! CORV [ALOUD.]: Or like an old smoked wall, on which the rain Ran down in streaks! MOS: Excellent! sir, speak out: You may be louder yet: A culverin Discharged in his ear would hardly bore it. CORV: His nose is like a common sewer, still running. MOS: 'Tis good! And what his mouth? CORV: A very draught. MOS: O, stop it up-- CORV: By no means. MOS: 'Pray you, let me. Faith I could stifle him, rarely with a pillow, As well as any woman that should keep him. CORV: Do as you will: but I'll begone. MOS: Be so: It is your presence makes him last so long. CORV: I pray you, use no violence. MOS: No, sir! why? Why should you be thus scrupulous, pray you, sir? CORV: Nay, at your discretion. MOS: Well, good sir, begone. CORV: I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. MOS: Puh! nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you? Is not all here yours? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature? That owe my being to you? CORV: Grateful Mosca! Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes. MOS: Excepting one. CORV: What's that? MOS: Your gallant wife, sir,-- [EXIT CORV.] Now is he gone: we had no other means To shoot him hence, but this. VOLP: My divine Mosca! Thou hast to-day outgone thyself. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] --Who's there? I will be troubled with no more. Prepare Me music, dances, banquets, all delights; The Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures, Than will Volpone. [EXIT MOS.] Let me see; a pearl! A diamond! plate! chequines! Good morning's purchase, Why, this is better than rob churches, yet; Or fat, by eating, once a month, a man. [RE-ENTER MOSCA.] Who is't? MOS: The beauteous lady Would-be, sir. Wife to the English knight, Sir Politick Would-be, (This is the style, sir, is directed me,) Hath sent to know how you have slept to-night, And if you would be visited? VOLP: Not now: Some three hours hence-- MOS: I told the squire so much. VOLP: When I am high with mirth and wine; then, then: 'Fore heaven, I wonder at the desperate valour Of the bold English, that they dare let loose Their wives to all encounters! MOS: Sir, this knight Had not his name for nothing, he is politick, And knows, howe'er his wife affect strange airs, She hath not yet the face to be dishonest: But had she signior Corvino's wife's face-- VOLP: Has she so rare a face? MOS: O, sir, the wonder, The blazing star of Italy! a wench Of the first year! a beauty ripe as harvest! Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over, Than silver, snow, or lilies! a soft lip, Would tempt you to eternity of kissing! And flesh that melteth in the touch to blood! Bright as your gold, and lovely as your gold! VOLP: Why had not I known this before? MOS: Alas, sir, Myself but yesterday discover'd it. VOLP: How might I see her? MOS: O, not possible; She's kept as warily as is your gold; Never does come abroad, never takes air, But at a window. All her looks are sweet, As the first grapes or cherries, and are watch'd As near as they are. VOLP: I must see her. MOS: Sir, There is a guard of spies ten thick upon her, All his whole household; each of which is set Upon his fellow, and have all their charge, When he goes out, when he comes in, examined. VOLP: I will go see her, though but at her window. MOS: In some disguise, then. VOLP: That is true; I must Maintain mine own shape still the same: we'll think. [EXEUNT.] ACT 2. SCENE 2.1. ST. MARK'S PLACE; A RETIRED CORNER BEFORE CORVINO'S HOUSE. ENTER SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE, AND PEREGRINE. SIR P: Sir, to a wise man, all the world's his soil: It is not Italy, nor France, nor Europe, That must bound me, if my fates call me forth. Yet, I protest, it is no salt desire Of seeing countries, shifting a religion, Nor any disaffection to the state Where I was bred, and unto which I owe My dearest plots, hath brought me out; much less, That idle, antique, stale, gray-headed project Of knowing men's minds, and manners, with Ulysses! But a peculiar humour of my wife's Laid for this height of Venice, to observe, To quote, to learn the language, and so forth-- I hope you travel, sir, with license? PER: Yes. SIR P: I dare the safelier converse--How long, sir, Since you left England? PER: Seven weeks. SIR P: So lately! You have not been with my lord ambassador? PER: Not yet, sir. SIR P: Pray you, what news, sir, vents our climate? I heard last night a most strange thing reported By some of my lord's followers, and I long To hear how 'twill be seconded. PER: What was't, sir? SIR P: Marry, sir, of a raven that should build In a ship royal of the king's. PER [ASIDE.]: This fellow, Does he gull me, trow? or is gull'd? --Your name, sir. SIR P: My name is Politick Would-be. PER [ASIDE.]: O, that speaks him. --A knight, sir? SIR P: A poor knight, sir. PER: Your lady Lies here in Venice, for intelligence Of tires, and fashions, and behaviour, Among the courtezans? the fine lady Would-be? SIR P: Yes, sir; the spider and the bee, ofttimes, Suck from one flower. PER: Good Sir Politick, I cry you mercy; I have heard much of you: 'Tis true, sir, of your raven. SIR P: On your knowledge? PER: Yes, and your lion's whelping, in the Tower. SIR P: Another whelp! PER: Another, sir. SIR P: Now heaven! What prodigies be these? The fires at Berwick! And the new star! these things concurring, strange, And full of omen! Saw you those meteors? PER: I did, sir. SIR P: Fearful! Pray you, sir, confirm me, Were there three porpoises seen above the bridge, As they give out? PER: Six, and a sturgeon, sir. SIR P: I am astonish'd. PER: Nay, sir, be not so; I'll tell you a greater prodigy than these. SIR P: What should these things portend? PER: The very day (Let me be sure) that I put forth from London, There was a whale discover'd in the river, As high as Woolwich, that had waited there, Few know how many months, for the subversion Of the Stode fleet. SIR P: Is't possible? believe it, 'Twas either sent from Spain, or the archdukes: Spinola's whale, upon my life, my credit! Will they not leave these projects? Worthy sir, Some other news. PER: Faith, Stone the fool is dead; And they do lack a tavern fool extremely. SIR P: Is Mass Stone dead? PER: He's dead sir; why, I hope You thought him not immortal? [ASIDE.] --O, this knight, Were he well known, would be a precious thing To fit our English stage: he that should write But such a fellow, should be thought to feign Extremely, if not maliciously. SIR P: Stone dead! PER: Dead.--Lord! how deeply sir, you apprehend it? He was no kinsman to you? SIR P: That I know of. Well! that same fellow was an unknown fool. PER: And yet you knew him, it seems? SIR P: I did so. Sir, I knew him one of the most dangerous heads Living within the state, and so I held him. PER: Indeed, sir? SIR P: While he lived, in action. He has received weekly intelligence, Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries, For all parts of the world, in cabbages; And those dispensed again to ambassadors, In oranges, musk-melons, apricocks, Lemons, pome-citrons, and such-like: sometimes In Colchester oysters, and your Selsey cockles. PER: You make me wonder. SIR P: Sir, upon my knowledge. Nay, I've observed him, at your public ordinary, Take his advertisement from a traveller A conceal'd statesman, in a trencher of meat; And instantly, before the meal was done, Convey an answer in a tooth-pick. PER: Strange! How could this be, sir? SIR P: Why, the meat was cut So like his character, and so laid, as he Must easily read the cipher. PER: I have heard, He could not read, sir. SIR P: So 'twas given out, In policy, by those that did employ him: But he could read, and had your languages, And to't, as sound a noddle-- PER: I have heard, sir, That your baboons were spies, and that they were A kind of subtle nation near to China: SIR P: Ay, ay, your Mamuluchi. Faith, they had Their hand in a French plot or two; but they Were so extremely given to women, as They made discovery of all: yet I Had my advices here, on Wednesday last. From one of their own coat, they were return'd, Made their relations, as the fashion is, And now stand fair for fresh employment. PER: 'Heart! [ASIDE.] This sir Pol will be ignorant of nothing. --It seems, sir, you know all? SIR P: Not all sir, but I have some general notions. I do love To note and to observe: though I live out, Free from the active torrent, yet I'd mark The currents and the passages of things, For mine own private use; and know the ebbs, And flows of state. PER: Believe it, sir, I hold Myself in no small tie unto my fortunes, For casting me thus luckily upon you, Whose knowledge, if your bounty equal it, May do me great assistance, in instruction For my behaviour, and my bearing, which Is yet so rude and raw. SIR P: Why, came you forth Empty of rules, for travel? PER: Faith, I had Some common ones, from out that vulgar grammar, Which he that cried Italian to me, taught me. SIR P: Why this it is, that spoils all our brave bloods, Trusting our hopeful gentry unto pedants, Fellows of outside, and mere bark. You seem To be a gentleman, of ingenuous race:-- I not profess it, but my fate hath been To be, where I have been consulted with, In this high kind, touching some great men's sons, Persons of blood, and honour.-- [ENTER MOSCA AND NANO DISGUISED, FOLLOWED BY PERSONS WITH MATERIALS FOR ERECTING A STAGE.] PER: Who be these, sir? MOS: Under that window, there 't must be. The same. SIR P: Fellows, to mount a bank. Did your instructor In the dear tongues, never discourse to you Of the Italian mountebanks? PER: Yes, sir. SIR P: Why, Here shall you see one. PER: They are quacksalvers; Fellows, that live by venting oils and drugs. SIR P: Was that the character he gave you of them? PER: As I remember. SIR P: Pity his ignorance. They are the only knowing men of Europe! Great general scholars, excellent physicians, Most admired statesmen, profest favourites, And cabinet counsellors to the greatest princes; The only languaged men of all the world! PER: And, I have heard, they are most lewd impostors; Made all of terms and shreds; no less beliers Of great men's favours, than their own vile med'cines; Which they will utter upon monstrous oaths: Selling that drug for two-pence, ere they part, Which they have valued at twelve crowns before. SIR P: Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence. Yourself shall judge.--Who is it mounts, my friends? MOS: Scoto of Mantua, sir. SIR P: Is't he? Nay, then I'll proudly promise, sir, you shall behold Another man than has been phant'sied to you. I wonder yet, that he should mount his bank, Here in this nook, that has been wont t'appear In face of the Piazza!--Here, he comes. [ENTER VOLPONE, DISGUISED AS A MOUNTEBANK DOCTOR, AND FOLLOWED BY A CROWD OF PEOPLE.] VOLP [TO NANO.]: Mount zany. MOB: Follow, follow, follow, follow! SIR P: See how the people follow him! he's a man May write ten thousand crowns in bank here. Note, [VOLPONE MOUNTS THE STAGE.] Mark but his gesture:--I do use to observe The state he keeps in getting up. PER: 'Tis worth it, sir. VOLP: Most noble gentlemen, and my worthy patrons! It may seem strange, that I, your Scoto Mantuano, who was ever wont to fix my bank in face of the public Piazza, near the shelter of the Portico to the Procuratia, should now, after eight months' absence from this illustrious city of Venice, humbly retire myself into an obscure nook of the Piazza. SIR P: Did not I now object the same? PER: Peace, sir. VOLP: Let me tell you: I am not, as your Lombard proverb saith, cold on my feet; or content to part with my commodities at a cheaper rate, than I accustomed: look not for it. Nor that the calumnious reports of that impudent detractor, and shame to our profession, (Alessandro Buttone, I mean,) who gave out, in public, I was condemn'd a sforzato to the galleys, for poisoning the cardinal Bembo's--cook, hath at all attached, much less dejected me. No, no, worthy gentlemen; to tell you true, I cannot endure to see the rabble of these ground ciarlitani, that spread their cloaks on the pavement, as if they meant to do feats of activity, and then come in lamely, with their mouldy tales out of Boccacio, like stale Tabarine, the fabulist: some of them discoursing their travels, and of their tedious captivity in the Turks' galleys, when, indeed, were the truth known, they were the Christians' galleys, where very temperately they eat bread, and drunk water, as a wholesome penance, enjoined them by their confessors, for base pilferies. SIR P: Note but his bearing, and contempt of these. VOLP: These turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousy-fartical rogues, with one poor groat's-worth of unprepared antimony, finely wrapt up in several scartoccios, are able, very well, to kill their twenty a week, and play; yet, these meagre, starved spirits, who have half stopt the organs of their minds with earthy oppilations, want not their favourers among your shrivell'd sallad-eating artizans, who are overjoyed that they may have their half-pe'rth of physic; though it purge them into another world, it makes no matter. SIR P: Excellent! have you heard better language, sir? VOLP: Well, let them go. And, gentlemen, honourable gentlemen, know, that for this time, our bank, being thus removed from the clamours of the canaglia, shall be the scene of pleasure and delight; for I have nothing to sell, little or nothing to sell. SIR P: I told you, sir, his end. PER: You did so, sir. VOLP: I protest, I, and my six servants, are not able to make of this precious liquor, so fast as it is fetch'd away from my lodging by gentlemen of your city; strangers of the Terra-firma; worshipful merchants; ay, and senators too: who, ever since my arrival, have detained me to their uses, by their splendidous liberalities. And worthily; for, what avails your rich man to have his magazines stuft with moscadelli, or of the purest grape, when his physicians prescribe him, on pain of death, to drink nothing but water cocted with aniseeds? O health! health! the blessing of the rich, the riches of the poor! who can buy thee at too dear a rate, since there is no enjoying this world without thee? Be not then so sparing of your purses, honourable gentlemen, as to abridge the natural course of life-- PER: You see his end. SIR P: Ay, is't not good? VOLP: For, when a humid flux, or catarrh, by the mutability of air, falls from your head into an arm or shoulder, or any other part; take you a ducat, or your chequin of gold, and apply to the place affected: see what good effect it can work. No, no, 'tis this blessed unguento, this rare extraction, that hath only power to disperse all malignant humours, that proceed either of hot, cold, moist, or windy causes-- PER: I would he had put in dry too. SIR P: 'Pray you, observe. VOLP: To fortify the most indigest and crude stomach, ay, were it of one, that, through extreme weakness, vomited blood, applying only a warm napkin to the place, after the unction and fricace;--for the vertigine in the head, putting but a drop into your nostrils, likewise behind the ears; a most sovereign and approved remedy. The mal caduco, cramps, convulsions, paralysies, epilepsies, tremor-cordia, retired nerves, ill vapours of the spleen, stopping of the liver, the stone, the strangury, hernia ventosa, iliaca passio; stops a disenteria immediately; easeth the torsion of the small guts: and cures melancholia hypocondriaca, being taken and applied according to my printed receipt. [POINTING TO HIS BILL AND HIS VIAL.] For, this is the physician, this the medicine; this counsels, this cures; this gives the direction, this works the effect; and, in sum, both together may be termed an abstract of the theorick and practick in the Aesculapian art. 'Twill cost you eight crowns. And,--Zan Fritada, prithee sing a verse extempore in honour of it. SIR P: How do you like him, sir? PER: Most strangely, I! SIR P: Is not his language rare? PER: But alchemy, I never heard the like: or Broughton's books. NANO [SINGS.]: Had old Hippocrates, or Galen, That to their books put med'cines all in, But known this secret, they had never (Of which they will be guilty ever) Been murderers of so much paper, Or wasted many a hurtless taper; No Indian drug had e'er been famed, Tabacco, sassafras not named; Ne yet, of guacum one small stick, sir, Nor Raymund Lully's great elixir. Ne had been known the Danish Gonswart, Or Paracelsus, with his long-sword. PER: All this, yet, will not do, eight crowns is high. VOLP: No more.--Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse to you the miraculous effects of this my oil, surnamed Oglio del Scoto; with the countless catalogue of those I have cured of the aforesaid, and many more diseases; the pattents and privileges of all the princes and commonwealths of Christendom; or but the depositions of those that appeared on my part, before the signiory of the Sanita and most learned College of Physicians; where I was authorised, upon notice taken of the admirable virtues of my medicaments, and mine own excellency in matter of rare and unknown secrets, not only to disperse them publicly in this famous city, but in all the territories, that happily joy under the government of the most pious and magnificent states of Italy. But may some other gallant fellow say, O, there be divers that make profession to have as good, and as experimented receipts as yours: indeed, very many have assayed, like apes, in imitation of that, which is really and essentially in me, to make of this oil; bestowed great cost in furnaces, stills, alembecks, continual fires, and preparation of the ingredients, (as indeed there goes to it six hundred several simples, besides some quantity of human fat, for the conglutination, which we buy of the anatomists,) but, when these practitioners come to the last decoction, blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies in fumo: ha, ha, ha! Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money; for these may be recovered by industry: but to be a fool born, is a disease incurable. For myself, I always from my youth have endeavoured to get the rarest secrets, and book them, either in exchange, or for money; I spared nor cost nor labour, where any thing was worthy to be learned. And gentlemen, honourable gentlemen, I will undertake, by virtue of chemical art, out of the honourable hat that covers your head, to extract the four elements; that is to say, the fire, air, water, and earth, and return you your felt without burn or stain. For, whilst others have been at the Balloo, I have been at my book; and am now past the craggy paths of study, and come to the flowery plains of honour and reputation. SIR P: I do assure you, sir, that is his aim. VOLP: But, to our price-- PER: And that withal, sir Pol. VOLP: You all know, honourable gentlemen, I never valued this ampulla, or vial, at less than eight crowns, but for this time, I am content, to be deprived of it for six; six crowns is the price; and less, in courtesy I know you cannot offer me; take it, or leave it, howsoever, both it and I am at your service. I ask you not as the value of the thing, for then I should demand of you a thousand crowns, so the cardinals Montalto, Fernese, the great Duke of Tuscany, my gossip, with divers other princes, have given me; but I despise money. Only to shew my affection to you, honourable gentlemen, and your illustrious State here, I have neglected the messages of these princes, mine own offices, framed my journey hither, only to present you with the fruits of my travels.--Tune your voices once more to the touch of your instruments, and give the honourable assembly some delightful recreation. PER: What monstrous and most painful circumstance Is here, to get some three or four gazettes, Some three-pence in the whole! for that 'twill come to. NANO [SINGS.]: You that would last long, list to my song, Make no more coil, but buy of this oil. Would you be ever fair and young? Stout of teeth, and strong of tongue? Tart of palate? quick of ear? Sharp of sight? of nostril clear? Moist of hand? and light of foot? Or, I will come nearer to't, Would you live free from all diseases? Do the act your mistress pleases; Yet fright all aches from your bones? Here's a med'cine, for the nones. VOLP: Well, I am in a humour at this time to make a present of the small quantity my coffer contains; to the rich, in courtesy, and to the poor for God's sake. Wherefore now mark: I ask'd you six crowns, and six crowns, at other times, you have paid me; you shall not give me six crowns, nor five, nor four, nor three, nor two, nor one; nor half a ducat; no, nor a moccinigo. Sixpence it will cost you, or six hundred pound-- expect no lower price, for, by the banner of my front, I will not bate a bagatine, that I will have, only, a pledge of your loves, to carry something from amongst you, to shew I am not contemn'd by you. Therefore, now, toss your handkerchiefs, cheerfully, cheerfully; and be advertised, that the first heroic spirit that deignes to grace me with a handkerchief, I will give it a little remembrance of something, beside, shall please it better, than if I had presented it with a double pistolet. PER: Will you be that heroic spark, sir Pol? [CELIA AT A WINDOW ABOVE, THROWS DOWN HER HANDKERCHIEF.] O see! the window has prevented you. VOLP: Lady, I kiss your bounty; and for this timely grace you have done your poor Scoto of Mantua, I will return you, over and above my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature, shall make you for ever enamour'd on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder conceal'd in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man (which some call life) to the expressing of it. Would I reflect on the price? why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you; it is the powder that made Venus a goddess (given her by Apollo,) that kept her perpetually young, clear'd her wrinkles, firm'd her gums, fill'd her skin, colour'd her hair; from her deriv'd to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the court of France, (but much sophisticated,) wherewith the ladies there, now, colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me; extracted to a quintessence: so that, whereever it but touches, in youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth, did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as ivory, that were black, as-- [ENTER CORVINO.] COR: Spight o' the devil, and my shame! come down here; Come down;--No house but mine to make your scene? Signior Flaminio, will you down, sir? down? What, is my wife your Franciscina, sir? No windows on the whole Piazza, here, To make your properties, but mine? but mine? [BEATS AWAY VOLPONE, NANO, ETC.] Heart! ere to-morrow, I shall be new-christen'd, And call'd the Pantalone di Besogniosi, About the town. PER: What should this mean, sir Pol? SIR P: Some trick of state, believe it. I will home. PER: It may be some design on you: SIR P: I know not. I'll stand upon my guard. PER: It is your best, sir. SIR P: This three weeks, all my advices, all my letters, They have been intercepted. PER: Indeed, sir! Best have a care. SIR P: Nay, so I will. PER: This knight, I may not lose him, for my mirth, till night. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 2.2. A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER VOLPONE AND MOSCA. VOLP: O, I am wounded! MOS: Where, sir? VOLP: Not without; Those blows were nothing: I could bear them ever. But angry Cupid, bolting from her eyes, Hath shot himself into me like a flame; Where, now, he flings about his burning heat, As in a furnace an ambitious fire, Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me. I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca; My liver melts, and I, without the hope Of some soft air, from her refreshing breath, Am but a heap of cinders. MOS: 'Las, good sir, Would you had never seen her! VOLP: Nay, would thou Had'st never told me of her! MOS: Sir 'tis true; I do confess I was unfortunate, And you unhappy: but I'm bound in conscience, No less than duty, to effect my best To your release of torment, and I will, sir. VOLP: Dear Mosca, shall I hope? MOS: Sir, more than dear, I will not bid you to dispair of aught Within a human compass. VOLP: O, there spoke My better angel. Mosca, take my keys, Gold, plate, and jewels, all's at thy devotion; Employ them how thou wilt; nay, coin me too: So thou, in this, but crown my longings, Mosca. MOS: Use but your patience. VOLP: So I have. MOS: I doubt not To bring success to your desires. VOLP: Nay, then, I not repent me of my late disguise. MOS: If you can horn him, sir, you need not. VOLP: True: Besides, I never meant him for my heir.-- Is not the colour of my beard and eyebrows, To make me known? MOS: No jot. VOLP: I did it well. MOS: So well, would I could follow you in mine, With half the happiness! [ASIDE.] --and yet I would Escape your Epilogue. VOLP: But were they gull'd With a belief that I was Scoto? MOS: Sir, Scoto himself could hardly have distinguish'd! I have not time to flatter you now; we'll part; And as I prosper, so applaud my art. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 2.3. A ROOM IN CORVINO'S HOUSE. ENTER CORVINO, WITH HIS SWORD IN HIS HAND, DRAGGING IN CELIA. CORV: Death of mine honour, with the city's fool! A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank! And at a public window! where, whilst he, With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces, To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears, A crew of old, unmarried, noted letchers, Stood leering up like satyrs; and you smile Most graciously, and fan your favours forth, To give your hot spectators satisfaction! What; was your mountebank their call? their whistle? Or were you enamour'd on his copper rings, His saffron jewel, with the toad-stone in't, Or his embroider'd suit, with the cope-stitch, Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather? Or his starch'd beard? Well; you shall have him, yes! He shall come home, and minister unto you The fricace for the mother. Or, let me see, I think you'd rather mount; would you not mount? Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truly, you may: And so you may be seen, down to the foot. Get you a cittern, lady Vanity, And be a dealer with the virtuous man; Make one: I'll but protest myself a cuckold, And save your dowry. I'm a Dutchman, I! For, if you thought me an Italian, You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you whore! Thou'dst tremble, to imagine, that the murder Of father, mother, brother, all thy race, Should follow, as the subject of my justice. CEL: Good sir, have pacience. CORV: What couldst thou propose Less to thyself, than in this heat of wrath And stung with my dishonour, I should strike This steel into thee, with as many stabs, As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes? CEL: Alas, sir, be appeas'd! I could not think My being at the window should more now Move your impatience, than at other times. CORV: No! not to seek and entertain a parley With a known knave, before a multitude! You were an actor with your handkerchief; Which he most sweetly kist in the receipt, And might, no doubt, return it with a letter, And point the place where you might meet: your sister's, Your mother's, or your aunt's might serve the turn. CEL: Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses, Or ever stir abroad, but to the church? And that so seldom-- CORV: Well, it shall be less; And thy restraint before was liberty, To what I now decree: and therefore mark me. First, I will have this bawdy light damm'd up; And till't be done, some two or three yards off, I'll chalk a line: o'er which if thou but chance To set thy desperate foot; more hell, more horror More wild remorseless rage shall seize on thee, Than on a conjurer, that had heedless left His circle's safety ere his devil was laid. Then here's a lock which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards; Thy lodging shall be backwards; thy walks backwards; Thy prospect, all be backwards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backwards: nay, since you force My honest nature, know, it is your own, Being too open, makes me use you thus: Since you will not contain your subtle nostrils In a sweet room, but they must snuff the air Of rank and sweaty passengers. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] --One knocks. Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Nor look toward the window: if thou dost-- Nay, stay, hear this--let me not prosper, whore, But I will make thee an anatomy, Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lecture Upon thee to the city, and in public. Away! [EXIT CELIA.] [ENTER SERVANT.] Who's there? SERV: 'Tis signior Mosca, sir. CORV: Let him come in. [EXIT SERVANT.] His master's dead: There's yet Some good to help the bad.-- [ENTER MOSCA.] My Mosca, welcome! I guess your news. MOS: I fear you cannot, sir. CORV: Is't not his death? MOS: Rather the contrary. CORV: Not his recovery? MOS: Yes, sir, CORV: I am curs'd, I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how? MOS: Why, sir, with Scoto's oil; Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it, Whilst I was busy in an inner room-- CORV: Death! that damn'd mountebank; but for the law Now, I could kill the rascal: it cannot be, His oil should have that virtue. Have not I Known him a common rogue, come fidling in To the osteria, with a tumbling whore, And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been glad Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't? It cannot be. All his ingredients Are a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow, Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars, A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle: I know them to a dram. MOS: I know not, sir, But some on't, there, they pour'd into his ears, Some in his nostrils, and recover'd him; Applying but the fricace. CORV: Pox o' that fricace. MOS: And since, to seem the more officious And flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had, At extreme fees, the college of physicians Consulting on him, how they might restore him; Where one would have a cataplasm of spices, Another a flay'd ape clapp'd to his breast, A third would have it a dog, a fourth an oil, With wild cats' skins: at last, they all resolved That, to preserve him, was no other means, But some young woman must be straight sought out, Lusty, and full of juice, to sleep by him; And to this service, most unhappily, And most unwillingly, am I now employ'd, Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your advice, since it concerns you most; Because, I would not do that thing might cross Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, sir: Yet, if I do it not, they may delate My slackness to my patron, work me out Of his opinion; and there all your hopes, Ventures, or whatsoever, are all frustrate! I do but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all Now striving, who shall first present him; therefore-- I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat; Prevent them if you can. CORV: Death to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire Some common courtezan. MOS: Ay, I thought on that, sir; But they are all so subtle, full of art-- And age again doting and flexible, So as--I cannot tell--we may, perchance, Light on a quean may cheat us all. CORV: 'Tis true. MOS: No, no: it must be one that has no tricks, sir, Some simple thing, a creature made unto it; Some wench you may command. Have you no kinswoman? Odso--Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One o' the doctors offer'd there his daughter. CORV: How! MOS: Yes, signior Lupo, the physician. CORV: His daughter! MOS: And a virgin, sir. Why? alas, He knows the state of's body, what it is; That nought can warm his blood sir, but a fever; Nor any incantation raise his spirit: A long forgetfulness hath seized that part. Besides sir, who shall know it? some one or two-- CORV: I prithee give me leave. [WALKS ASIDE.] If any man But I had had this luck--The thing in't self, I know, is nothing--Wherefore should not I As well command my blood and my affections, As this dull doctor? In the point of honour, The cases are all one of wife and daughter. MOS [ASIDE.]: I hear him coming. CORV: She shall do't: 'tis done. Slight! if this doctor, who is not engaged, Unless 't be for his counsel, which is nothing, Offer his daughter, what should I, that am So deeply in? I will prevent him: Wretch! Covetous wretch!--Mosca, I have determined. MOS: How, sir? CORV: We'll make all sure. The party you wot of Shall be mine own wife, Mosca. MOS: Sir, the thing, But that I would not seem to counsel you, I should have motion'd to you, at the first: And make your count, you have cut all their throats. Why! 'tis directly taking a possession! And in his next fit, we may let him go. 'Tis but to pull the pillow from his head, And he is throttled: it had been done before, But for your scrupulous doubts. CORV: Ay, a plague on't, My conscience fools my wit! Well, I'll be brief, And so be thou, lest they should be before us: Go home, prepare him, tell him with what zeal And willingness I do it; swear it was On the first hearing, as thou mayst do, truly, Mine own free motion. MOS: Sir, I warrant you, I'll so possess him with it, that the rest Of his starv'd clients shall be banish'd all; And only you received. But come not, sir, Until I send, for I have something else To ripen for your good, you must not know't. CORV: But do not you forget to send now. MOS: Fear not. [EXIT.] CORV: Where are you, wife? my Celia? wife? [RE-ENTER CELIA.] --What, blubbering? Come, dry those tears. I think thou thought'st me in earnest; Ha! by this light I talk'd so but to try thee: Methinks the lightness of the occasion Should have confirm'd thee. Come, I am not jealous. CEL: No! CORV: Faith I am not I, nor never was; It is a poor unprofitable humour. Do not I know, if women have a will, They'll do 'gainst all the watches of the world, And that the feircest spies are tamed with gold? Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't; And see I'll give thee cause too, to believe it. Come kiss me. Go, and make thee ready, straight, In all thy best attire, thy choicest jewels, Put them all on, and, with them, thy best looks: We are invited to a solemn feast, At old Volpone's, where it shall appear How far I am free from jealousy or fear. [exeunt.] ACT 3. SCENE 3.1. A STREET. ENTER MOSCA. MOS: I fear, I shall begin to grow in love With my dear self, and my most prosperous parts, They do so spring and burgeon; I can feel A whimsy in my blood: I know not how, Success hath made me wanton. I could skip Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake, I am so limber. O! your parasite Is a most precious thing, dropt from above, Not bred 'mongst clods, and clodpoles, here on earth. I muse, the mystery was not made a science, It is so liberally profest! almost All the wise world is little else, in nature, But parasites, or sub-parasites.--And yet, I mean not those that have your bare town-art, To know who's fit to feed them; have no house, No family, no care, and therefore mould Tales for men's ears, to bait that sense; or get Kitchen-invention, and some stale receipts To please the belly, and the groin; nor those, With their court dog-tricks, that can fawn and fleer, Make their revenue out of legs and faces, Echo my lord, and lick away a moth: But your fine elegant rascal, that can rise, And stoop, almost together, like an arrow; Shoot through the air as nimbly as a star; Turn short as doth a swallow; and be here, And there, and here, and yonder, all at once; Present to any humour, all occasion; And change a visor, swifter than a thought! This is the creature had the art born with him; Toils not to learn it, but doth practise it Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks Are the true parasites, others but their zanis. [ENTER BONARIO.] MOS: Who's this? Bonario, old Corbaccio's son? The person I was bound to seek.--Fair sir, You are happily met. BON: That cannot be by thee. MOS: Why, sir? BON: Nay, pray thee know thy way, and leave me: I would be loth to interchange discourse With such a mate as thou art MOS: Courteous sir, Scorn not my poverty. BON: Not I, by heaven; But thou shalt give me leave to hate thy baseness. MOS: Baseness! BON: Ay; answer me, is not thy sloth Sufficient argument? thy flattery? Thy means of feeding? MOS: Heaven be good to me! These imputations are too common, sir, And easily stuck on virtue when she's poor. You are unequal to me, and however, Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are not That, ere you know me, thus proceed in censure: St. Mark bear witness 'gainst you, 'tis inhuman. [WEEPS.] BON [ASIDE.]: What! does he weep? the sign is soft and good; I do repent me that I was so harsh. MOS: 'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessity, I am enforced to eat my careful bread With too much obsequy; 'tis true, beside, That I am fain to spin mine own poor raiment Out of my mere observance, being not born To a free fortune: but that I have done Base offices, in rending friends asunder, Dividing families, betraying counsels, Whispering false lies, or mining men with praises, Train'd their credulity with perjuries, Corrupted chastity, or am in love With mine own tender ease, but would not rather Prove the most rugged, and laborious course, That might redeem my present estimation, Let me here perish, in all hope of goodness. BON [ASIDE.]: This cannot be a personated passion.-- I was to blame, so to mistake thy nature; Prithee, forgive me: and speak out thy business. MOS: Sir, it concerns you; and though I may seem, At first to make a main offence in manners, And in my gratitude unto my master; Yet, for the pure love, which I bear all right, And hatred of the wrong, I must reveal it. This very hour your father is in purpose To disinherit you-- BON: How! MOS: And thrust you forth, As a mere stranger to his blood; 'tis true, sir: The work no way engageth me, but, as I claim an interest in the general state Of goodness and true virtue, which I hear To abound in you: and, for which mere respect, Without a second aim, sir, I have done it. BON: This tale hath lost thee much of the late trust Thou hadst with me; it is impossible: I know not how to lend it any thought, My father should be so unnatural. MOS: It is a confidence that well becomes Your piety; and form'd, no doubt, it is From your own simple innocence: which makes Your wrong more monstrous, and abhorr'd. But, sir, I now will tell you more. This very minute, It is, or will be doing; and, if you Shall be but pleas'd to go with me, I'll bring you, I dare not say where you shall see, but where Your ear shall be a witness of the deed; Hear yourself written bastard; and profest The common issue of the earth. BON: I am amazed! MOS: Sir, if I do it not, draw your just sword, And score your vengeance on my front and face; Mark me your villain: you have too much wrong, And I do suffer for you, sir. My heart Weeps blood in anguish-- BON: Lead; I follow thee. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 3.2. A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER VOLPONE. VOLP: Mosca stays long, methinks. Bring forth your sports, And help to make the wretched time more sweet. [ENTER NANO, ANDROGYNO, AND CASTRONE.] NAN: Dwarf, fool, and eunuch, well met here we be. A question it were now, whether of us three, Being all the known delicates of a rich man, In pleasing him, claim the precedency can? CAS: I claim for myself. AND: And so doth the fool. NAN: 'Tis foolish indeed: let me set you both to school. First for your dwarf, he's little and witty, And every thing, as it is little, is pretty; Else why do men say to a creature of my shape, So soon as they see him, It's a pretty little ape? And why a pretty ape, but for pleasing imitation Of greater men's actions, in a ridiculous fashion? Beside, this feat body of mine doth not crave Half the meat, drink, and cloth, one of your bulks will have. Admit your fool's face be the mother of laughter, Yet, for his brain, it must always come after: And though that do feed him, 'tis a pitiful case, His body is beholding to such a bad face. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] VOLP: Who's there? my couch; away! look! Nano, see: [EXE. AND. AND CAS.] Give me my caps, first--go, enquire. [EXIT NANO.] --Now, Cupid Send it be Mosca, and with fair return! NAN [WITHIN.]: It is the beauteous madam-- VOLP: Would-be?--is it? NAN: The same. VOLP: Now torment on me! Squire her in; For she will enter, or dwell here for ever: Nay, quickly. [RETIRES TO HIS COUCH.] --That my fit were past! I fear A second hell too, that my lothing this Will quite expel my appetite to the other: Would she were taking now her tedious leave. Lord, how it threats me what I am to suffer! [RE-ENTER NANO, WITH LADY POLITICK WOULD-BE.] LADY P: I thank you, good sir. 'Pray you signify Unto your patron, I am here.--This band Shews not my neck enough.--I trouble you, sir; Let me request you, bid one of my women Come hither to me.--In good faith, I, am drest Most favorably, to-day! It is no matter: 'Tis well enough.-- [ENTER 1 WAITING-WOMAN.] Look, see, these petulant things, How they have done this! VOLP [ASIDE.]: I do feel the fever Entering in at mine ears; O, for a charm, To fright it hence. LADY P: Come nearer: Is this curl In his right place, or this? Why is this higher Then all the rest? You have not wash'd your eyes, yet! Or do they not stand even in your head? Where is your fellow? call her. [EXIT 1 WOMAN.] NAN: Now, St. Mark Deliver us! anon, she will beat her women, Because her nose is red. [RE-ENTER 1 WITH 2 WOMAN.] LADY P: I pray you, view This tire, forsooth; are all things apt, or no? 1 WOM: One hair a little, here, sticks out, forsooth. LADY P: Does't so, forsooth? and where was your dear sight, When it did so, forsooth! What now! bird-eyed? And you too? 'Pray you, both approach and mend it. Now, by that light, I muse you are not ashamed! I, that have preach'd these things so oft unto you, Read you the principles, argued all the grounds, Disputed every fitness, every grace, Call'd you to counsel of so frequent dressings-- NAN [ASIDE.]: More carefully than of your fame or honour. LADY P: Made you acquainted, what an ample dowry The knowledge of these things would be unto you, Able, alone, to get you noble husbands At your return: and you thus to neglect it! Besides you seeing what a curious nation The Italians are, what will they say of me? "The English lady cannot dress herself." Here's a fine imputation to our country: Well, go your ways, and stay, in the next room. This fucus was too course too, it's no matter.-- Good-sir, you will give them entertainment? [EXEUNT NANO AND WAITING-WOMEN.] VOLP: The storm comes toward me. LADY P [GOES TO THE COUCH.]: How does my Volpone? VOLP: Troubled with noise, I cannot sleep; I dreamt That a strange fury enter'd, now, my house, And, with the dreadful tempest of her breath, Did cleave my roof asunder. LADY P: Believe me, and I Had the most fearful dream, could I remember't-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: Out on my fate! I have given her the occasion How to torment me: she will tell me hers. LADY P: Me thought, the golden mediocrity, Polite and delicate-- VOLP: O, if you do love me, No more; I sweat, and suffer, at the mention Of any dream: feel, how I tremble yet. LADY P: Alas, good soul! the passion of the heart. Seed-pearl were good now, boil'd with syrup of apples, Tincture of gold, and coral, citron-pills, Your elicampane root, myrobalanes-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ah me, I have ta'en a grass-hopper by the wing! LADY P: Burnt silk, and amber: you have muscadel Good in the house-- VOLP: You will not drink, and part? LADY P: No, fear not that. I doubt, we shall not get Some English saffron, half a dram would serve; Your sixteen cloves, a little musk, dried mints, Bugloss, and barley-meal-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: She's in again! Before I fain'd diseases, now I have one. LADY P: And these applied with a right scarlet cloth. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Another flood of words! a very torrent! LADY P: Shall I, sir, make you a poultice? VOLP: No, no, no; I am very well: you need prescribe no more. LADY P: I have a little studied physic; but now, I'm all for music, save, in the forenoons, An hour or two for painting. I would have A lady, indeed, to have all, letters, and arts, Be able to discourse, to write, to paint, But principal, as Plato holds, your music, And, so does wise Pythagoras, I take it, Is your true rapture: when there is concent In face, in voice, and clothes: and is, indeed, Our sex's chiefest ornament. VOLP: The poet As old in time as Plato, and as knowing, Says that your highest female grace is silence. LADY P: Which of your poets? Petrarch, or Tasso, or Dante? Guarini? Ariosto? Aretine? Cieco di Hadria? I have read them all. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Is every thing a cause to my distruction? LADY P: I think I have two or three of them about me. VOLP [ASIDE.]: The sun, the sea will sooner both stand still, Then her eternal tongue; nothing can 'scape it. LADY P: Here's pastor Fido-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: Profess obstinate silence, That's now my safest. LADY P: All our English writers, I mean such as are happy in the Italian, Will deign to steal out of this author, mainly: Almost as much, as from Montagnie; He has so modern and facile a vein, Fitting the time, and catching the court-ear! Your Petrarch is more passionate, yet he, In days of sonetting, trusted them with much: Dante is hard, and few can understand him. But, for a desperate wit, there's Aretine; Only, his pictures are a little obscene-- You mark me not. VOLP: Alas, my mind is perturb'd. LADY P: Why, in such cases, we must cure ourselves, Make use of our philosophy-- VOLP: Oh me! LADY P: And as we find our passions do rebel, Encounter them with reason, or divert them, By giving scope unto some other humour Of lesser danger: as, in politic bodies, There's nothing more doth overwhelm the judgment, And cloud the understanding, than too much Settling and fixing, and, as 'twere, subsiding Upon one object. For the incorporating Of these same outward things, into that part, Which we call mental, leaves some certain faeces That stop the organs, and as Plato says, Assassinate our Knowledge. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Now, the spirit Of patience help me! LADY P: Come, in faith, I must Visit you more a days; and make you well: Laugh and be lusty. VOLP [ASIDE.]: My good angel save me! LADY P: There was but one sole man in all the world, With whom I e'er could sympathise; and he Would lie you, often, three, four hours together To hear me speak; and be sometimes so rapt, As he would answer me quite from the purpose, Like you, and you are like him, just. I'll discourse, An't be but only, sir, to bring you asleep, How we did spend our time and loves together, For some six years. VOLP: Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! LADY P: For we were coaetanei, and brought up-- VOLP: Some power, some fate, some fortune rescue me! [ENTER MOSCA.] MOS: God save you, madam! LADY P: Good sir. VOLP: Mosca? welcome, Welcome to my redemption. MOS: Why, sir? VOLP: Oh, Rid me of this my torture, quickly, there; My madam, with the everlasting voice: The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er made Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion! The Cock-pit comes not near it. All my house, But now, steam'd like a bath with her thick breath. A lawyer could not have been heard; nor scarce Another woman, such a hail of words She has let fall. For hell's sake, rid her hence. MOS: Has she presented? VOLP: O, I do not care; I'll take her absence, upon any price, With any loss. MOS: Madam-- LADY P: I have brought your patron A toy, a cap here, of mine own work. MOS: 'Tis well. I had forgot to tell you, I saw your knight, Where you would little think it.-- LADY P: Where? MOS: Marry, Where yet, if you make haste, you may apprehend, Rowing upon the water in a gondole, With the most cunning courtezan of Venice. LADY P: Is't true? MOS: Pursue them, and believe your eyes; Leave me, to make your gift. [EXIT LADY P. HASTILY.] --I knew 'twould take: For, lightly, they, that use themselves most license, Are still most jealous. VOLP: Mosca, hearty thanks, For thy quick fiction, and delivery of me. Now to my hopes, what say'st thou? [RE-ENTER LADY P. WOULD-BE.] LADY P: But do you hear, sir?-- VOLP: Again! I fear a paroxysm. LADY P: Which way Row'd they together? MOS: Toward the Rialto. LADY P: I pray you lend me your dwarf. MOS: I pray you, take him.-- [EXIT LADY P.] Your hopes, sir, are like happy blossoms, fair, And promise timely fruit, if you will stay But the maturing; keep you at your couch, Corbaccio will arrive straight, with the Will; When he is gone, I'll tell you more. [EXIT.] VOLP: My blood, My spirits are return'd; I am alive: And like your wanton gamester, at primero, Whose thought had whisper'd to him, not go less, Methinks I lie, and draw--for an encounter. [THE SCENE CLOSES UPON VOLPONE.] SCENE 3.3 THE PASSAGE LEADING TO VOLPONE'S CHAMBER. ENTER MOSCA AND BONARIO. MOS: Sir, here conceal'd, [SHEWS HIM A CLOSET.] you may here all. But, pray you, Have patience, sir; [KNOCKING WITHIN.] --the same's your father knocks: I am compell'd to leave you. [EXIT.] BON: Do so.--Yet, Cannot my thought imagine this a truth. [GOES INTO THE CLOSET.] SCENE 3.4. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME. ENTER MOSCA AND CORVINO, CELIA FOLLOWING. MOS: Death on me! you are come too soon, what meant you? Did not I say, I would send? CORV: Yes, but I fear'd You might forget it, and then they prevent us. MOS [ASIDE.]: Prevent! did e'er man haste so, for his horns? A courtier would not ply it so, for a place. --Well, now there's no helping it, stay here; I'll presently return. [EXIT.] CORV: Where are you, Celia? You know not wherefore I have brought you hither? CEL: Not well, except you told me. CORV: Now, I will: Hark hither. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 3.5. A CLOSET OPENING INTO A GALLERY. ENTER MOSCA AND BONARIO. MOS: Sir, your father hath sent word, It will be half an hour ere he come; And therefore, if you please to walk the while Into that gallery--at the upper end, There are some books to entertain the time: And I'll take care no man shall come unto you, sir. BON: Yes, I will stay there. [ASIDE.]--I do doubt this fellow. [EXIT.] MOS [LOOKING AFTER HIM.]: There; he is far enough; he can hear nothing: And, for his father, I can keep him off. [EXIT.] SCENE 3.6. VOLPONE'S CHAMBER.--VOLPONE ON HIS COUCH. MOSCA SITTING BY HIM. ENTER CORVINO, FORCING IN CELIA. CORV: Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore, Resolve upon it: I have so decreed. It must be done. Nor would I move't, afore, Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks, That might deny me. CEL: Sir, let me beseech you, Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt My chastity, why, lock me up for ever: Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live, Where I may please your fears, if not your trust. CORV: Believe it, I have no such humour, I. All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad; Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourself Obedient, and a wife. CEL: O heaven! CORV: I say it, Do so. CEL: Was this the train? CORV: I've told you reasons; What the physicians have set down; how much It may concern me; what my engagements are; My means; and the necessity of those means, For my recovery: wherefore, if you be Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture. CEL: Before your honour? CORV: Honour! tut, a breath: There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term Invented to awe fools. What is my gold The worse, for touching, clothes for being look'd on? Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch, That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat With others' fingers; only knows to gape, When you do scald his gums; a voice; a shadow; And, what can this man hurt you? CEL [ASIDE.]: Lord! what spirit Is this hath enter'd him? CORV: And for your fame, That's such a jig; as if I would go tell it, Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it, But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow, Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself, (If you'll proclaim't, you may,) I know no other, Shall come to know it. CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing? Will they be blind or stupid? CORV: How! CEL: Good sir, Be jealous still, emulate them; and think What hate they burn with toward every sin. CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin, I would not urge you. Should I offer this To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints, Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth, And were professed critic in lechery; And I would look upon him, and applaud him, This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary, A pious work, mere charity for physic, And honest polity, to assure mine own. CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change? VOLP: Thou art mine honour, Mosca, and my pride, My joy, my tickling, my delight! Go bring them. MOS [ADVANCING.]: Please you draw near, sir. CORV: Come on, what-- You will not be rebellious? by that light-- MOS: Sir, Signior Corvino, here, is come to see you. VOLP: Oh! MOS: And hearing of the consultation had, So lately, for your health, is come to offer, Or rather, sir, to prostitute-- CORV: Thanks, sweet Mosca. MOS: Freely, unask'd, or unintreated-- CORV: Well. MOS: As the true fervent instance of his love, His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty, Only of price in Venice-- CORV: 'Tis well urged. MOS: To be your comfortress, and to preserve you. VOLP: Alas, I am past, already! Pray you, thank him For his good care and promptness; but for that, 'Tis a vain labour e'en to fight 'gainst heaven; Applying fire to stone-- [COUGHING.] uh, uh, uh, uh! Making a dead leaf grow again. I take His wishes gently, though; and you may tell him, What I have done for him: marry, my state is hopeless. Will him to pray for me; and to use his fortune With reverence, when he comes to't. MOS: Do you hear, sir? Go to him with your wife. CORV: Heart of my father! Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come. Thou seest 'tis nothing, Celia. By this hand, I shall grow violent. Come, do't, I say. CEL: Sir, kill me, rather: I will take down poison, Eat burning coals, do any thing.-- CORV: Be damn'd! Heart, I'll drag thee hence, home, by the hair; Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up Thy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose, Like a raw rotchet!--Do not tempt me; come, Yield, I am loth--Death! I will buy some slave Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive; And at my window hang you forth: devising Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters, Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis, And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast. Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I'll do it! CEL: Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr. CORV: Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserved it: Think who it is intreats you. 'Prithee, sweet;-- Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires, What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him. Or touch him, but, for my sake.--At my suit.-- This once.--No! not! I shall remember this. Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing? MOS: Nay, gentle lady, be advised. CORV: No, no. She has watch'd her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy, 'Tis very scurvy: and you are-- MOS: Nay, good, sir. CORV: An arrant Locust, by heaven, a locust! Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared, Expecting how thou'lt bid them flow-- MOS: Nay, 'Pray you, sir! She will consider. CEL: Would my life would serve To satisfy-- CORV: S'death! if she would but speak to him, And save my reputation, it were somewhat; But spightfully to affect my utter ruin! MOS: Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands. Why i'faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her. If you were absent, she would be more coming; I know it: and dare undertake for her. What woman can before her husband? 'pray you, Let us depart, and leave her here. CORV: Sweet Celia, Thou may'st redeem all, yet; I'll say no more: If not, esteem yourself as lost,--Nay, stay there. [SHUTS THE DOOR, AND EXIT WITH MOSCA.] CEL: O God, and his good angels! whither, whither, Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease, Men dare put off your honours, and their own? Is that, which ever was a cause of life, Now placed beneath the basest circumstance, And modesty an exile made, for money? VOLP: Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds, [LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.] That never tasted the true heaven of love. Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee, Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain, He would have sold his part of Paradise For ready money, had he met a cope-man. Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived? Rather applaud thy beauty's miracle; 'Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone, But sundry times raised me, in several shapes, And, but this morning, like a mountebank; To see thee at thy window: ay, before I would have left my practice, for thy love, In varying figures, I would have contended With the blue Proteus, or the horned flood. Now art thou welcome. CEL: Sir! VOLP: Nay, fly me not. Nor let thy false imagination That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so: Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh, As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight, As when, in that so celebrated scene, At recitation of our comedy, For entertainment of the great Valois, I acted young Antinous; and attracted The eyes and ears of all the ladies present, To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing. [SINGS.] Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns, that set, may rise again: But if once we loose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile, Thus remooved by our wile?-- 'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal: But the sweet thefts to reveal; To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been. CEL: Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike This my offending face! VOLP: Why droops my Celia? Thou hast, in place of a base husband, found A worthy lover: use thy fortune well, With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold, What thou art queen of; not in expectation, As I feed others: but possess'd, and crown'd. See, here, a rope of pearl; and each, more orient Than that the brave Egyptian queen caroused: Dissolve and drink them. See, a carbuncle, May put out both the eyes of our St Mark; A diamond, would have bought Lollia Paulina, When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels, That were the spoils of provinces; take these, And wear, and lose them: yet remains an ear-ring To purchase them again, and this whole state. A gem but worth a private patrimony, Is nothing: we will eat such at a meal. The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales, The brains of peacocks, and of estriches, Shall be our food: and, could we get the phoenix, Though nature lost her kind, she were our dish. CEL: Good sir, these things might move a mind affected With such delights; but I, whose innocence Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th' enjoying, And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it, Cannot be taken with these sensual baits: If you have conscience-- VOLP: 'Tis the beggar's virtue, If thou hast wisdom, hear me, Celia. Thy baths shall be the juice of July-flowers, Spirit of roses, and of violets, The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath Gather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines. Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber; Which we will take, until my roof whirl round With the vertigo: and my dwarf shall dance, My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic. Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's tales, Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove, Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine: So, of the rest, till we have quite run through, And wearied all the fables of the gods. Then will I have thee in more modern forms, Attired like some sprightly dame of France, Brave Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty; Sometimes, unto the Persian sophy's wife; Or the grand signior's mistress; and, for change, To one of our most artful courtezans, Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian; And I will meet thee in as many shapes: Where we may so transfuse our wandering souls, Out at our lips, and score up sums of pleasures, [SINGS.] That the curious shall not know How to tell them as they flow; And the envious, when they find What there number is, be pined. CEL: If you have ears that will be pierc'd--or eyes That can be open'd--a heart that may be touch'd-- Or any part that yet sounds man about you-- If you have touch of holy saints--or heaven-- Do me the grace to let me 'scape--if not, Be bountiful and kill me. You do know, I am a creature, hither ill betray'd, By one, whose shame I would forget it were: If you will deign me neither of these graces, Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your lust, (It is a vice comes nearer manliness,) And punish that unhappy crime of nature, Which you miscall my beauty; flay my face, Or poison it with ointments, for seducing Your blood to this rebellion. Rub these hands, With what may cause an eating leprosy, E'en to my bones and marrow: any thing, That may disfavour me, save in my honour-- And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay down A thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health; Report, and think you virtuous-- VOLP: Think me cold, Frosen and impotent, and so report me? That I had Nestor's hernia, thou wouldst think. I do degenerate, and abuse my nation, To play with opportunity thus long; I should have done the act, and then have parley'd. Yield, or I'll force thee. [SEIZES HER.] CEL: O! just God! VOLP: In vain-- BON [RUSHING IN]: Forbear, foul ravisher, libidinous swine! Free the forced lady, or thou diest, impostor. But that I'm loth to snatch thy punishment Out of the hand of justice, thou shouldst, yet, Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance, Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.-- Lady, let's quit the place, it is the den Of villany; fear nought, you have a guard: And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward. [EXEUNT BON. AND CEL.] VOLP: Fall on me, roof, and bury me in ruin! Become my grave, that wert my shelter! O! I am unmask'd, unspirited, undone, Betray'd to beggary, to infamy-- [ENTER MOSCA, WOUNDED AND BLEEDING.] MOS: Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men, To beat out my unlucky brains? VOLP: Here, here. What! dost thou bleed? MOS: O that his well-driv'n sword Had been so courteous to have cleft me down Unto the navel; ere I lived to see My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all Thus desperately engaged, by my error! VOLP: Woe on thy fortune! MOS: And my follies, sir. VOLP: Thou hast made me miserable. MOS: And myself, sir. Who would have thought he would have harken'd, so? VOLP: What shall we do? MOS: I know not; if my heart Could expiate the mischance, I'd pluck it out. Will you be pleased to hang me? or cut my throat? And I'll requite you, sir. Let us die like Romans, Since we have lived like Grecians. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] VOLP: Hark! who's there? I hear some footing; officers, the saffi, Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand Hissing already at my forehead; now, Mine ears are boring. MOS: To your couch, sir, you, Make that place good, however. [VOLPONE LIES DOWN, AS BEFORE.] --Guilty men Suspect what they deserve still. [ENTER CORBACCIO.] Signior Corbaccio! CORB: Why, how now, Mosca? MOS: O, undone, amazed, sir. Your son, I know not by what accident, Acquainted with your purpose to my patron, Touching your Will, and making him your heir, Enter'd our house with violence, his sword drawn Sought for you, call'd you wretch, unnatural, Vow'd he would kill you. CORB: Me! MOS: Yes, and my patron. CORB: This act shall disinherit him indeed; Here is the Will. MOS: 'Tis well, sir. CORB: Right and well: Be you as careful now for me. [ENTER VOLTORE, BEHIND.] MOS: My life, sir, Is not more tender'd; I am only yours. CORB: How does he? will he die shortly, think'st thou? MOS: I fear He'll outlast May. CORB: To-day? MOS: No, last out May, sir. CORB: Could'st thou not give him a dram? MOS: O, by no means, sir. CORB: Nay, I'll not bid you. VOLT [COMING FORWARD.]: This is a knave, I see. MOS [SEEING VOLTORE.]: How! signior Voltore! [ASIDE.] did he hear me? VOLT: Parasite! MOS: Who's that?--O, sir, most timely welcome-- VOLT: Scarce, To the discovery of your tricks, I fear. You are his, ONLY? and mine, also? are you not? MOS: Who? I, sir? VOLT: You, sir. What device is this About a Will? MOS: A plot for you, sir. VOLT: Come, Put not your foists upon me; I shall scent them. MOS: Did you not hear it? VOLT: Yes, I hear Corbaccio Hath made your patron there his heir. MOS: 'Tis true, By my device, drawn to it by my plot, With hope-- VOLT: Your patron should reciprocate? And you have promised? MOS: For your good, I did, sir. Nay, more, I told his son, brought, hid him here, Where he might hear his father pass the deed: Being persuaded to it by this thought, sir, That the unnaturalness, first, of the act, And then his father's oft disclaiming in him, (Which I did mean t'help on,) would sure enrage him To do some violence upon his parent, On which the law should take sufficient hold, And you be stated in a double hope: Truth be my comfort, and my conscience, My only aim was to dig you a fortune Out of these two old rotten sepulchres-- VOLT: I cry thee mercy, Mosca. MOS: Worth your patience, And your great merit, sir. And see the change! VOLT: Why, what success? MOS: Most happless! you must help, sir. Whilst we expected the old raven, in comes Corvino's wife, sent hither by her husband-- VOLT: What, with a present? MOS: No, sir, on visitation; (I'll tell you how anon;) and staying long, The youth he grows impatient, rushes forth, Seizeth the lady, wounds me, makes her swear (Or he would murder her, that was his vow) To affirm my patron to have done her rape: Which how unlike it is, you see! and hence, With that pretext he's gone, to accuse his father, Defame my patron, defeat you-- VOLT: Where is her husband? Let him be sent for straight. MOS: Sir, I'll go fetch him. VOLT: Bring him to the Scrutineo. MOS: Sir, I will. VOLT: This must be stopt. MOS: O you do nobly, sir. Alas, 'twas labor'd all, sir, for your good; Nor was there want of counsel in the plot: But fortune can, at any time, o'erthrow The projects of a hundred learned clerks, sir. CORB [LISTENING]: What's that? VOLT: Will't please you, sir, to go along? [EXIT CORBACCIO, FOLLOWED BY VOLTORE.] MOS: Patron, go in, and pray for our success. VOLP [RISING FROM HIS COUCH.]: Need makes devotion: heaven your labour bless! [EXEUNT.] ACT 4. SCENE 4.1. A STREET. [ENTER SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE AND PEREGRINE.] SIR P: I told you, sir, it was a plot: you see What observation is! You mention'd me, For some instructions: I will tell you, sir, (Since we are met here in this height of Venice,) Some few perticulars I have set down, Only for this meridian, fit to be known Of your crude traveller, and they are these. I will not touch, sir, at your phrase, or clothes, For they are old. PER: Sir, I have better. SIR P: Pardon, I meant, as they are themes. PER: O, sir, proceed: I'll slander you no more of wit, good sir. SIR P: First, for your garb, it must be grave and serious, Very reserv'd, and lock'd; not tell a secret On any terms, not to your father; scarce A fable, but with caution; make sure choice Both of your company, and discourse; beware You never speak a truth-- PER: How! SIR P: Not to strangers, For those be they you must converse with, most; Others I would not know, sir, but at distance, So as I still might be a saver in them: You shall have tricks else past upon you hourly. And then, for your religion, profess none, But wonder at the diversity, of all: And, for your part, protest, were there no other But simply the laws o' the land, you could content you, Nic. Machiavel, and Monsieur Bodin, both Were of this mind. Then must you learn the use And handling of your silver fork at meals; The metal of your glass; (these are main matters With your Italian;) and to know the hour When you must eat your melons, and your figs. PER: Is that a point of state too? SIR P: Here it is, For your Venetian, if he see a man Preposterous in the least, he has him straight; He has; he strips him. I'll acquaint you, sir, I now have lived here, 'tis some fourteen months Within the first week of my landing here, All took me for a citizen of Venice: I knew the forms, so well-- PER [ASIDE.]: And nothing else. SIR P: I had read Contarene, took me a house, Dealt with my Jews to furnish it with moveables-- Well, if I could but find one man, one man To mine own heart, whom I durst trust, I would-- PER: What, what, sir? SIR P: Make him rich; make him a fortune: He should not think again. I would command it. PER: As how? SIR P: With certain projects that I have; Which I may not discover. PER [ASIDE.]: If I had But one to wager with, I would lay odds now, He tells me instantly. SIR P: One is, and that I care not greatly who knows, to serve the state Of Venice with red herrings for three years, And at a certain rate, from Rotterdam, Where I have correspendence. There's a letter, Sent me from one of the states, and to that purpose: He cannot write his name, but that's his mark. PER: He's a chandler? SIR P: No, a cheesemonger. There are some others too with whom I treat About the same negociation; And I will undertake it: for, 'tis thus. I'll do't with ease, I have cast it all: Your hoy Carries but three men in her, and a boy; And she shall make me three returns a year: So, if there come but one of three, I save, If two, I can defalk:--but this is now, If my main project fail. PER: Then you have others? SIR P: I should be loth to draw the subtle air Of such a place, without my thousand aims. I'll not dissemble, sir: where'er I come, I love to be considerative; and 'tis true, I have at my free hours thought upon Some certain goods unto the state of Venice, Which I do call "my Cautions;" and, sir, which I mean, in hope of pension, to propound To the Great Council, then unto the Forty, So to the Ten. My means are made already-- PER: By whom? SIR P: Sir, one that, though his place be obscure, Yet he can sway, and they will hear him. He's A commandador. PER: What! a common serjeant? SIR P: Sir, such as they are, put it in their mouths, What they should say, sometimes; as well as greater: I think I have my notes to shew you-- [SEARCHING HIS POCKETS.] PER: Good sir. SIR P: But you shall swear unto me, on your gentry, Not to anticipate-- PER: I, sir! SIR P: Nor reveal A circumstance--My paper is not with me. PER: O, but you can remember, sir. SIR P: My first is Concerning tinder-boxes. You must know, No family is here, without its box. Now, sir, it being so portable a thing, Put case, that you or I were ill affected Unto the state, sir; with it in our pockets, Might not I go into the Arsenal, Or you, come out again, and none the wiser? PER: Except yourself, sir. SIR P: Go to, then. I therefore Advertise to the state, how fit it were, That none but such as were known patriots, Sound lovers of their country, should be suffer'd To enjoy them in their houses; and even those Seal'd at some office, and at such a bigness As might not lurk in pockets. PER: Admirable! SIR P: My next is, how to enquire, and be resolv'd, By present demonstration, whether a ship, Newly arrived from Soria, or from Any suspected part of all the Levant, Be guilty of the plague: and where they use To lie out forty, fifty days, sometimes, About the Lazaretto, for their trial; I'll save that charge and loss unto the merchant, And in an hour clear the doubt. PER: Indeed, sir! SIR P: Or--I will lose my labour. PER: 'My faith, that's much. SIR P: Nay, sir, conceive me. It will cost me in onions, Some thirty livres-- PER: Which is one pound sterling. SIR P: Beside my water-works: for this I do, sir. First, I bring in your ship 'twixt two brick walls; But those the state shall venture: On the one I strain me a fair tarpauling, and in that I stick my onions, cut in halves: the other Is full of loop-holes, out at which I thrust The noses of my bellows; and those bellows I keep, with water-works, in perpetual motion, Which is the easiest matter of a hundred. Now, sir, your onion, which doth naturally Attract the infection, and your bellows blowing The air upon him, will show, instantly, By his changed colour, if there be contagion; Or else remain as fair as at the first. --Now it is known, 'tis nothing. PER: You are right, sir. SIR P: I would I had my note. PER: 'Faith, so would I: But you have done well for once, sir. SIR P: Were I false, Or would be made so, I could shew you reasons How I could sell this state now, to the Turk; Spite of their galleys, or their-- [EXAMINING HIS PAPERS.] PER: Pray you, sir Pol. SIR P: I have them not about me. PER: That I fear'd. They are there, sir. SIR P: No. This is my diary, Wherein I note my actions of the day. PER: Pray you let's see, sir. What is here? [READS.] "Notandum, A rat had gnawn my spur-leathers; notwithstanding, I put on new, and did go forth: but first I threw three beans over the threshold. Item, I went and bought two tooth-picks, whereof one I burst immediatly, in a discourse With a Dutch merchant, 'bout ragion del stato. From him I went and paid a moccinigo, For piecing my silk stockings; by the way I cheapen'd sprats; and at St. Mark's I urined." 'Faith, these are politic notes! SIR P: Sir, I do slip No action of my life, but thus I quote it. PER: Believe me, it is wise! SIR P: Nay, sir, read forth. [ENTER, AT A DISTANCE, LADY POLITICK-WOULD BE, NANO, AND TWO WAITING-WOMEN.] LADY P: Where should this loose knight be, trow? sure he's housed. NAN: Why, then he's fast. LADY P: Ay, he plays both with me. I pray you, stay. This heat will do more harm To my complexion, than his heart is worth; (I do not care to hinder, but to take him.) [RUBBING HER CHEEKS.] How it comes off! 1 WOM: My master's yonder. LADY P: Where? 1 WOM: With a young gentleman. LADY P: That same's the party; In man's apparel! 'Pray you, sir, jog my knight: I'll be tender to his reputation, However he demerit. SIR P [SEEING HER]: My lady! PER: Where? SIR P: 'Tis she indeed, sir; you shall know her. She is, Were she not mine, a lady of that merit, For fashion and behaviour; and, for beauty I durst compare-- PER: It seems you are not jealous, That dare commend her. SIR P: Nay, and for discourse-- PER: Being your wife, she cannot miss that. SIR P [INTRODUCING PER.]: Madam, Here is a gentleman, pray you, use him fairly; He seems a youth, but he is-- LADY P: None. SIR P: Yes, one Has put his face as soon into the world-- LADY P: You mean, as early? but to-day? SIR P: How's this? LADY P: Why, in this habit, sir; you apprehend me:-- Well, master Would-be, this doth not become you; I had thought the odour, sir, of your good name, Had been more precious to you; that you would not Have done this dire massacre on your honour; One of your gravity and rank besides! But knights, I see, care little for the oath They make to ladies; chiefly, their own ladies. SIR P: Now by my spurs, the symbol of my knighthood,-- PER [ASIDE.]: Lord, how his brain is humbled for an oath! SIR P: I reach you not. LADY P: Right, sir, your policy May bear it through, thus. [TO PER.] sir, a word with you. I would be loth to contest publicly With any gentlewoman, or to seem Froward, or violent, as the courtier says; It comes too near rusticity in a lady, Which I would shun by all means: and however I may deserve from master Would-be, yet T'have one fair gentlewoman thus be made The unkind instrument to wrong another, And one she knows not, ay, and to persever; In my poor judgment, is not warranted From being a solecism in our sex, If not in manners. PER: How is this! SIR P: Sweet madam, Come nearer to your aim. LADY P: Marry, and will, sir. Since you provoke me with your impudence, And laughter of your light land-syren here, Your Sporus, your hermaphrodite-- PER: What's here? Poetic fury, and historic storms? SIR P: The gentleman, believe it, is of worth, And of our nation. LADY P: Ay, your White-friars nation. Come, I blush for you, master Would-be, I; And am asham'd you should have no more forehead, Than thus to be the patron, or St. George, To a lewd harlot, a base fricatrice, A female devil, in a male outside. SIR P: Nay, And you be such a one, I must bid adieu To your delights. The case appears too liquid. [EXIT.] LADY P: Ay, you may carry't clear, with your state-face!-- But for your carnival concupiscence, Who here is fled for liberty of conscience, From furious persecution of the marshal, Her will I dis'ple. PER: This is fine, i'faith! And do you use this often? Is this part Of your wit's exercise, 'gainst you have occasion? Madam-- LADY P: Go to, sir. PER: Do you hear me, lady? Why, if your knight have set you to beg shirts, Or to invite me home, you might have done it A nearer way, by far: LADY P: This cannot work you Out of my snare. PER: Why, am I in it, then? Indeed your husband told me you were fair, And so you are; only your nose inclines, That side that's next the sun, to the queen-apple. LADY P: This cannot be endur'd by any patience. [ENTER MOSCA.] MOS: What is the matter, madam? LADY P: If the Senate Right not my quest in this; I'll protest them To all the world, no aristocracy. MOS: What is the injury, lady? LADY P: Why, the callet You told me of, here I have ta'en disguised. MOS: Who? this! what means your ladyship? the creature I mention'd to you is apprehended now, Before the senate; you shall see her-- LADY P: Where? MOS: I'll bring you to her. This young gentleman, I saw him land this morning at the port. LADY P: Is't possible! how has my judgment wander'd? Sir, I must, blushing, say to you, I have err'd; And plead your pardon. PER: What, more changes yet! LADY P: I hope you have not the malice to remember A gentlewoman's passion. If you stay In Venice here, please you to use me, sir-- MOS: Will you go, madam? LADY P: 'Pray you, sir, use me. In faith, The more you see me, the more I shall conceive You have forgot our quarrel. [EXEUNT LADY WOULD-BE, MOSCA, NANO, AND WAITING-WOMEN.] PER: This is rare! Sir Politick Would-be? no; sir Politick Bawd. To bring me thus acquainted with his wife! Well, wise sir Pol, since you have practised thus Upon my freshman-ship, I'll try your salt-head, What proof it is against a counter-plot. [EXIT.] SCENE 4.2. THE SCRUTINEO, OR SENATE-HOUSE. ENTER VOLTORE, CORBACCIO, CORVINO, AND MOSCA. VOLT: Well, now you know the carriage of the business, Your constancy is all that is required Unto the safety of it. MOS: Is the lie Safely convey'd amongst us? is that sure? Knows every man his burden? CORV: Yes. MOS: Then shrink not. CORV: But knows the advocate the truth? MOS: O, sir, By no means; I devised a formal tale, That salv'd your reputation. But be valiant, sir. CORV: I fear no one but him, that this his pleading Should make him stand for a co-heir-- MOS: Co-halter! Hang him; we will but use his tongue, his noise, As we do croakers here. CORV: Ay, what shall he do? MOS: When we have done, you mean? CORV: Yes. MOS: Why, we'll think: Sell him for mummia; he's half dust already. [TO VOLTORE.] Do not you smile, to see this buffalo, How he does sport it with his head? [ASIDE.] --I should, If all were well and past. [TO CORBACCIO.] --Sir, only you Are he that shall enjoy the crop of all, And these not know for whom they toil. CORB: Ay, peace. MOS [TURNING TO CORVINO.]: But you shall eat it. Much! [ASIDE.] [TO VOLTORE.] --Worshipful sir, Mercury sit upon your thundering tongue, Or the French Hercules, and make your language As conquering as his club, to beat along, As with a tempest, flat, our adversaries; But much more yours, sir. VOLT: Here they come, have done. MOS: I have another witness, if you need, sir, I can produce. VOLT: Who is it? MOS: Sir, I have her. [ENTER AVOCATORI AND TAKE THEIR SEATS, BONARIO, CELIA, NOTARIO, COMMANDADORI, SAFFI, AND OTHER OFFICERS OF JUSTICE.] 1 AVOC: The like of this the senate never heard of. 2 AVOC: 'Twill come most strange to them when we report it. 4 AVOC: The gentlewoman has been ever held Of unreproved name. 3 AVOC: So has the youth. 4 AVOC: The more unnatural part that of his father. 2 AVOC: More of the husband. 1 AVOC: I not know to give His act a name, it is so monstrous! 4 AVOC: But the impostor, he's a thing created To exceed example! 1 AVOC: And all after-times! 2 AVOC: I never heard a true voluptuary Discribed, but him. 3 AVOC: Appear yet those were cited? NOT: All, but the old magnifico, Volpone. 1 AVOC: Why is not he here? MOS: Please your fatherhoods, Here is his advocate: himself's so weak, So feeble-- 4 AVOC: What are you? BON: His parasite, His knave, his pandar--I beseech the court, He may be forced to come, that your grave eyes May bear strong witness of his strange impostures. VOLT: Upon my faith and credit with your virtues, He is not able to endure the air. 2 AVOC: Bring him, however. 3 AVOC: We will see him. 4 AVOC: Fetch him. VOLT: Your fatherhoods fit pleasures be obey'd; [EXEUNT OFFICERS.] But sure, the sight will rather move your pities, Than indignation. May it please the court, In the mean time, he may be heard in me; I know this place most void of prejudice, And therefore crave it, since we have no reason To fear our truth should hurt our cause. 3 AVOC: Speak free. VOLT: Then know, most honour'd fathers, I must now Discover to your strangely abused ears, The most prodigious and most frontless piece Of solid impudence, and treachery, That ever vicious nature yet brought forth To shame the state of Venice. This lewd woman, That wants no artificial looks or tears To help the vizor she has now put on, Hath long been known a close adulteress, To that lascivious youth there; not suspected, I say, but known, and taken in the act With him; and by this man, the easy husband, Pardon'd: whose timeless bounty makes him now Stand here, the most unhappy, innocent person, That ever man's own goodness made accused. For these not knowing how to owe a gift Of that dear grace, but with their shame; being placed So above all powers of their gratitude, Began to hate the benefit; and, in place Of thanks, devise to extirpe the memory Of such an act: wherein I pray your fatherhoods To observe the malice, yea, the rage of creatures Discover'd in their evils; and what heart Such take, even from their crimes:--but that anon Will more appear.--This gentleman, the father, Hearing of this foul fact, with many others, Which daily struck at his too tender ears, And grieved in nothing more than that he could not Preserve himself a parent, (his son's ills Growing to that strange flood,) at last decreed To disinherit him. 1 AVOC: These be strange turns! 2 AVOC: The young man's fame was ever fair and honest. VOLT: So much more full of danger is his vice, That can beguile so under shade of virtue. But, as I said, my honour'd sires, his father Having this settled purpose, by what means To him betray'd, we know not, and this day Appointed for the deed; that parricide, I cannot style him better, by confederacy Preparing this his paramour to be there, Enter'd Volpone's house, (who was the man, Your fatherhoods must understand, design'd For the inheritance,) there sought his father:-- But with what purpose sought he him, my lords? I tremble to pronounce it, that a son Unto a father, and to such a father, Should have so foul, felonious intent! It was to murder him: when being prevented By his more happy absence, what then did he? Not check his wicked thoughts; no, now new deeds, (Mischief doth ever end where it begins) An act of horror, fathers! he dragg'd forth The aged gentleman that had there lain bed-rid Three years and more, out of his innocent couch, Naked upon the floor, there left him; wounded His servant in the face: and, with this strumpet The stale to his forged practice, who was glad To be so active,--(I shall here desire Your fatherhoods to note but my collections, As most remarkable,--) thought at once to stop His father's ends; discredit his free choice In the old gentleman, redeem themselves, By laying infamy upon this man, To whom, with blushing, they should owe their lives. 1 AVOC: What proofs have you of this? BON: Most honoured fathers, I humbly crave there be no credit given To this man's mercenary tongue. 2 AVOC: Forbear. BON: His soul moves in his fee. 3 AVOC: O, sir. BON: This fellow, For six sols more, would plead against his Maker. 1 AVOC: You do forget yourself. VOLT: Nay, nay, grave fathers, Let him have scope: can any man imagine That he will spare his accuser, that would not Have spared his parent? 1 AVOC: Well, produce your proofs. CEL: I would I could forget I were a creature. VOLT: Signior Corbaccio. [CORBACCIO COMES FORWARD.] 1 AVOC: What is he? VOLT: The father. 2 AVOC: Has he had an oath? NOT: Yes. CORB: What must I do now? NOT: Your testimony's craved. CORB: Speak to the knave? I'll have my mouth first stopt with earth; my heart Abhors his knowledge: I disclaim in him. 1 AVOC: But for what cause? CORB: The mere portent of nature! He is an utter stranger to my loins. BON: Have they made you to this? CORB: I will not hear thee, Monster of men, swine, goat, wolf, parricide! Speak not, thou viper. BON: Sir, I will sit down, And rather wish my innocence should suffer, Then I resist the authority of a father. VOLT: Signior Corvino! [CORVINO COMES FORWARD.] 2 AVOC: This is strange. 1 AVOC: Who's this? NOT: The husband. 4 AVOC: Is he sworn? NOT: He is. 3 AVOC: Speak, then. CORV: This woman, please your fatherhoods, is a whore, Of most hot exercise, more than a partrich, Upon record-- 1 AVOC: No more. CORV: Neighs like a jennet. NOT: Preserve the honour of the court. CORV: I shall, And modesty of your most reverend ears. And yet I hope that I may say, these eyes Have seen her glued unto that piece of cedar, That fine well-timber'd gallant; and that here The letters may be read, through the horn, That make the story perfect. MOS: Excellent! sir. CORV [ASIDE TO MOSCA.]: There's no shame in this now, is there? MOS: None. CORV: Or if I said, I hoped that she were onward To her damnation, if there be a hell Greater than whore and woman; a good catholic May make the doubt. 3 AVOC: His grief hath made him frantic. 1 AVOC: Remove him hence. 2 AVOC: Look to the woman. [CELIA SWOONS.] CORV: Rare! Prettily feign'd, again! 4 AVOC: Stand from about her. 1 AVOC: Give her the air. 3 AVOC [TO MOSCA.]: What can you say? MOS: My wound, May it please your wisdoms, speaks for me, received In aid of my good patron, when he mist His sought-for father, when that well-taught dame Had her cue given her, to cry out, A rape! BON: O most laid impudence! Fathers-- 3 AVOC: Sir, be silent; You had your hearing free, so must they theirs. 2 AVOC: I do begin to doubt the imposture here. 4 AVOC: This woman has too many moods. VOLT: Grave fathers, She is a creature of a most profest And prostituted lewdness. CORV: Most impetuous, Unsatisfied, grave fathers! VOLT: May her feignings Not take your wisdoms: but this day she baited A stranger, a grave knight, with her loose eyes, And more lascivious kisses. This man saw them Together on the water in a gondola. MOS: Here is the lady herself, that saw them too; Without; who then had in the open streets Pursued them, but for saving her knight's honour. 1 AVOC: Produce that lady. 2 AVOC: Let her come. [EXIT MOSCA.] 4 AVOC: These things, They strike with wonder! 3 AVOC: I am turn'd a stone. [RE-ENTER MOSCA WITH LADY WOULD-BE.] MOS: Be resolute, madam. LADY P: Ay, this same is she. [POINTING TO CELIA.] Out, thou chameleon harlot! now thine eyes Vie tears with the hyaena. Dar'st thou look Upon my wronged face?--I cry your pardons, I fear I have forgettingly transgrest Against the dignity of the court-- 2 AVOC: No, madam. LADY P: And been exorbitant-- 2 AVOC: You have not, lady. 4 AVOC: These proofs are strong. LADY P: Surely, I had no purpose To scandalise your honours, or my sex's. 3 AVOC: We do believe it. LADY P: Surely, you may believe it. 2 AVOC: Madam, we do. LADY P: Indeed, you may; my breeding Is not so coarse-- 1 AVOC: We know it. LADY P: To offend With pertinacy-- 3 AVOC: Lady-- LADY P: Such a presence! No surely. 1 AVOC: We well think it. LADY P: You may think it. 1 AVOC: Let her o'ercome. What witnesses have you To make good your report? BON: Our consciences. CEL: And heaven, that never fails the innocent. 4 AVOC: These are no testimonies. BON: Not in your courts, Where multitude, and clamour overcomes. 1 AVOC: Nay, then you do wax insolent. [RE-ENTER OFFICERS, BEARING VOLPONE ON A COUCH.] VOLT: Here, here, The testimony comes, that will convince, And put to utter dumbness their bold tongues: See here, grave fathers, here's the ravisher, The rider on men's wives, the great impostor, The grand voluptuary! Do you not think These limbs should affect venery? or these eyes Covet a concubine? pray you mark these hands; Are they not fit to stroke a lady's breasts?-- Perhaps he doth dissemble! BON: So he does. VOLT: Would you have him tortured? BON: I would have him proved. VOLT: Best try him then with goads, or burning irons; Put him to the strappado: I have heard The rack hath cured the gout; 'faith, give it him, And help him of a malady; be courteous. I'll undertake, before these honour'd fathers, He shall have yet as many left diseases, As she has known adulterers, or thou strumpets.-- O, my most equal hearers, if these deeds, Acts of this bold and most exorbitant strain, May pass with sufferance; what one citizen But owes the forfeit of his life, yea, fame, To him that dares traduce him? which of you Are safe, my honour'd fathers? I would ask, With leave of your grave fatherhoods, if their plot Have any face or colour like to truth? Or if, unto the dullest nostril here, It smell not rank, and most abhorred slander? I crave your care of this good gentleman, Whose life is much endanger'd by their fable; And as for them, I will conclude with this, That vicious persons, when they're hot and flesh'd In impious acts, their constancy abounds: Damn'd deeds are done with greatest confidence. 1 AVOC: Take them to custody, and sever them. 2 AVOC: 'Tis pity two such prodigies should live. 1 AVOC: Let the old gentleman be return'd with care; [EXEUNT OFFICERS WITH VOLPONE.] I'm sorry our credulity hath wrong'd him. 4 AVOC: These are two creatures! 3 AVOC: I've an earthquake in me. 2 AVOC: Their shame, even in their cradles, fled their faces. 4 AVOC [TO VOLT.]: You have done a worthy service to the state, sir, In their discovery. 1 AVOC: You shall hear, ere night, What punishment the court decrees upon them. [EXEUNT AVOCAT., NOT., AND OFFICERS WITH BONARIO AND CELIA.] VOLT: We thank your fatherhoods.--How like you it? MOS: Rare. I'd have your tongue, sir, tipt with gold for this; I'd have you be the heir to the whole city; The earth I'd have want men, ere you want living: They're bound to erect your statue in St. Mark's. Signior Corvino, I would have you go And shew yourself, that you have conquer'd. CORV: Yes. MOS: It was much better that you should profess Yourself a cuckold thus, than that the other Should have been prov'd. CORV: Nay, I consider'd that: Now it is her fault: MOS: Then it had been yours. CORV: True; I do doubt this advocate still. MOS: I'faith, You need not, I dare ease you of that care. CORV: I trust thee, Mosca. [EXIT.] MOS: As your own soul, sir. CORB: Mosca! MOS: Now for your business, sir. CORB: How! have you business? MOS: Yes, your's, sir. CORB: O, none else? MOS: None else, not I. CORB: Be careful, then. MOS: Rest you with both your eyes, sir. CORB: Dispatch it. MOS: Instantly. CORB: And look that all, Whatever, be put in, jewels, plate, moneys, Household stuff, bedding, curtains. MOS: Curtain-rings, sir. Only the advocate's fee must be deducted. CORB: I'll pay him now; you'll be too prodigal. MOS: Sir, I must tender it. CORB: Two chequines is well? MOS: No, six, sir. CORB: 'Tis too much. MOS: He talk'd a great while; You must consider that, sir. CORB: Well, there's three-- MOS: I'll give it him. CORB: Do so, and there's for thee. [EXIT.] MOS [ASIDE.]: Bountiful bones! What horrid strange offence Did he commit 'gainst nature, in his youth, Worthy this age? [TO VOLT.]--You see, sir, how I work Unto your ends; take you no notice. VOLT: No, I'll leave you. [EXIT.] MOS: All is yours, the devil and all: Good advocate!--Madam, I'll bring you home. LADY P: No, I'll go see your patron. MOS: That you shall not: I'll tell you why. My purpose is to urge My patron to reform his Will; and for The zeal you have shewn to-day, whereas before You were but third or fourth, you shall be now Put in the first; which would appear as begg'd, If you were present. Therefore-- LADY P: You shall sway me. [EXEUNT.] ACT 5. SCENE 5.1 A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER VOLPONE. VOLP: Well, I am here, and all this brunt is past. I ne'er was in dislike with my disguise Till this fled moment; here 'twas good, in private; But in your public,--cave whilst I breathe. 'Fore God, my left leg began to have the cramp, And I apprehended straight some power had struck me With a dead palsy: Well! I must be merry, And shake it off. A many of these fears Would put me into some villanous disease, Should they come thick upon me: I'll prevent 'em. Give me a bowl of lusty wine, to fright This humour from my heart. [DRINKS.] Hum, hum, hum! 'Tis almost gone already; I shall conquer. Any device, now, of rare ingenious knavery, That would possess me with a violent laughter, Would make me up again. [DRINKS AGAIN.] So, so, so, so! This heat is life; 'tis blood by this time:--Mosca! [ENTER MOSCA.] MOS: How now, sir? does the day look clear again? Are we recover'd, and wrought out of error, Into our way, to see our path before us? Is our trade free once more? VOLP: Exquisite Mosca! MOS: Was it not carried learnedly? VOLP: And stoutly: Good wits are greatest in extremities. MOS: It were a folly beyond thought, to trust Any grand act unto a cowardly spirit: You are not taken with it enough, methinks? VOLP: O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench: The pleasure of all woman-kind's not like it. MOS: Why now you speak, sir. We must here be fix'd; Here we must rest; this is our master-piece; We cannot think to go beyond this. VOLP: True. Thou hast play'd thy prize, my precious Mosca. MOS: Nay, sir, To gull the court-- VOLP: And quite divert the torrent Upon the innocent. MOS: Yes, and to make So rare a music out of discords-- VOLP: Right. That yet to me's the strangest, how thou hast borne it! That these, being so divided 'mongst themselves, Should not scent somewhat, or in me or thee, Or doubt their own side. MOS: True, they will not see't. Too much light blinds them, I think. Each of them Is so possest and stuft with his own hopes, That any thing unto the contrary, Never so true, or never so apparent, Never so palpable, they will resist it-- VOLP: Like a temptation of the devil. MOS: Right, sir. Merchants may talk of trade, and your great signiors Of land that yields well; but if Italy Have any glebe more fruitful than these fellows, I am deceiv'd. Did not your advocate rare? VOLP: O--"My most honour'd fathers, my grave fathers, Under correction of your fatherhoods, What face of truth is here? If these strange deeds May pass, most honour'd fathers"--I had much ado To forbear laughing. MOS: It seem'd to me, you sweat, sir. VOLP: In troth, I did a little. MOS: But confess, sir, Were you not daunted? VOLP: In good faith, I was A little in a mist, but not dejected; Never, but still my self. MOS: I think it, sir. Now, so truth help me, I must needs say this, sir, And out of conscience for your advocate: He has taken pains, in faith, sir, and deserv'd, In my poor judgment, I speak it under favour, Not to contrary you, sir, very richly-- Well--to be cozen'd. VOLP: Troth, and I think so too, By that I heard him, in the latter end. MOS: O, but before, sir: had you heard him first Draw it to certain heads, then aggravate, Then use his vehement figures--I look'd still When he would shift a shirt: and, doing this Out of pure love, no hope of gain-- VOLP: 'Tis right. I cannot answer him, Mosca, as I would, Not yet; but for thy sake, at thy entreaty, I will begin, even now--to vex them all, This very instant. MOS: Good sir. VOLP: Call the dwarf And eunuch forth. MOS: Castrone, Nano! [ENTER CASTRONE AND NANO.] NANO: Here. VOLP: Shall we have a jig now? MOS: What you please, sir. VOLP: Go, Straight give out about the streets, you two, That I am dead; do it with constancy, Sadly, do you hear? impute it to the grief Of this late slander. [EXEUNT CAST. AND NANO.] MOS: What do you mean, sir? VOLP: O, I shall have instantly my Vulture, Crow, Raven, come flying hither, on the news, To peck for carrion, my she-wolfe, and all, Greedy, and full of expectation-- MOS: And then to have it ravish'd from their mouths! VOLP: 'Tis true. I will have thee put on a gown, And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heir: Shew them a will; Open that chest, and reach Forth one of those that has the blanks; I'll straight Put in thy name. MOS [GIVES HIM A PAPER.]: It will be rare, sir. VOLP: Ay, When they ev'n gape, and find themselves deluded-- MOS: Yes. VOLP: And thou use them scurvily! Dispatch, get on thy gown. MOS [PUTTING ON A GOWN.]: But, what, sir, if they ask After the body? VOLP: Say, it was corrupted. MOS: I'll say it stunk, sir; and was fain to have it Coffin'd up instantly, and sent away. VOLP: Any thing; what thou wilt. Hold, here's my will. Get thee a cap, a count-book, pen and ink, Papers afore thee; sit as thou wert taking An inventory of parcels: I'll get up Behind the curtain, on a stool, and hearken; Sometime peep over, see how they do look, With what degrees their blood doth leave their faces, O, 'twill afford me a rare meal of laughter! MOS [PUTTING ON A CAP, AND SETTING OUT THE TABLE, ETC.]: Your advocate will turn stark dull upon it. VOLP: It will take off his oratory's edge. MOS: But your clarissimo, old round-back, he Will crump you like a hog-louse, with the touch. VOLP: And what Corvino? MOS: O, sir, look for him, To-morrow morning, with a rope and dagger, To visit all the streets; he must run mad. My lady too, that came into the court, To bear false witness for your worship-- VOLP: Yes, And kist me 'fore the fathers; when my face Flow'd all with oils. MOS: And sweat, sir. Why, your gold Is such another med'cine, it dries up All those offensive savours: it transforms The most deformed, and restores them lovely, As 'twere the strange poetical girdle. Jove Could not invent t' himself a shroud more subtle To pass Acrisius' guards. It is the thing Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty. VOLP: I think she loves me. MOS: Who? the lady, sir? She's jealous of you. VOLP: Dost thou say so? [KNOCKING WITHIN.] MOS: Hark, There's some already. VOLP: Look. MOS: It is the Vulture: He has the quickest scent. VOLP: I'll to my place, Thou to thy posture. [GOES BEHIND THE CURTAIN.] MOS: I am set. VOLP: But, Mosca, Play the artificer now, torture them rarely. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT: How now, my Mosca? MOS [WRITING.]: "Turkey carpets, nine"-- VOLT: Taking an inventory! that is well. MOS: "Two suits of bedding, tissue"-- VOLT: Where's the Will? Let me read that the while. [ENTER SERVANTS, WITH CORBACCIO IN A CHAIR.] CORB: So, set me down: And get you home. [EXEUNT SERVANTS.] VOLT: Is he come now, to trouble us! MOS: "Of cloth of gold, two more"-- CORB: Is it done, Mosca? MOS: "Of several velvets, eight"-- VOLT: I like his care. CORB: Dost thou not hear? [ENTER CORVINO.] CORB: Ha! is the hour come, Mosca? VOLP [PEEPING OVER THE CURTAIN.]: Ay, now, they muster. CORV: What does the advocate here, Or this Corbaccio? CORB: What do these here? [ENTER LADY POL. WOULD-BE.] LADY P: Mosca! Is his thread spun? MOS: "Eight chests of linen"-- VOLP: O, My fine dame Would-be, too! CORV: Mosca, the Will, That I may shew it these, and rid them hence. MOS: "Six chests of diaper, four of damask."--There. [GIVES THEM THE WILL CARELESSLY, OVER HIS SHOULDER.] CORB: Is that the will? MOS: "Down-beds, and bolsters"-- VOLP: Rare! Be busy still. Now they begin to flutter: They never think of me. Look, see, see, see! How their swift eyes run over the long deed, Unto the name, and to the legacies, What is bequeath'd them there-- MOS: "Ten suits of hangings"-- VOLP: Ay, in their garters, Mosca. Now their hopes Are at the gasp. VOLT: Mosca the heir? CORB: What's that? VOLP: My advocate is dumb; look to my merchant, He has heard of some strange storm, a ship is lost, He faints; my lady will swoon. Old glazen eyes, He hath not reach'd his despair yet. CORB [TAKES THE WILL.]: All these Are out of hope: I am sure, the man. CORV: But, Mosca-- MOS: "Two cabinets." CORV: Is this in earnest? MOS: "One Of ebony"-- CORV: Or do you but delude me? MOS: The other, mother of pearl--I am very busy. Good faith, it is a fortune thrown upon me-- "Item, one salt of agate"--not my seeking. LADY P: Do you hear, sir? MOS: "A perfum'd box"--'Pray you forbear, You see I'm troubled--"made of an onyx"-- LADY P: How! MOS: To-morrow or next day, I shall be at leisure To talk with you all. CORV: Is this my large hope's issue? LADY P: Sir, I must have a fairer answer. MOS: Madam! Marry, and shall: 'pray you, fairly quit my house. Nay, raise no tempest with your looks; but hark you, Remember what your ladyship offer'd me, To put you in an heir; go to, think on it: And what you said e'en your best madams did For maintenance, and why not you? Enough. Go home, and use the poor sir Pol, your knight, well, For fear I tell some riddles; go, be melancholy. [EXIT LADY WOULD-BE.] VOLP: O, my fine devil! CORV: Mosca, 'pray you a word. MOS: Lord! will you not take your dispatch hence yet? Methinks, of all, you should have been the example. Why should you stay here? with what thought? what promise? Hear you; do not you know, I know you an ass, And that you would most fain have been a wittol, If fortune would have let you? that you are A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl, You'll say, was yours? right: this diamond? I'll not deny't, but thank you. Much here else? It may be so. Why, think that these good works May help to hide your bad. I'll not betray you; Although you be but extraordinary, And have it only in title, it sufficeth: Go home, be melancholy too, or mad. [EXIT CORVINO.] VOLP: Rare Mosca! how his villany becomes him! VOLT: Certain he doth delude all these for me. CORB: Mosca the heir! VOLP: O, his four eyes have found it. CORB: I am cozen'd, cheated, by a parasite slave; Harlot, thou hast gull'd me. MOS: Yes, sir. Stop your mouth, Or I shall draw the only tooth is left. Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch, With the three legs, that, here, in hope of prey, Have, any time this three years, snuff'd about, With your most grovelling nose; and would have hired Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir? Are not you he that have to-day in court Profess'd the disinheriting of your son? Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink. If you but croak a syllable, all comes out: Away, and call your porters! [exit corbaccio.] Go, go, stink. VOLP: Excellent varlet! VOLT: Now, my faithful Mosca, I find thy constancy. MOS: Sir! VOLT: Sincere. MOS [WRITING.]: "A table Of porphyry"--I marle, you'll be thus troublesome. VOLP: Nay, leave off now, they are gone. MOS: Why? who are you? What! who did send for you? O, cry you mercy, Reverend sir! Good faith, I am grieved for you, That any chance of mine should thus defeat Your (I must needs say) most deserving travails: But I protest, sir, it was cast upon me, And I could almost wish to be without it, But that the will o' the dead must be observ'd, Marry, my joy is that you need it not, You have a gift, sir, (thank your education,) Will never let you want, while there are men, And malice, to breed causes. Would I had But half the like, for all my fortune, sir! If I have any suits, as I do hope, Things being so easy and direct, I shall not, I will make bold with your obstreperous aid, Conceive me,--for your fee, sir. In mean time, You that have so much law, I know have the conscience, Not to be covetous of what is mine. Good sir, I thank you for my plate; 'twill help To set up a young man. Good faith, you look As you were costive; best go home and purge, sir. [EXIT VOLTORE.] VOLP [COMES FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN.]: Bid him eat lettuce well. My witty mischief, Let me embrace thee. O that I could now Transform thee to a Venus!--Mosca, go, Straight take my habit of clarissimo, And walk the streets; be seen, torment them more: We must pursue, as well as plot. Who would Have lost this feast? MOS: I doubt it will lose them. VOLP: O, my recovery shall recover all. That I could now but think on some disguise To meet them in, and ask them questions: How I would vex them still at every turn! MOS: Sir, I can fit you. VOLP: Canst thou? MOS: Yes, I know One o' the commandadori, sir, so like you; Him will I straight make drunk, and bring you his habit. VOLP: A rare disguise, and answering thy brain! O, I will be a sharp disease unto them. MOS: Sir, you must look for curses-- VOLP: Till they burst; The Fox fares ever best when he is curst. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 5.2. A HALL IN SIR POLITICK'S HOUSE. ENTER PEREGRINE DISGUISED, AND THREE MERCHANTS. PER: Am I enough disguised? 1 MER: I warrant you. PER: All my ambition is to fright him only. 2 MER: If you could ship him away, 'twere excellent. 3 MER: To Zant, or to Aleppo? PER: Yes, and have his Adventures put i' the Book of Voyages. And his gull'd story register'd for truth. Well, gentlemen, when I am in a while, And that you think us warm in our discourse, Know your approaches. 1 MER: Trust it to our care. [EXEUNT MERCHANTS.] [ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.] PER: Save you, fair lady! Is sir Pol within? WOM: I do not know, sir. PER: Pray you say unto him, Here is a merchant, upon earnest business, Desires to speak with him. WOM: I will see, sir. [EXIT.] PER: Pray you.-- I see the family is all female here. [RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.] WOM: He says, sir, he has weighty affairs of state, That now require him whole; some other time You may possess him. PER: Pray you say again, If those require him whole, these will exact him, Whereof I bring him tidings. [EXIT WOMAN.] --What might be His grave affair of state now! how to make Bolognian sausages here in Venice, sparing One o' the ingredients? [RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.] WOM: Sir, he says, he knows By your word "tidings," that you are no statesman, And therefore wills you stay. PER: Sweet, pray you return him; I have not read so many proclamations, And studied them for words, as he has done-- But--here he deigns to come. [EXIT WOMAN.] [ENTER SIR POLITICK.] SIR P: Sir, I must crave Your courteous pardon. There hath chanced to-day, Unkind disaster 'twixt my lady and me; And I was penning my apology, To give her satisfaction, as you came now. PER: Sir, I am grieved I bring you worse disaster: The gentleman you met at the port to-day, That told you, he was newly arrived-- SIR P: Ay, was A fugitive punk? PER: No, sir, a spy set on you; And he has made relation to the senate, That you profest to him to have a plot To sell the State of Venice to the Turk. SIR P: O me! PER: For which, warrants are sign'd by this time, To apprehend you, and to search your study For papers-- SIR P: Alas, sir, I have none, but notes Drawn out of play-books-- PER: All the better, sir. SIR P: And some essays. What shall I do? PER: Sir, best Convey yourself into a sugar-chest; Or, if you could lie round, a frail were rare: And I could send you aboard. SIR P: Sir, I but talk'd so, For discourse sake merely. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] PER: Hark! they are there. SIR P: I am a wretch, a wretch! PER: What will you do, sir? Have you ne'er a currant-butt to leap into? They'll put you to the rack, you must be sudden. SIR P: Sir, I have an ingine-- 3 MER [WITHIN.]: Sir Politick Would-be? 2 MER [WITHIN.]: Where is he? SIR P: That I have thought upon before time. PER: What is it? SIR P: I shall ne'er endure the torture. Marry, it is, sir, of a tortoise-shell, Fitted for these extremities: pray you, sir, help me. Here I've a place, sir, to put back my legs, Please you to lay it on, sir, [LIES DOWN WHILE PEREGRINE PLACES THE SHELL UPON HIM.] --with this cap, And my black gloves. I'll lie, sir, like a tortoise, 'Till they are gone. PER: And call you this an ingine? SIR P: Mine own device--Good sir, bid my wife's women To burn my papers. [EXIT PEREGRINE.] [THE THREE MERCHANTS RUSH IN.] 1 MER: Where is he hid? 3 MER: We must, And will sure find him. 2 MER: Which is his study? [RE-ENTER PEREGRINE.] 1 MER: What Are you, sir? PER: I am a merchant, that came here To look upon this tortoise. 3 MER: How! 1 MER: St. Mark! What beast is this! PER: It is a fish. 2 MER: Come out here! PER: Nay, you may strike him, sir, and tread upon him; He'll bear a cart. 1 MER: What, to run over him? PER: Yes, sir. 3 MER: Let's jump upon him. 2 MER: Can he not go? PER: He creeps, sir. 1 MER: Let's see him creep. PER: No, good sir, you will hurt him. 2 MER: Heart, I will see him creep, or prick his guts. 3 MER: Come out here! PER: Pray you, sir! [ASIDE TO SIR POLITICK.] --Creep a little. 1 MER: Forth. 2 MER: Yet farther. PER: Good sir!--Creep. 2 MER: We'll see his legs. [THEY PULL OFF THE SHELL AND DISCOVER HIM.] 3 MER: Ods so, he has garters! 1 MER: Ay, and gloves! 2 MER: Is this Your fearful tortoise? PER [DISCOVERING HIMSELF.]: Now, sir Pol, we are even; For your next project I shall be prepared: I am sorry for the funeral of your notes, sir. 1 MER: 'Twere a rare motion to be seen in Fleet-street. 2 MER: Ay, in the Term. 1 MER: Or Smithfield, in the fair. 3 MER: Methinks 'tis but a melancholy sight. PER: Farewell, most politic tortoise! [EXEUNT PER. AND MERCHANTS.] [RE-ENTER WAITING-WOMAN.] SIR P: Where's my lady? Knows she of this? WOM: I know not, sir. SIR P: Enquire.-- O, I shall be the fable of all feasts, The freight of the gazetti; ship-boy's tale; And, which is worst, even talk for ordinaries. WOM: My lady's come most melancholy home, And says, sir, she will straight to sea, for physic. SIR P: And I to shun this place and clime for ever; Creeping with house on back: and think it well, To shrink my poor head in my politic shell. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 5.3. A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE. ENTER MOSCA IN THE HABIT OF A CLARISSIMO; AND VOLPONE IN THAT OF A COMMANDADORE. VOLP: Am I then like him? MOS: O, sir, you are he; No man can sever you. VOLP: Good. MOS: But what am I? VOLP: 'Fore heaven, a brave clarissimo, thou becom'st it! Pity thou wert not born one. MOS [ASIDE.]: If I hold My made one, 'twill be well. VOLP: I'll go and see What news first at the court. [EXIT.] MOS: Do so. My Fox Is out of his hole, and ere he shall re-enter, I'll make him languish in his borrow'd case, Except he come to composition with me.-- Androgyno, Castrone, Nano! [ENTER ANDROGYNO, CASTRONE AND NANO.] ALL: Here. MOS: Go, recreate yourselves abroad; go sport.-- [EXEUNT.] So, now I have the keys, and am possest. Since he will needs be dead afore his time, I'll bury him, or gain by him: I am his heir, And so will keep me, till he share at least. To cozen him of all, were but a cheat Well placed; no man would construe it a sin: Let his sport pay for it, this is call'd the Fox-trap. [EXIT.] SCENE 5.4 A STREET. ENTER CORBACCIO AND CORVINO. CORB: They say, the court is set. CORV: We must maintain Our first tale good, for both our reputations. CORB: Why, mine's no tale: my son would there have kill'd me. CORV: That's true, I had forgot:-- [ASIDE.]--mine is, I am sure. But for your Will, sir. CORB: Ay, I'll come upon him For that hereafter; now his patron's dead. [ENTER VOLPONE.] VOLP: Signior Corvino! and Corbaccio! sir, Much joy unto you. CORV: Of what? VOLP: The sudden good, Dropt down upon you-- CORB: Where? VOLP: And, none knows how, From old Volpone, sir. CORB: Out, arrant knave! VOLP: Let not your too much wealth, sir, make you furious. CORB: Away, thou varlet! VOLP: Why, sir? CORB: Dost thou mock me? VOLP: You mock the world, sir; did you not change Wills? CORB: Out, harlot! VOLP: O! belike you are the man, Signior Corvino? 'faith, you carry it well; You grow not mad withal: I love your spirit: You are not over-leaven'd with your fortune. You should have some would swell now, like a wine-fat, With such an autumn--Did he give you all, sir? CORB: Avoid, you rascal! VOLP: Troth, your wife has shewn Herself a very woman; but you are well, You need not care, you have a good estate, To bear it out sir, better by this chance: Except Corbaccio have a share. CORV: Hence, varlet. VOLP: You will not be acknown, sir; why, 'tis wise. Thus do all gamesters, at all games, dissemble: No man will seem to win. [exeunt corvino and corbaccio.] --Here comes my vulture, Heaving his beak up in the air, and snuffing. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT: Outstript thus, by a parasite! a slave, Would run on errands, and make legs for crumbs? Well, what I'll do-- VOLP: The court stays for your worship. I e'en rejoice, sir, at your worship's happiness, And that it fell into so learned hands, That understand the fingering-- VOLT: What do you mean? VOLP: I mean to be a suitor to your worship, For the small tenement, out of reparations, That, to the end of your long row of houses, By the Piscaria: it was, in Volpone's time, Your predecessor, ere he grew diseased, A handsome, pretty, custom'd bawdy-house, As any was in Venice, none dispraised; But fell with him; his body and that house Decay'd, together. VOLT: Come sir, leave your prating. VOLP: Why, if your worship give me but your hand, That I may have the refusal, I have done. 'Tis a mere toy to you, sir; candle-rents; As your learn'd worship knows-- VOLT: What do I know? VOLP: Marry, no end of your wealth, sir, God decrease it! VOLT: Mistaking knave! what, mockst thou my misfortune? [EXIT.] VOLP: His blessing on your heart, sir; would 'twere more!-- Now to my first again, at the next corner. [EXIT.] SCENE 5.5. ANOTHER PART OF THE STREET. ENTER CORBACCIO AND CORVINO;-- MOSCA PASSES OVER THE STAGE, BEFORE THEM. CORB: See, in our habit! see the impudent varlet! CORV: That I could shoot mine eyes at him like gun-stones. [ENTER VOLPONE.] VOLP: But is this true, sir, of the parasite? CORB: Again, to afflict us! monster! VOLP: In good faith, sir, I'm heartily grieved, a beard of your grave length Should be so over-reach'd. I never brook'd That parasite's hair; methought his nose should cozen: There still was somewhat in his look, did promise The bane of a clarissimo. CORB: Knave-- VOLP: Methinks Yet you, that are so traded in the world, A witty merchant, the fine bird, Corvino, That have such moral emblems on your name, Should not have sung your shame; and dropt your cheese, To let the Fox laugh at your emptiness. CORV: Sirrah, you think the privilege of the place, And your red saucy cap, that seems to me Nail'd to your jolt-head with those two chequines, Can warrant your abuses; come you hither: You shall perceive, sir, I dare beat you; approach. VOLP: No haste, sir, I do know your valour well, Since you durst publish what you are, sir. CORV: Tarry, I'd speak with you. VOLP: Sir, sir, another time-- CORV: Nay, now. VOLP: O lord, sir! I were a wise man, Would stand the fury of a distracted cuckold. [AS HE IS RUNNING OFF, RE-ENTER MOSCA.] CORB: What, come again! VOLP: Upon 'em, Mosca; save me. CORB: The air's infected where he breathes. CORV: Let's fly him. [EXEUNT CORV. AND CORB.] VOLP: Excellent basilisk! turn upon the vulture. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT: Well, flesh-fly, it is summer with you now; Your winter will come on. MOS: Good advocate, Prithee not rail, nor threaten out of place thus; Thou'lt make a solecism, as madam says. Get you a biggin more, your brain breaks loose. [EXIT.] VOLT: Well, sir. VOLP: Would you have me beat the insolent slave, Throw dirt upon his first good clothes? VOLT: This same Is doubtless some familiar. VOLP: Sir, the court, In troth, stays for you. I am mad, a mule That never read Justinian, should get up, And ride an advocate. Had you no quirk To avoid gullage, sir, by such a creature? I hope you do but jest; he has not done it: 'Tis but confederacy, to blind the rest. You are the heir. VOLT: A strange, officious, Troublesome knave! thou dost torment me. VOLP: I know-- It cannot be, sir, that you should be cozen'd; 'Tis not within the wit of man to do it; You are so wise, so prudent; and 'tis fit That wealth and wisdom still should go together. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 5.6. THE SCRUTINEO OR SENATE-HOUSE. ENTER AVOCATORI, NOTARIO, BONARIO, CELIA, CORBACCIO, CORVINO, COMMANDADORI, SAFFI, ETC. 1 AVOC: Are all the parties here? NOT: All but the advocate. 2 AVOC: And here he comes. [ENTER VOLTORE AND VOLPONE.] 1 AVOC: Then bring them forth to sentence. VOLT: O, my most honour'd fathers, let your mercy Once win upon your justice, to forgive-- I am distracted-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: What will he do now? VOLT: O, I know not which to address myself to first; Whether your fatherhoods, or these innocents-- CORV [ASIDE.]: Will he betray himself? VOLT: Whom equally I have abused, out of most covetous ends-- CORV: The man is mad! CORB: What's that? CORV: He is possest. VOLT: For which, now struck in conscience, here, I prostate Myself at your offended feet, for pardon. 1, 2 AVOC: Arise. CEL: O heaven, how just thou art! VOLP [ASIDE.]: I am caught In mine own noose-- CORV [TO CORBACCIO.]: Be constant, sir: nought now Can help, but impudence. 1 AVOC: Speak forward. COM: Silence! VOLT: It is not passion in me, reverend fathers, But only conscience, conscience, my good sires, That makes me now tell trueth. That parasite, That knave, hath been the instrument of all. 1 AVOC: Where is that knave? fetch him. VOLP: I go. [EXIT.] CORV: Grave fathers, This man's distracted; he confest it now: For, hoping to be old Volpone's heir, Who now is dead-- 3 AVOC: How? 2 AVOC: Is Volpone dead? CORV: Dead since, grave fathers-- BON: O sure vengeance! 1 AVOC: Stay, Then he was no deceiver? VOLT: O no, none: The parasite, grave fathers. CORV: He does speak Out of mere envy, 'cause the servant's made The thing he gaped for: please your fatherhoods, This is the truth, though I'll not justify The other, but he may be some-deal faulty. VOLT: Ay, to your hopes, as well as mine, Corvino: But I'll use modesty. Pleaseth your wisdoms, To view these certain notes, and but confer them; As I hope favour, they shall speak clear truth. CORV: The devil has enter'd him! BON: Or bides in you. 4 AVOC: We have done ill, by a public officer, To send for him, if he be heir. 2 AVOC: For whom? 4 AVOC: Him that they call the parasite. 3 AVOC: 'Tis true, He is a man of great estate, now left. 4 AVOC: Go you, and learn his name, and say, the court Entreats his presence here, but to the clearing Of some few doubts. [EXIT NOTARY.] 2 AVOC: This same's a labyrinth! 1 AVOC: Stand you unto your first report? CORV: My state, My life, my fame-- BON: Where is it? CORV: Are at the stake 1 AVOC: Is yours so too? CORB: The advocate's a knave, And has a forked tongue-- 2 AVOC: Speak to the point. CORB: So is the parasite too. 1 AVOC: This is confusion. VOLT: I do beseech your fatherhoods, read but those-- [GIVING THEM THE PAPERS.] CORV: And credit nothing the false spirit hath writ: It cannot be, but he's possest grave fathers. [THE SCENE CLOSES.] SCENE 5.7. A STREET. ENTER VOLPONE. VOLP: To make a snare for mine own neck! and run My head into it, wilfully! with laughter! When I had newly 'scaped, was free, and clear, Out of mere wantonness! O, the dull devil Was in this brain of mine, when I devised it, And Mosca gave it second; he must now Help to sear up this vein, or we bleed dead.-- [ENTER NANO, ANDROGYNO, AND CASTRONE.] How now! who let you loose? whither go you now? What, to buy gingerbread? or to drown kitlings? NAN: Sir, master Mosca call'd us out of doors, And bid us all go play, and took the keys. AND: Yes. VOLP: Did master Mosca take the keys? why so! I'm farther in. These are my fine conceits! I must be merry, with a mischief to me! What a vile wretch was I, that could not bear My fortune soberly? I must have my crotchets, And my conundrums! Well, go you, and seek him: His meaning may be truer than my fear. Bid him, he straight come to me to the court; Thither will I, and, if't be possible, Unscrew my advocate, upon new hopes: When I provoked him, then I lost myself. [EXEUNT.] SCENE 5.8. THE SCRUTINEO, OR SENATE-HOUSE. AVOCATORI, BONARIO, CELIA, CORBACCIO, CORVINO, COMMANDADORI, SAFFI, ETC., AS BEFORE. 1 AVOC: These things can ne'er be reconciled. He, here, [SHEWING THE PAPERS.] Professeth, that the gentleman was wrong'd, And that the gentlewoman was brought thither, Forced by her husband, and there left. VOLT: Most true. CEL: How ready is heaven to those that pray! 1 AVOC: But that Volpone would have ravish'd her, he holds Utterly false; knowing his impotence. CORV: Grave fathers, he's possest; again, I say, Possest: nay, if there be possession, and Obsession, he has both. 3 AVOC: Here comes our officer. [ENTER VOLPONE.] VOLP: The parasite will straight be here, grave fathers. 4 AVOC: You might invent some other name, sir varlet. 3 AVOC: Did not the notary meet him? VOLP: Not that I know. 4 AVOC: His coming will clear all. 2 AVOC: Yet, it is misty. VOLT: May't please your fatherhoods-- VOLP [whispers volt.]: Sir, the parasite Will'd me to tell you, that his master lives; That you are still the man; your hopes the same; And this was only a jest-- VOLT: How? VOLP: Sir, to try If you were firm, and how you stood affected. VOLT: Art sure he lives? VOLP: Do I live, sir? VOLT: O me! I was too violent. VOLP: Sir, you may redeem it, They said, you were possest; fall down, and seem so: I'll help to make it good. [voltore falls.] --God bless the man!-- Stop your wind hard, and swell: See, see, see, see! He vomits crooked pins! his eyes are set, Like a dead hare's hung in a poulter's shop! His mouth's running away! Do you see, signior? Now it is in his belly! CORV: Ay, the devil! VOLP: Now in his throat. CORV: Ay, I perceive it plain. VOLP: 'Twill out, 'twill out! stand clear. See, where it flies, In shape of a blue toad, with a bat's wings! Do you not see it, sir? CORB: What? I think I do. CORV: 'Tis too manifest. VOLP: Look! he comes to himself! VOLT: Where am I? VOLP: Take good heart, the worst is past, sir. You are dispossest. 1 AVOC: What accident is this! 2 AVOC: Sudden, and full of wonder! 3 AVOC: If he were Possest, as it appears, all this is nothing. CORV: He has been often subject to these fits. 1 AVOC: Shew him that writing:--do you know it, sir? VOLP [WHISPERS VOLT.]: Deny it, sir, forswear it; know it not. VOLT: Yes, I do know it well, it is my hand; But all that it contains is false. BON: O practice! 2 AVOC: What maze is this! 1 AVOC: Is he not guilty then, Whom you there name the parasite? VOLT: Grave fathers, No more than his good patron, old Volpone. 4 AVOC: Why, he is dead. VOLT: O no, my honour'd fathers, He lives-- 1 AVOC: How! lives? VOLT: Lives. 2 AVOC: This is subtler yet! 3 AVOC: You said he was dead. VOLT: Never. 3 AVOC: You said so. CORV: I heard so. 4 AVOC: Here comes the gentleman; make him way. [ENTER MOSCA.] 3 AVOC: A stool. 4 AVOC [ASIDE.]: A proper man; and, were Volpone dead, A fit match for my daughter. 3 AVOC: Give him way. VOLP [ASIDE TO MOSCA.]: Mosca, I was almost lost, the advocate Had betrayed all; but now it is recovered; All's on the hinge again--Say, I am living. MOS: What busy knave is this!--Most reverend fathers, I sooner had attended your grave pleasures, But that my order for the funeral Of my dear patron, did require me-- VOLP [ASIDE.]: Mosca! MOS: Whom I intend to bury like a gentleman. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ay, quick, and cozen me of all. 2 AVOC: Still stranger! More intricate! 1 AVOC: And come about again! 4 AVOC [ASIDE.]: It is a match, my daughter is bestow'd. MOS [ASIDE TO VOLP.]: Will you give me half? VOLP: First, I'll be hang'd. MOS: I know, Your voice is good, cry not so loud. 1 AVOC: Demand The advocate.--Sir, did not you affirm, Volpone was alive? VOLP: Yes, and he is; This gentleman told me so. [ASIDE TO VOLP.] --Thou shalt have half.-- MOS: Whose drunkard is this same? speak, some that know him: I never saw his face. [ASIDE TO VOLP.] --I cannot now Afford it you so cheap. VOLP: No! 1 AVOC: What say you? VOLT: The officer told me. VOLP: I did, grave fathers, And will maintain he lives, with mine own life. And that this creature [POINTS TO MOSCA.] told me. [ASIDE.] --I was born, With all good stars my enemies. MOS: Most grave fathers, If such an insolence as this must pass Upon me, I am silent: 'twas not this For which you sent, I hope. 2 AVOC: Take him away. VOLP: Mosca! 3 AVOC: Let him be whipt. VOLP: Wilt thou betray me? Cozen me? 3 AVOC: And taught to bear himself Toward a person of his rank. 4 AVOC: Away. [THE OFFICERS SEIZE VOLPONE.] MOS: I humbly thank your fatherhoods. VOLP [ASIDE.]: Soft, soft: Whipt! And lose all that I have! If I confess, It cannot be much more. 4 AVOC: Sir, are you married? VOLP: They will be allied anon; I must be resolute: The Fox shall here uncase. [THROWS OFF HIS DISGUISE.] MOS: Patron! VOLP: Nay, now, My ruins shall not come alone; your match I'll hinder sure: my substance shall not glue you, Nor screw you into a family. MOS: Why, patron! VOLP: I am Volpone, and this is my knave; [POINTING TO MOSCA.] This [TO VOLT.], his own knave; This [TO CORB.], avarice's fool; This [TO CORV.], a chimera of wittol, fool, and knave: And, reverend fathers, since we all can hope Nought but a sentence, let's not now dispair it. You hear me brief. CORV: May it please your fatherhoods-- COM: Silence. 1 AVOC: The knot is now undone by miracle. 2 AVOC: Nothing can be more clear. 3 AVOC: Or can more prove These innocent. 1 AVOC: Give them their liberty. BON: Heaven could not long let such gross crimes be hid. 2 AVOC: If this be held the high-way to get riches, May I be poor! 3 AVOC: This is not the gain, but torment. 1 AVOC: These possess wealth, as sick men possess fevers, Which trulier may be said to possess them. 2 AVOC: Disrobe that parasite. CORV, MOS: Most honour'd fathers!-- 1 AVOC: Can you plead aught to stay the course of justice? If you can, speak. CORV, VOLT: We beg favour, CEL: And mercy. 1 AVOC: You hurt your innocence, suing for the guilty. Stand forth; and first the parasite: You appear T'have been the chiefest minister, if not plotter, In all these lewd impostures; and now, lastly, Have with your impudence abused the court, And habit of a gentleman of Venice, Being a fellow of no birth or blood: For which our sentence is, first, thou be whipt; Then live perpetual prisoner in our gallies. VOLT: I thank you for him. MOS: Bane to thy wolvish nature! 1 AVOC: Deliver him to the saffi. [MOSCA IS CARRIED OUT.] --Thou, Volpone, By blood and rank a gentleman, canst not fall Under like censure; but our judgment on thee Is, that thy substance all be straight confiscate To the hospital of the Incurabili: And, since the most was gotten by imposture, By feigning lame, gout, palsy, and such diseases, Thou art to lie in prison, cramp'd with irons, Till thou be'st sick, and lame indeed.--Remove him. [HE IS TAKEN FROM THE BAR.] VOLP: This is call'd mortifying of a Fox. 1 AVOC: Thou, Voltore, to take away the scandal Thou hast given all worthy men of thy profession, Art banish'd from their fellowship, and our state. Corbaccio!--bring him near--We here possess Thy son of all thy state, and confine thee To the monastery of San Spirito; Where, since thou knewest not how to live well here, Thou shalt be learn'd to die well. CORB: Ah! what said he? AND: You shall know anon, sir. 1 AVOC: Thou, Corvino, shalt Be straight embark'd from thine own house, and row'd Round about Venice, through the grand canale, Wearing a cap, with fair long asses' ears, Instead of horns; and so to mount, a paper Pinn'd on thy breast, to the Berlina-- CORV: Yes, And have mine eyes beat out with stinking fish, Bruised fruit and rotten eggs--'Tis well. I am glad I shall not see my shame yet. 1 AVOC: And to expiate Thy wrongs done to thy wife, thou art to send her Home to her father, with her dowry trebled: And these are all your judgments. ALL: Honour'd fathers.-- 1 AVOC: Which may not be revoked. Now you begin, When crimes are done, and past, and to be punish'd, To think what your crimes are: away with them. Let all that see these vices thus rewarded, Take heart and love to study 'em! Mischiefs feed Like beasts, till they be fat, and then they bleed. [EXEUNT.] [VOLPONE COMES FORWARD.] VOLPONE: The seasoning of a play, is the applause. Now, though the Fox be punish'd by the laws, He yet doth hope, there is no suffering due, For any fact which he hath done 'gainst you; If there be, censure him; here he doubtful stands: If not, fare jovially, and clap your hands. [EXIT.] GLOSSARY ABATE, cast down, subdue. ABHORRING, repugnant (to), at variance. ABJECT, base, degraded thing, outcast. ABRASE, smooth, blank. ABSOLUTE(LY), faultless(ly). ABSTRACTED, abstract, abstruse. ABUSE, deceive, insult, dishonour, make ill use of. ACATER, caterer. ACATES, cates. ACCEPTIVE, willing, ready to accept, receive. ACCOMMODATE, fit, befitting. (The word was a fashionable one and used on all occasions. See "Henry IV.," pt. 2, iii. 4). ACCOST, draw near, approach. ACKNOWN, confessedly acquainted with. ACME, full maturity. ADALANTADO, lord deputy or governor of a Spanish province. ADJECTION, addition. ADMIRATION, astonishment. ADMIRE, wonder, wonder at. ADROP, philosopher's stone, or substance from which obtained. ADSCRIVE, subscribe. ADULTERATE, spurious, counterfeit. ADVANCE, lift. ADVERTISE, inform, give intelligence. ADVERTISED, "be--," be it known to you. ADVERTISEMENT, intelligence. ADVISE, consider, bethink oneself, deliberate. ADVISED, informed, aware; "are you--?" have you found that out? AFFECT, love, like; aim at; move. AFFECTED, disposed; beloved. AFFECTIONATE, obstinate; prejudiced. AFFECTS, affections. AFFRONT, "give the--," face. AFFY, have confidence in; betroth. AFTER, after the manner of. AGAIN, AGAINST, in anticipation of. AGGRAVATE, increase, magnify, enlarge upon. AGNOMINATION. See Paranomasie. AIERY, nest, brood. AIM, guess. ALL HID, children's cry at hide-and-seek. ALL-TO, completely, entirely ("all-to-be-laden"). ALLOWANCE, approbation, recognition. ALMA-CANTARAS (astronomy), parallels of altitude. ALMAIN, name of a dance. ALMUTEN, planet of chief influence in the horoscope. ALONE, unequalled, without peer. ALUDELS, subliming pots. AMAZED, confused, perplexed. AMBER, AMBRE, ambergris. AMBREE, MARY, a woman noted for her valour at the siege of Ghent, 1458. AMES-ACE, lowest throw at dice. AMPHIBOLIES, ambiguities. AMUSED, bewildered, amazed. AN, if. ANATOMY, skeleton, or dissected body. ANDIRONS, fire-dogs. ANGEL, gold coin worth 10 shillings, stamped with the figure of the archangel Michael. ANNESH CLEARE, spring known as Agnes le Clare. ANSWER, return hit in fencing. ANTIC, ANTIQUE, clown, buffoon. ANTIC, like a buffoon. ANTIPERISTASIS, an opposition which enhances the quality it opposes. APOZEM, decoction. APPERIL, peril. APPLE-JOHN, APPLE-SQUIRE, pimp, pander. APPLY, attach. APPREHEND, take into custody. APPREHENSIVE, quick of perception; able to perceive and appreciate. APPROVE, prove, confirm. APT, suit, adapt; train, prepare; dispose, incline. APT(LY), suitable(y), opportune(ly). APTITUDE, suitableness. ARBOR, "make the--," cut up the game (Gifford). ARCHES, Court of Arches. ARCHIE, Archibald Armstrong, jester to James I. and Charles I. ARGAILE, argol, crust or sediment in wine casks. ARGENT-VIVE, quicksilver. ARGUMENT, plot of a drama; theme, subject; matter in question; token, proof. ARRIDE, please. ARSEDINE, mixture of copper and zinc, used as an imitation of gold-leaf. ARTHUR, PRINCE, reference to an archery show by a society who assumed arms, etc., of Arthur's knights. ARTICLE, item. ARTIFICIALLY, artfully. ASCENSION, evaporation, distillation. ASPIRE, try to reach, obtain, long for. ASSALTO (Italian), assault. ASSAY, draw a knife along the belly of the deer, a ceremony of the hunting-field. ASSOIL, solve. ASSURE, secure possession or reversion of. ATHANOR, a digesting furnace, calculated to keep up a constant heat. ATONE, reconcile. ATTACH, attack, seize. AUDACIOUS, having spirit and confidence. AUTHENTIC(AL), of authority, authorised, trustworthy, genuine. AVISEMENT, reflection, consideration. AVOID, begone! get rid of. AWAY WITH, endure. AZOCH, Mercurius Philosophorum. BABION, baboon. BABY, doll. BACK-SIDE, back premises. BAFFLE, treat with contempt. BAGATINE, Italian coin, worth about the third of a farthing. BAIARD, horse of magic powers known to old romance. BALDRICK, belt worn across the breast to support bugle, etc. BALE (of dice), pair. BALK, overlook, pass by, avoid. BALLACE, ballast. BALLOO, game at ball. BALNEUM (BAIN MARIE), a vessel for holding hot water in which other vessels are stood for heating. BANBURY, "brother of--," Puritan. BANDOG, dog tied or chained up. BANE, woe, ruin. BANQUET, a light repast; dessert. BARB, to clip gold. BARBEL, fresh-water fish. BARE, meer; bareheaded; it was "a particular mark of state and grandeur for the coachman to be uncovered" (Gifford). BARLEY-BREAK, game somewhat similar to base. BASE, game of prisoner's base. BASES, richly embroidered skirt reaching to the knees, or lower. BASILISK, fabulous reptile, believed to slay with its eye. BASKET, used for the broken provision collected for prisoners. BASON, basons, etc., were beaten by the attendant mob when bad characters were "carted." BATE, be reduced; abate, reduce. BATOON, baton, stick. BATTEN, feed, grow fat. BAWSON, badger. BEADSMAN, prayer-man, one engaged to pray for another. BEAGLE, small hound; fig. spy. BEAR IN HAND, keep in suspense, deceive with false hopes. BEARWARD, bear leader. BEDPHERE. See Phere. BEDSTAFF, (?) wooden pin in the side of the bedstead for supporting the bedclothes (Johnson); one of the sticks or "laths"; a stick used in making a bed. BEETLE, heavy mallet. BEG, "I'd--him," the custody of minors and idiots was begged for; likewise property fallen forfeit to the Crown ("your house had been begged"). BELL-MAN, night watchman. BENJAMIN, an aromatic gum. BERLINA, pillory. BESCUMBER, defile. BESLAVE, beslabber. BESOGNO, beggar. BESPAWLE, bespatter. BETHLEHEM GABOR, Transylvanian hero, proclaimed King of Hungary. BEVER, drinking. BEVIS, SIR, knight of romance whose horse was equally celebrated. BEWRAY, reveal, make known. BEZANT, heraldic term: small gold circle. BEZOAR'S STONE, a remedy known by this name was a supposed antidote to poison. BID-STAND, highwayman. BIGGIN, cap, similar to that worn by the Beguines; nightcap. BILIVE (belive), with haste. BILK, nothing, empty talk. BILL, kind of pike. BILLET, wood cut for fuel, stick. BIRDING, thieving. BLACK SANCTUS, burlesque hymn, any unholy riot. BLANK, originally a small French coin. BLANK, white. BLANKET, toss in a blanket. BLAZE, outburst of violence. BLAZE, (her.) blazon; publish abroad. BLAZON, armorial bearings; fig. all that pertains to good birth and breeding. BLIN, "withouten--," without ceasing. BLOW, puff up. BLUE, colour of servants' livery, hence "--order," "--waiters." BLUSHET, blushing one. BOB, jest, taunt. BOB, beat, thump. BODGE, measure. BODKIN, dagger, or other short, pointed weapon; long pin with which the women fastened up their hair. BOLT, roll (of material). BOLT, dislodge, rout out; sift (boulting-tub). BOLT'S-HEAD, long, straight-necked vessel for distillation. BOMBARD SLOPS, padded, puffed-out breeches. BONA ROBA, "good, wholesome, plum-cheeked wench" (Johnson) --not always used in compliment. BONNY-CLABBER, sour butter-milk. BOOKHOLDER, prompter. BOOT, "to--," into the bargain; "no--," of no avail. BORACHIO, bottle made of skin. BORDELLO, brothel. BORNE IT, conducted, carried it through. BOTTLE (of hay), bundle, truss. BOTTOM, skein or ball of thread; vessel. BOURD, jest. BOVOLI, snails or cockles dressed in the Italian manner (Gifford). BOW-POT, flower vase or pot. BOYS, "terrible--," "angry--," roystering young bucks. (See Nares). BRABBLES (BRABBLESH), brawls. BRACH, bitch. BRADAMANTE, a heroine in "Orlando Furioso." BRADLEY, ARTHUR OF, a lively character commemorated in ballads. BRAKE, frame for confining a horse's feet while being shod, or strong curb or bridle; trap. BRANCHED, with "detached sleeve ornaments, projecting from the shoulders of the gown" (Gifford). BRANDISH, flourish of weapon. BRASH, brace. BRAVE, bravado, braggart speech. BRAVE (adv.), gaily, finely (apparelled). BRAVERIES, gallants. BRAVERY, extravagant gaiety of apparel. BRAVO, bravado, swaggerer. BRAZEN-HEAD, speaking head made by Roger Bacon. BREATHE, pause for relaxation; exercise. BREATH UPON, speak dispraisingly of. BREND, burn. BRIDE-ALE, wedding feast. BRIEF, abstract; (mus.) breve. BRISK, smartly dressed. BRIZE, breese, gadfly. BROAD-SEAL, state seal. BROCK, badger (term of contempt). BROKE, transact business as a broker. BROOK, endure, put up with. BROUGHTON, HUGH, an English divine and Hebrew scholar. BRUIT, rumour. BUCK, wash. BUCKLE, bend. BUFF, leather made of buffalo skin, used for military and serjeants' coats, etc. BUFO, black tincture. BUGLE, long-shaped bead. BULLED, (?) bolled, swelled. BULLIONS, trunk hose. BULLY, term of familiar endearment. BUNGY, Friar Bungay, who had a familiar in the shape of a dog. BURDEN, refrain, chorus. BURGONET, closely-fitting helmet with visor. BURGULLION, braggadocio. BURN, mark wooden measures ("--ing of cans"). BURROUGH, pledge, security. BUSKIN, half-boot, foot gear reaching high up the leg. BUTT-SHAFT, barbless arrow for shooting at butts. BUTTER, NATHANIEL ("Staple of News"), a compiler of general news. (See Cunningham). BUTTERY-HATCH, half-door shutting off the buttery, where provisions and liquors were stored. BUY, "he bought me," formerly the guardianship of wards could be bought. BUZ, exclamation to enjoin silence. BUZZARD, simpleton. BY AND BY, at once. BY(E), "on the __," incidentally, as of minor or secondary importance; at the side. BY-CHOP, by-blow, bastard. CADUCEUS, Mercury's wand. CALIVER, light kind of musket. CALLET, woman of ill repute. CALLOT, coif worn on the wigs of our judges or serjeants-at-law (Gifford). CALVERED, crimped, or sliced and pickled. (See Nares). CAMOUCCIO, wretch, knave. CAMUSED, flat. CAN, knows. CANDLE-RENT, rent from house property. CANDLE-WASTER, one who studies late. CANTER, sturdy beggar. CAP OF MAINTENCE, an insignia of dignity, a cap of state borne before kings at their coronation; also an heraldic term. CAPABLE, able to comprehend, fit to receive instruction, impression. CAPANEUS, one of the "Seven against Thebes." CARACT, carat, unit of weight for precious stones, etc.; value, worth. CARANZA, Spanish author of a book on duelling. CARCANET, jewelled ornament for the neck. CARE, take care; object. CAROSH, coach, carriage. CARPET, table-cover. CARRIAGE, bearing, behaviour. CARWHITCHET, quip, pun. CASAMATE, casemate, fortress. CASE, a pair. CASE, "in--," in condition. CASSOCK, soldier's loose overcoat. CAST, flight of hawks, couple. CAST, throw dice; vomit; forecast, calculate. CAST, cashiered. CASTING-GLASS, bottle for sprinkling perfume. CASTRIL, kestrel, falcon. CAT, structure used in sieges. CATAMITE, old form of "ganymede." CATASTROPHE, conclusion. CATCHPOLE, sheriff's officer. CATES, dainties, provisions. CATSO, rogue, cheat. CAUTELOUS, crafty, artful. CENSURE, criticism; sentence. CENSURE, criticise; pass sentence, doom. CERUSE, cosmetic containing white lead. CESS, assess. CHANGE, "hunt--," follow a fresh scent. CHAPMAN, retail dealer. CHARACTER, handwriting. CHARGE, expense. CHARM, subdue with magic, lay a spell on, silence. CHARMING, exercising magic power. CHARTEL, challenge. CHEAP, bargain, market. CHEAR, CHEER, comfort, encouragement; food, entertainment. CHECK AT, aim reproof at. CHEQUIN, gold Italian coin. CHEVRIL, from kidskin, which is elastic and pliable. CHIAUS, Turkish envoy; used for a cheat, swindler. CHILDERMASS DAY, Innocents' Day. CHOKE-BAIL, action which does not allow of bail. CHRYSOPOEIA, alchemy. CHRYSOSPERM, ways of producing gold. CIBATION, adding fresh substances to supply the waste of evaporation. CIMICI, bugs. CINOPER, cinnabar. CIOPPINI, chopine, lady's high shoe. CIRCLING BOY, "a species of roarer; one who in some way drew a man into a snare, to cheat or rob him" (Nares). CIRCUMSTANCE, circumlocution, beating about the bush; ceremony, everything pertaining to a certain condition; detail, particular. CITRONISE, turn citron colour. CITTERN, kind of guitar. CITY-WIRES, woman of fashion, who made use of wires for hair and dress. CIVIL, legal. CLAP, clack, chatter. CLAPPER-DUDGEON, downright beggar. CLAPS HIS DISH, a clap, or clack, dish (dish with a movable lid) was carried by beggars and lepers to show that the vessel was empty, and to give sound of their approach. CLARIDIANA, heroine of an old romance. CLARISSIMO, Venetian noble. CLEM, starve. CLICKET, latch. CLIM O' THE CLOUGHS, etc., wordy heroes of romance. CLIMATE, country. CLOSE, secret, private; secretive. CLOSENESS, secrecy. CLOTH, arras, hangings. CLOUT, mark shot at, bull's eye. CLOWN, countryman, clodhopper. COACH-LEAVES, folding blinds. COALS, "bear no--," submit to no affront. COAT-ARMOUR, coat of arms. COAT-CARD, court-card. COB-HERRING, HERRING-COB, a young herring. COB-SWAN, male swan. COCK-A-HOOP, denoting unstinted jollity; thought to be derived from turning on the tap that all might drink to the full of the flowing liquor. COCKATRICE, reptile supposed to be produced from a cock's egg and to kill by its eye--used as a term of reproach for a woman. COCK-BRAINED, giddy, wild. COCKER, pamper. COCKSCOMB, fool's cap. COCKSTONE, stone said to be found in a cock's gizzard, and to possess particular virtues. CODLING, softening by boiling. COFFIN, raised crust of a pie. COG, cheat, wheedle. COIL, turmoil, confusion, ado. COKELY, master of a puppet-show (Whalley). COKES, fool, gull. COLD-CONCEITED, having cold opinion of, coldly affected towards. COLE-HARBOUR, a retreat for people of all sorts. COLLECTION, composure; deduction. COLLOP, small slice, piece of flesh. COLLY, blacken. COLOUR, pretext. COLOURS, "fear no--," no enemy (quibble). COLSTAFF, cowlstaff, pole for carrying a cowl=tub. COME ABOUT, charge, turn round. COMFORTABLE BREAD, spiced gingerbread. COMING, forward, ready to respond, complaisant. COMMENT, commentary; "sometime it is taken for a lie or fayned tale" (Bullokar, 1616). COMMODITY, "current for--," allusion to practice of money-lenders, who forced the borrower to take part of the loan in the shape of worthless goods on which the latter had to make money if he could. COMMUNICATE, share. COMPASS, "in--," within the range, sphere. COMPLEMENT, completion, completement; anything required for the perfecting or carrying out of a person or affair; accomplishment. COMPLEXION, natural disposition, constitution. COMPLIMENT, See Complement. COMPLIMENTARIES, masters of accomplishments. COMPOSITION, constitution; agreement, contract. COMPOSURE, composition. COMPTER, COUNTER, debtors' prison. CONCEALMENT, a certain amount of church property had been retained at the dissolution of the monasteries; Elizabeth sent commissioners to search it out, and the courtiers begged for it. CONCEIT, idea, fancy, witty invention, conception, opinion. CONCEIT, apprehend. CONCEITED, fancifully, ingeniously devised or conceived; possessed of intelligence, witty, ingenious (hence well conceited, etc.); disposed to joke; of opinion, possessed of an idea. CONCEIVE, understand. CONCENT, harmony, agreement. CONCLUDE, infer, prove. CONCOCT, assimilate, digest. CONDEN'T, probably conducted. CONDUCT, escort, conductor. CONEY-CATCH, cheat. CONFECT, sweetmeat. CONFER, compare. CONGIES, bows. CONNIVE, give a look, wink, of secret intelligence. CONSORT, company, concert. CONSTANCY, fidelity, ardour, persistence. CONSTANT, confirmed, persistent, faithful. CONSTANTLY, firmly, persistently. CONTEND, strive. CONTINENT, holding together. CONTROL (the point), bear or beat down. CONVENT, assembly, meeting. CONVERT, turn (oneself). CONVEY, transmit from one to another. CONVINCE, evince, prove; overcome, overpower; convict. COP, head, top; tuft on head of birds; "a cop" may have reference to one or other meaning; Gifford and others interpret as "conical, terminating in a point." COPE-MAN, chapman. COPESMATE, companion. COPY (Lat. copia), abundance, copiousness. CORN ("powder--"), grain. COROLLARY, finishing part or touch. CORSIVE, corrosive. CORTINE, curtain, (arch.) wall between two towers, etc. CORYAT, famous for his travels, published as "Coryat's Crudities." COSSET, pet lamb, pet. COSTARD, head. COSTARD-MONGER, apple-seller, coster-monger. COSTS, ribs. COTE, hut. COTHURNAL, from "cothurnus," a particular boot worn by actors in Greek tragedy. COTQUEAN, hussy. COUNSEL, secret. COUNTENANCE, means necessary for support; credit, standing. COUNTER. See Compter. COUNTER, pieces of metal or ivory for calculating at play. COUNTER, "hunt--," follow scent in reverse direction. COUNTERFEIT, false coin. COUNTERPANE, one part or counterpart of a deed or indenture. COUNTERPOINT, opposite, contrary point. COURT-DISH, a kind of drinking-cup (Halliwell); N.E.D. quotes from Bp. Goodman's "Court of James I.": "The king... caused his carver to cut him out a court-dish, that is, something of every dish, which he sent him as part of his reversion," but this does not sound like short allowance or small receptacle. COURT-DOR, fool. COURTEAU, curtal, small horse with docked tail. COURTSHIP, courtliness. COVETISE, avarice. COWSHARD, cow dung. COXCOMB, fool's cap, fool. COY, shrink; disdain. COYSTREL, low varlet. COZEN, cheat. CRACK, lively young rogue, wag. CRACK, crack up, boast; come to grief. CRAMBE, game of crambo, in which the players find rhymes for a given word. CRANCH, craunch. CRANION, spider-like; also fairy appellation for a fly (Gifford, who refers to lines in Drayton's "Nimphidia"). CRIMP, game at cards. CRINCLE, draw back, turn aside. CRISPED, with curled or waved hair. CROP, gather, reap. CROPSHIRE, a kind of herring. (See N.E.D.) CROSS, any piece of money, many coins being stamped with a cross. CROSS AND PILE, heads and tails. CROSSLET, crucible. CROWD, fiddle. CRUDITIES, undigested matter. CRUMP, curl up. CRUSADO, Portuguese gold coin, marked with a cross. CRY ("he that cried Italian"), "speak in a musical cadence," intone, or declaim (?); cry up. CUCKING-STOOL, used for the ducking of scolds, etc. CUCURBITE, a gourd-shaped vessel used for distillation. CUERPO, "in--," in undress. CULLICE, broth. CULLION, base fellow, coward. CULLISEN, badge worn on their arm by servants. CULVERIN, kind of cannon. CUNNING, skill. CUNNING, skilful. CUNNING-MAN, fortune-teller. CURE, care for. CURIOUS(LY), scrupulous, particular; elaborate, elegant(ly), dainty(ly) (hence "in curious"). CURST, shrewish, mischievous. CURTAL, dog with docked tail, of inferior sort. CUSTARD, "quaking--," "--politic," reference to a large custard which formed part of a city feast and afforded huge entertainment, for the fool jumped into it, and other like tricks were played. (See "All's Well, etc." ii. 5, 40.) CUTWORK, embroidery, open-work. CYPRES (CYPRUS) (quibble), cypress (or cyprus) being a transparent material, and when black used for mourning. DAGGER ("--frumety"), name of tavern. DARGISON, apparently some person known in ballad or tale. DAUPHIN MY BOY, refrain of old comic song. DAW, daunt. DEAD LIFT, desperate emergency. DEAR, applied to that which in any way touches us nearly. DECLINE, turn off from; turn away, aside. DEFALK, deduct, abate. DEFEND, forbid. DEGENEROUS, degenerate. DEGREES, steps. DELATE, accuse. DEMI-CULVERIN, cannon carrying a ball of about ten pounds. DENIER, the smallest possible coin, being the twelfth part of a sou. DEPART, part with. DEPENDANCE, ground of quarrel in duello language. DESERT, reward. DESIGNMENT, design. DESPERATE, rash, reckless. DETECT, allow to be detected, betray, inform against. DETERMINE, terminate. DETRACT, draw back, refuse. DEVICE, masque, show; a thing moved by wires, etc., puppet. DEVISE, exact in every particular. DEVISED, invented. DIAPASM, powdered aromatic herbs, made into balls of perfumed paste. (See Pomander.) DIBBLE, (?) moustache (N.E.D.); (?) dagger (Cunningham). DIFFUSED, disordered, scattered, irregular. DIGHT, dressed. DILDO, refrain of popular songs; vague term of low meaning. DIMBLE, dingle, ravine. DIMENSUM, stated allowance. DISBASE, debase. DISCERN, distinguish, show a difference between. DISCHARGE, settle for. DISCIPLINE, reformation; ecclesiastical system. DISCLAIM, renounce all part in. DISCOURSE, process of reasoning, reasoning faculty. DISCOURTSHIP, discourtesy. DISCOVER, betray, reveal; display. DISFAVOUR, disfigure. DISPARAGEMENT, legal term applied to the unfitness in any way of a marriage arranged for in the case of wards. DISPENSE WITH, grant dispensation for. DISPLAY, extend. DIS'PLE, discipline, teach by the whip. DISPOSED, inclined to merriment. DISPOSURE, disposal. DISPRISE, depreciate. DISPUNCT, not punctilious. DISQUISITION, search. DISSOLVED, enervated by grief. DISTANCE, (?) proper measure. DISTASTE, offence, cause of offence. DISTASTE, render distasteful. DISTEMPERED, upset, out of humour. DIVISION (mus.), variation, modulation. DOG-BOLT, term of contempt. DOLE, given in dole, charity. DOLE OF FACES, distribution of grimaces. DOOM, verdict, sentence. DOP, dip, low bow. DOR, beetle, buzzing insect, drone, idler. DOR, (?) buzz; "give the--," make a fool of. DOSSER, pannier, basket. DOTES, endowments, qualities. DOTTEREL, plover; gull, fool. DOUBLE, behave deceitfully. DOXY, wench, mistress. DRACHM, Greek silver coin. DRESS, groom, curry. DRESSING, coiffure. DRIFT, intention. DRYFOOT, track by mere scent of foot. DUCKING, punishment for minor offences. DUILL, grieve. DUMPS, melancholy, originally a mournful melody. DURINDANA, Orlando's sword. DWINDLE, shrink away, be overawed. EAN, yean, bring forth young. EASINESS, readiness. EBOLITION, ebullition. EDGE, sword. EECH, eke. EGREGIOUS, eminently excellent. EKE, also, moreover. E-LA, highest note in the scale. EGGS ON THE SPIT, important business on hand. ELF-LOCK, tangled hair, supposed to be the work of elves. EMMET, ant. ENGAGE, involve. ENGHLE. See Ingle. ENGHLE, cajole; fondle. ENGIN(E), device, contrivance; agent; ingenuity, wit. ENGINER, engineer, deviser, plotter. ENGINOUS, crafty, full of devices; witty, ingenious. ENGROSS, monopolise. ENS, an existing thing, a substance. ENSIGNS, tokens, wounds. ENSURE, assure. ENTERTAIN, take into service. ENTREAT, plead. ENTREATY, entertainment. ENTRY, place where a deer has lately passed. ENVOY, denouement, conclusion. ENVY, spite, calumny, dislike, odium. EPHEMERIDES, calendars. EQUAL, just, impartial. ERECTION, elevation in esteem. ERINGO, candied root of the sea-holly, formerly used as a sweetmeat and aphrodisiac. ERRANT, arrant. ESSENTIATE, become assimilated. ESTIMATION, esteem. ESTRICH, ostrich. ETHNIC, heathen. EURIPUS, flux and reflux. EVEN, just equable. EVENT, fate, issue. EVENT(ED), issue(d). EVERT, overturn. EXACUATE, sharpen. EXAMPLESS, without example or parallel. EXCALIBUR, King Arthur's sword. EXEMPLIFY, make an example of. EXEMPT, separate, exclude. EXEQUIES, obsequies. EXHALE, drag out. EXHIBITION, allowance for keep, pocket-money. EXORBITANT, exceeding limits of propriety or law, inordinate. EXORNATION, ornament. EXPECT, wait. EXPIATE, terminate. EXPLICATE, explain, unfold. EXTEMPORAL, extempore, unpremeditated. EXTRACTION, essence. EXTRAORDINARY, employed for a special or temporary purpose. EXTRUDE, expel. EYE, "in--," in view. EYEBRIGHT, (?) a malt liquor in which the herb of this name was infused, or a person who sold the same (Gifford). EYE-TINGE, least shade or gleam. FACE, appearance. FACES ABOUT, military word of command. FACINOROUS, extremely wicked. FACKINGS, faith. FACT, deed, act, crime. FACTIOUS, seditious, belonging to a party, given to party feeling. FAECES, dregs. FAGIOLI, French beans. FAIN, forced, necessitated. FAITHFUL, believing. FALL, ruff or band turned back on the shoulders; or, veil. FALSIFY, feign (fencing term). FAME, report. FAMILIAR, attendant spirit. FANTASTICAL, capricious, whimsical. FARCE, stuff. FAR-FET. See Fet. FARTHINGAL, hooped petticoat. FAUCET, tapster. FAULT, lack; loss, break in line of scent; "for--," in default of. FAUTOR, partisan. FAYLES, old table game similar to backgammon. FEAR(ED), affright(ed). FEAT, activity, operation; deed, action. FEAT, elegant, trim. FEE, "in--" by feudal obligation. FEIZE, beat, belabour. FELLOW, term of contempt. FENNEL, emblem of flattery. FERE, companion, fellow. FERN-SEED, supposed to have power of rendering invisible. FET, fetched. FETCH, trick. FEUTERER (Fr. vautrier), dog-keeper. FEWMETS, dung. FICO, fig. FIGGUM, (?) jugglery. FIGMENT, fiction, invention. FIRK, frisk, move suddenly, or in jerks; "--up," stir up, rouse; "firks mad," suddenly behaves like a madman. FIT, pay one out, punish. FITNESS, readiness. FITTON (FITTEN), lie, invention. FIVE-AND-FIFTY, "highest number to stand on at primero" (Gifford). FLAG, to fly low and waveringly. FLAGON CHAIN, for hanging a smelling-bottle (Fr. flacon) round the neck (?). (See N.E.D.). FLAP-DRAGON, game similar to snap-dragon. FLASKET, some kind of basket. FLAW, sudden gust or squall of wind. FLAWN, custard. FLEA, catch fleas. FLEER, sneer, laugh derisively. FLESH, feed a hawk or dog with flesh to incite it to the chase; initiate in blood-shed; satiate. FLICKER-MOUSE, bat. FLIGHT, light arrow. FLITTER-MOUSE, bat. FLOUT, mock, speak and act contemptuously. FLOWERS, pulverised substance. FLY, familiar spirit. FOIL, weapon used in fencing; that which sets anything off to advantage. FOIST, cut-purse, sharper. FOND(LY), foolish(ly). FOOT-CLOTH, housings of ornamental cloth which hung down on either side a horse to the ground. FOOTING, foothold; footstep; dancing. FOPPERY, foolery. FOR, "--failing," for fear of failing. FORBEAR, bear with; abstain from. FORCE, "hunt at--," run the game down with dogs. FOREHEAD, modesty; face, assurance, effrontery. FORESLOW, delay. FORESPEAK, bewitch; foretell. FORETOP, front lock of hair which fashion required to be worn upright. FORGED, fabricated. FORM, state formally. FORMAL, shapely; normal; conventional. FORTHCOMING, produced when required. FOUNDER, disable with over-riding. FOURM, form, lair. FOX, sword. FRAIL, rush basket in which figs or raisins were packed. FRAMPULL, peevish, sour-tempered. FRAPLER, blusterer, wrangler. FRAYING, "a stag is said to fray his head when he rubs it against a tree to... cause the outward coat of the new horns to fall off" (Gifford). FREIGHT (of the gazetti), burden (of the newspapers). FREQUENT, full. FRICACE, rubbing. FRICATRICE, woman of low character. FRIPPERY, old clothes shop. FROCK, smock-frock. FROLICS, (?) humorous verses circulated at a feast (N.E.D.); couplets wrapped round sweetmeats (Cunningham). FRONTLESS, shameless. FROTED, rubbed. FRUMETY, hulled wheat boiled in milk and spiced. FRUMP, flout, sneer. FUCUS, dye. FUGEAND, (?) figent: fidgety, restless (N.E.D.). FULLAM, false dice. FULMART, polecat. FULSOME, foul, offensive. FURIBUND, raging, furious. GALLEY-FOIST, city-barge, used on Lord Mayor's Day, when he was sworn into his office at Westminster (Whalley). GALLIARD, lively dance in triple time. GAPE, be eager after. GARAGANTUA, Rabelais' giant. GARB, sheaf (Fr. gerbe); manner, fashion, behaviour. GARD, guard, trimming, gold or silver lace, or other ornament. GARDED, faced or trimmed. GARNISH, fee. GAVEL-KIND, name of a land-tenure existing chiefly in Kent; from 16th century often used to denote custom of dividing a deceased man's property equally among his sons (N.E.D.). GAZETTE, small Venetian coin worth about three-farthings. GEANCE, jaunt, errand. GEAR (GEER), stuff, matter, affair. GELID, frozen. GEMONIES, steps from which the bodies of criminals were thrown into the river. GENERAL, free, affable. GENIUS, attendant spirit. GENTRY, gentlemen; manners characteristic of gentry, good breeding. GIB-CAT, tom-cat. GIGANTOMACHIZE, start a giants' war. GIGLOT, wanton. GIMBLET, gimlet. GING, gang. GLASS ("taking in of shadows, etc."), crystal or beryl. GLEEK, card game played by three; party of three, trio; side glance. GLICK (GLEEK), jest, gibe. GLIDDER, glaze. GLORIOUSLY, of vain glory. GODWIT, bird of the snipe family. GOLD-END-MAN, a buyer of broken gold and silver. GOLL, hand. GONFALIONIER, standard-bearer, chief magistrate, etc. GOOD, sound in credit. GOOD-YEAR, good luck. GOOSE-TURD, colour of. (See Turd). GORCROW, carrion crow. GORGET, neck armour. GOSSIP, godfather. GOWKED, from "gowk," to stand staring and gaping like a fool. GRANNAM, grandam. GRASS, (?) grease, fat. GRATEFUL, agreeable, welcome. GRATIFY, give thanks to. GRATITUDE, gratuity. GRATULATE, welcome, congratulate. GRAVITY, dignity. GRAY, badger. GRICE, cub. GRIEF, grievance. GRIPE, vulture, griffin. GRIPE'S EGG, vessel in shape of. GROAT, fourpence. GROGRAN, coarse stuff made of silk and mohair, or of coarse silk. GROOM-PORTER, officer in the royal household. GROPE, handle, probe. GROUND, pit (hence "grounded judgments"). GUARD, caution, heed. GUARDANT, heraldic term: turning the head only. GUILDER, Dutch coin worth about 4d. GULES, gullet, throat; heraldic term for red. GULL, simpleton, dupe. GUST, taste. HAB NAB, by, on, chance. HABERGEON, coat of mail. HAGGARD, wild female hawk; hence coy, wild. HALBERD, combination of lance and battle-axe. HALL, "a--!" a cry to clear the room for the dancers. HANDSEL, first money taken. HANGER, loop or strap on a sword-belt from which the sword was suspended. HAP, fortune, luck. HAPPILY, haply. HAPPINESS, appropriateness, fitness. HAPPY, rich. HARBOUR, track, trace (an animal) to its shelter. HARD-FAVOURED, harsh-featured. HARPOCRATES, Horus the child, son of Osiris, figured with a finger pointing to his mouth, indicative of silence. HARRINGTON, a patent was granted to Lord H. for the coinage of tokens (q.v.). HARROT, herald. HARRY NICHOLAS, founder of a community called the "Family of Love." HAY, net for catching rabbits, etc. HAY! (Ital. hai!), you have it (a fencing term). HAY IN HIS HORN, ill-tempered person. HAZARD, game at dice; that which is staked. HEAD, "first--," young deer with antlers first sprouting; fig. a newly-ennobled man. HEADBOROUGH, constable. HEARKEN AFTER, inquire; "hearken out," find, search out. HEARTEN, encourage. HEAVEN AND HELL ("Alchemist"), names of taverns. HECTIC, fever. HEDGE IN, include. HELM, upper part of a retort. HER'NSEW, hernshaw, heron. HIERONIMO (JERONIMO), hero of Kyd's "Spanish Tragedy." HOBBY, nag. HOBBY-HORSE, imitation horse of some light material, fastened round the waist of the morrice-dancer, who imitated the movements of a skittish horse. HODDY-DODDY, fool. HOIDEN, hoyden, formerly applied to both sexes (ancient term for leveret? Gifford). HOLLAND, name of two famous chemists. HONE AND HONERO, wailing expressions of lament or discontent. HOOD-WINK'D, blindfolded. HORARY, hourly. HORN-MAD, stark mad (quibble). HORN-THUMB, cut-purses were in the habit of wearing a horn shield on the thumb. HORSE-BREAD-EATING, horses were often fed on coarse bread. HORSE-COURSER, horse-dealer. HOSPITAL, Christ's Hospital. HOWLEGLAS, Eulenspiegel, the hero of a popular German tale which relates his buffooneries and knavish tricks. HUFF, hectoring, arrogance. HUFF IT, swagger. HUISHER (Fr. huissier), usher. HUM, beer and spirits mixed together. HUMANITIAN, humanist, scholar. HUMOROUS, capricious, moody, out of humour; moist. HUMOUR, a word used in and out of season in the time of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, and ridiculed by both. HUMOURS, manners. HUMPHREY, DUKE, those who were dinnerless spent the dinner-hour in a part of St. Paul's where stood a monument said to be that of the duke's; hence "dine with Duke Humphrey," to go hungry. HURTLESS, harmless. IDLE, useless, unprofitable. ILL-AFFECTED, ill-disposed. ILL-HABITED, unhealthy. ILLUSTRATE, illuminate. IMBIBITION, saturation, steeping. IMBROCATA, fencing term: a thrust in tierce. IMPAIR, impairment. IMPART, give money. IMPARTER, any one ready to be cheated and to part with his money. IMPEACH, damage. IMPERTINENCIES, irrelevancies. IMPERTINENT(LY), irrelevant(ly), without reason or purpose. IMPOSITION, duty imposed by. IMPOTENTLY, beyond power of control. IMPRESS, money in advance. IMPULSION, incitement. IN AND IN, a game played by two or three persons with four dice. INCENSE, incite, stir up. INCERATION, act of covering with wax; or reducing a substance to softness of wax. INCH, "to their--es," according to their stature, capabilities. INCH-PIN, sweet-bread. INCONVENIENCE, inconsistency, absurdity. INCONY, delicate, rare (used as a term of affection). INCUBEE, incubus. INCUBUS, evil spirit that oppresses us in sleep, nightmare. INCURIOUS, unfastidious, uncritical. INDENT, enter into engagement. INDIFFERENT, tolerable, passable. INDIGESTED, shapeless, chaotic. INDUCE, introduce. INDUE, supply. INEXORABLE, relentless. INFANTED, born, produced. INFLAME, augment charge. INGENIOUS, used indiscriminantly for ingenuous; intelligent, talented. INGENUITY, ingenuousness. INGENUOUS, generous. INGINE. See Engin. INGINER, engineer. (See Enginer). INGLE, OR ENGHLE, bosom friend, intimate, minion. INHABITABLE, uninhabitable. INJURY, insult, affront. IN-MATE, resident, indwelling. INNATE, natural. INNOCENT, simpleton. INQUEST, jury, or other official body of inquiry. INQUISITION, inquiry. INSTANT, immediate. INSTRUMENT, legal document. INSURE, assure. INTEGRATE, complete, perfect. INTELLIGENCE, secret information, news. INTEND, note carefully, attend, give ear to, be occupied with. INTENDMENT, intention. INTENT, intention, wish. INTENTION, concentration of attention or gaze. INTENTIVE, attentive. INTERESSED, implicated. INTRUDE, bring in forcibly or without leave. INVINCIBLY, invisibly. INWARD, intimate. IRPE (uncertain), "a fantastic grimace, or contortion of the body: (Gifford)." JACK, Jack o' the clock, automaton figure that strikes the hour; Jack-a-lent, puppet thrown at in Lent. JACK, key of a virginal. JACOB'S STAFF, an instrument for taking altitudes and distances. JADE, befool. JEALOUSY, JEALOUS, suspicion, suspicious. JERKING, lashing. JEW'S TRUMP, Jew's harp. JIG, merry ballad or tune; a fanciful dialogue or light comic act introduced at the end or during an interlude of a play. JOINED (JOINT)-STOOL, folding stool. JOLL, jowl. JOLTHEAD, blockhead. JUMP, agree, tally. JUST YEAR, no one was capable of the consulship until he was forty-three. KELL, cocoon. KELLY, an alchemist. KEMB, comb. KEMIA, vessel for distillation. KIBE, chap, sore. KILDERKIN, small barrel. KILL, kiln. KIND, nature; species; "do one's--," act according to one's nature. KIRTLE, woman's gown of jacket and petticoat. KISS OR DRINK AFORE ME, "this is a familiar expression, employed when what the speaker is just about to say is anticipated by another" (Gifford). KIT, fiddle. KNACK, snap, click. KNIPPER-DOLING, a well-known Anabaptist. KNITTING CUP, marriage cup. KNOCKING, striking, weighty. KNOT, company, band; a sandpiper or robin snipe (Tringa canutus); flower-bed laid out in fanciful design. KURSINED, KYRSIN, christened. LABOURED, wrought with labour and care. LADE, load(ed). LADING, load. LAID, plotted. LANCE-KNIGHT (Lanzknecht), a German mercenary foot-soldier. LAP, fold. LAR, household god. LARD, garnish. LARGE, abundant. LARUM, alarum, call to arms. LATTICE, tavern windows were furnished with lattices of various colours. LAUNDER, to wash gold in aqua regia, so as imperceptibly to extract some of it. LAVE, ladle, bale. LAW, "give--," give a start (term of chase). LAXATIVE, loose. LAY ABOARD, run alongside generally with intent to board. LEAGUER, siege, or camp of besieging army. LEASING, lying. LEAVE, leave off, desist. LEER, leering or "empty, hence, perhaps, leer horse, a horse without a rider; leer is an adjective meaning uncontrolled, hence 'leer drunkards'" (Halliwell); according to Nares, a leer (empty) horse meant also a led horse; leeward, left. LEESE, lose. LEGS, "make--," do obeisance. LEIGER, resident representative. LEIGERITY, legerdemain. LEMMA, subject proposed, or title of the epigram. LENTER, slower. LET, hinder. LET, hindrance. LEVEL COIL, a rough game... in which one hunted another from his seat. Hence used for any noisy riot (Halliwell). LEWD, ignorant. LEYSTALLS, receptacles of filth. LIBERAL, ample. LIEGER, ledger, register. LIFT(ING), steal(ing); theft. LIGHT, alight. LIGHTLY, commonly, usually, often. LIKE, please. LIKELY, agreeable, pleasing. LIME-HOUND, leash-, blood-hound. LIMMER, vile, worthless. LIN, leave off. Line, "by--," by rule. LINSTOCK, staff to stick in the ground, with forked head to hold a lighted match for firing cannon. LIQUID, clear. LIST, listen, hark; like, please. LIVERY, legal term, delivery of the possession, etc. LOGGET, small log, stick. LOOSE, solution; upshot, issue; release of an arrow. LOSE, give over, desist from; waste. LOUTING, bowing, cringing. LUCULENT, bright of beauty. LUDGATHIANS, dealers on Ludgate Hill. LURCH, rob, cheat. LUTE, to close a vessel with some kind of cement. MACK, unmeaning expletive. MADGE-HOWLET or OWL, barn-owl. MAIM, hurt, injury. MAIN, chief concern (used as a quibble on heraldic term for "hand"). MAINPRISE, becoming surety for a prisoner so as to procure his release. MAINTENANCE, giving aid, or abetting. MAKE, mate. MAKE, MADE, acquaint with business, prepare(d), instruct(ed). MALLANDERS, disease of horses. MALT HORSE, dray horse. MAMMET, puppet. MAMMOTHREPT, spoiled child. MANAGE, control (term used for breaking-in horses); handling, administration. MANGO, slave-dealer. MANGONISE, polish up for sale. MANIPLES, bundles, handfuls. MANKIND, masculine, like a virago. MANKIND, humanity. MAPLE FACE, spotted face (N.E.D.). MARCHPANE, a confection of almonds, sugar, etc. MARK, "fly to the--," "generally said of a goshawk when, having 'put in' a covey of partridges, she takes stand, marking the spot where they disappeared from view until the falconer arrives to put them out to her" (Harting, Bibl. Accip. Gloss. 226). MARLE, marvel. MARROW-BONE MAN, one often on his knees for prayer. MARRY! exclamation derived from the Virgin's name. MARRY GIP, "probably originated from By Mary Gipcy" = St. Mary of Egypt, (N.E.D.). MARTAGAN, Turk's cap lily. MARYHINCHCO, stringhalt. MASORETH, Masora, correct form of the scriptural text according to Hebrew tradition. MASS, abb. for master. MAUND, beg. MAUTHER, girl, maid. MEAN, moderation. MEASURE, dance, more especially a stately one. MEAT, "carry--in one's mouth," be a source of money or entertainment. MEATH, metheglin. MECHANICAL, belonging to mechanics, mean, vulgar. MEDITERRANEO, middle aisle of St. Paul's, a general resort for business and amusement. MEET WITH, even with. MELICOTTON, a late kind of peach. MENSTRUE, solvent. MERCAT, market. MERD, excrement. MERE, undiluted; absolute, unmitigated. MESS, party of four. METHEGLIN, fermented liquor, of which one ingredient was honey. METOPOSCOPY, study of physiognomy. MIDDLING GOSSIP, go-between. MIGNIARD, dainty, delicate. MILE-END, training-ground of the city. MINE-MEN, sappers. MINION, form of cannon. MINSITIVE, (?) mincing, affected (N.E.D.). MISCELLANY MADAM, "a female trader in miscellaneous articles; a dealer in trinkets or ornaments of various kinds, such as kept shops in the New Exchange" (Nares). MISCELLINE, mixed grain; medley. MISCONCEIT, misconception. MISPRISE, MISPRISION, mistake, misunderstanding. MISTAKE AWAY, carry away as if by mistake. MITHRIDATE, an antidote against poison. MOCCINIGO, small Venetian coin, worth about ninepence. MODERN, in the mode; ordinary, commonplace. MOMENT, force or influence of value. MONTANTO, upward stroke. MONTH'S MIND, violent desire. MOORISH, like a moor or waste. MORGLAY, sword of Bevis of Southampton. MORRICE-DANCE, dance on May Day, etc., in which certain personages were represented. MORTALITY, death. MORT-MAL, old sore, gangrene. MOSCADINO, confection flavoured with musk. MOTHER, Hysterica passio. MOTION, proposal, request; puppet, puppet-show; "one of the small figures on the face of a large clock which was moved by the vibration of the pendulum" (Whalley). MOTION, suggest, propose. MOTLEY, parti-coloured dress of a fool; hence used to signify pertaining to, or like, a fool. MOTTE, motto. MOURNIVAL, set of four aces or court cards in a hand; a quartette. MOW, setord hay or sheaves of grain. MUCH! expressive of irony and incredulity. MUCKINDER, handkerchief. MULE, "born to ride on--," judges or serjeants-at-law formerly rode on mules when going in state to Westminster (Whally). MULLETS, small pincers. MUM-CHANCE, game of chance, played in silence. MUN, must. MUREY, dark crimson red. MUSCOVY-GLASS, mica. MUSE, wonder. MUSICAL, in harmony. MUSS, mouse; scramble. MYROBOLANE, foreign conserve, "a dried plum, brought from the Indies." MYSTERY, art, trade, profession. NAIL, "to the--" (ad unguem), to perfection, to the very utmost. NATIVE, natural. NEAT, cattle. NEAT, smartly apparelled; unmixed; dainty. NEATLY, neatly finished. NEATNESS, elegance. NEIS, nose, scent. NEUF (NEAF, NEIF), fist. NEUFT, newt. NIAISE, foolish, inexperienced person. NICE, fastidious, trivial, finical, scrupulous. NICENESS, fastidiousness. NICK, exact amount; right moment; "set in the--," meaning uncertain. NICE, suit, fit; hit, seize the right moment, etc., exactly hit on, hit off. NOBLE, gold coin worth 6s. 8d. NOCENT, harmful. NIL, not will. NOISE, company of musicians. NOMENTACK, an Indian chief from Virginia. NONES, nonce. NOTABLE, egregious. NOTE, sign, token. NOUGHT, "be--," go to the devil, be hanged, etc. NOWT-HEAD, blockhead. NUMBER, rhythm. NUPSON, oaf, simpleton. OADE, woad. OBARNI, preparation of mead. OBJECT, oppose; expose; interpose. OBLATRANT, barking, railing. OBNOXIOUS, liable, exposed; offensive. OBSERVANCE, homage, devoted service. OBSERVANT, attentive, obsequious. OBSERVE, show deference, respect. OBSERVER, one who shows deference, or waits upon another. OBSTANCY, legal phrase, "juridical opposition." OBSTREPEROUS, clamorous, vociferous. OBSTUPEFACT, stupefied. ODLING, (?) "must have some relation to tricking and cheating" (Nares). OMINOUS, deadly, fatal. ONCE, at once; for good and all; used also for additional emphasis. ONLY, pre-eminent, special. OPEN, make public; expound. OPPILATION, obstruction. OPPONE, oppose. OPPOSITE, antagonist. OPPRESS, suppress. ORIGINOUS, native. ORT, remnant, scrap. OUT, "to be--," to have forgotten one's part; not at one with each other. OUTCRY, sale by auction. OUTRECUIDANCE, arrogance, presumption. OUTSPEAK, speak more than. OVERPARTED, given too difficult a part to play. OWLSPIEGEL. See Howleglass. OYEZ! (O YES!), hear ye! call of the public crier when about to make a proclamation. PACKING PENNY, "give a--," dismiss, send packing. PAD, highway. PAD-HORSE, road-horse. PAINED (PANED) SLOPS, full breeches made of strips of different colour and material. PAINFUL, diligent, painstaking. PAINT, blush. PALINODE, ode of recantation. PALL, weaken, dim, make stale. PALM, triumph. PAN, skirt of dress or coat. PANNEL, pad, or rough kind of saddle. PANNIER-ALLY, inhabited by tripe-sellers. PANNIER-MAN, hawker; a man employed about the inns of court to bring in provisions, set the table, etc. PANTOFLE, indoor shoe, slipper. PARAMENTOS, fine trappings. PARANOMASIE, a play upon words. PARANTORY, (?) peremptory. PARCEL, particle, fragment (used contemptuously); article. PARCEL, part, partly. PARCEL-POET, poetaster. PARERGA, subordinate matters. PARGET, to paint or plaster the face. PARLE, parley. PARLOUS, clever, shrewd. PART, apportion. PARTAKE, participate in. PARTED, endowed, talented. PARTICULAR, individual person. PARTIZAN, kind of halberd. PARTRICH, partridge. PARTS, qualities, endowments. PASH, dash, smash. PASS, care, trouble oneself. PASSADO, fencing term: a thrust. PASSAGE, game at dice. PASSINGLY, exceedingly. PASSION, effect caused by external agency. PASSION, "in--," in so melancholy a tone, so pathetically. PATOUN, (?) Fr. Paton, pellet of dough; perhaps the "moulding of the tobacco... for the pipe" (Gifford); (?) variant of Petun, South American name of tobacco. PATRICO, the recorder, priest, orator of strolling beggars or gipsies. PATTEN, shoe with wooden sole; "go--," keep step with, accompany. PAUCA VERBA, few words. PAVIN, a stately dance. PEACE, "with my master's--," by leave, favour. PECULIAR, individual, single. PEDANT, teacher of the languages. PEEL, baker's shovel. PEEP, speak in a small or shrill voice. PEEVISH(LY), foolish(ly), capricious(ly); childish(ly). PELICAN, a retort fitted with tube or tubes, for continuous distillation. PENCIL, small tuft of hair. PERDUE, soldier accustomed to hazardous service. PEREMPTORY, resolute, bold; imperious; thorough, utter, absolute(ly). PERIMETER, circumference of a figure. PERIOD, limit, end. PERK, perk up. PERPETUANA, "this seems to be that glossy kind of stuff now called everlasting, and anciently worn by serjeants and other city officers" (Gifford). PERSPECTIVE, a view, scene or scenery; an optical device which gave a distortion to the picture unless seen from a particular point; a relief, modelled to produce an optical illusion. PERSPICIL, optic glass. PERSTRINGE, criticise, censure. PERSUADE, inculcate, commend. PERSWAY, mitigate. PERTINACY, pertinacity. PESTLING, pounding, pulverising, like a pestle. PETASUS, broad-brimmed hat or winged cap worn by Mercury. PETITIONARY, supplicatory. PETRONEL, a kind of carbine or light gun carried by horsemen. PETULANT, pert, insolent. PHERE. See Fere. PHLEGMA, watery distilled liquor (old chem. "water"). PHRENETIC, madman. PICARDIL, stiff upright collar fastened on to the coat (Whalley). PICT-HATCH, disreputable quarter of London. PIECE, person, used for woman or girl; a gold coin worth in Jonson's time 20s. or 22s. PIECES OF EIGHT, Spanish coin: piastre equal to eight reals. PIED, variegated. PIE-POUDRES (Fr. pied-poudreux, dusty-foot), court held at fairs to administer justice to itinerant vendors and buyers. PILCHER, term of contempt; one who wore a buff or leather jerkin, as did the serjeants of the counter; a pilferer. PILED, pilled, peeled, bald. PILL'D, polled, fleeced. PIMLICO, "sometimes spoken of as a person--perhaps master of a house famous for a particular ale" (Gifford). PINE, afflict, distress. PINK, stab with a weapon; pierce or cut in scallops for ornament. PINNACE, a go-between in infamous sense. PISMIRE, ant. PISTOLET, gold coin, worth about 6s. PITCH, height of a bird of prey's flight. PLAGUE, punishment, torment. PLAIN, lament. PLAIN SONG, simple melody. PLAISE, plaice. PLANET, "struck with a--," planets were supposed to have powers of blasting or exercising secret influences. PLAUSIBLE, pleasing. PLAUSIBLY, approvingly. PLOT, plan. PLY, apply oneself to. POESIE, posy, motto inside a ring. POINT IN HIS DEVICE, exact in every particular. POINTS, tagged laces or cords for fastening the breeches to the doublet. POINT-TRUSSER, one who trussed (tied) his master's points (q.v.). POISE, weigh, balance. POKING-STICK, stick used for setting the plaits of ruffs. POLITIC, politician. POLITIC, judicious, prudent, political. POLITICIAN, plotter, intriguer. POLL, strip, plunder, gain by extortion. POMANDER, ball of perfume, worn or hung about the person to prevent infection, or for foppery. POMMADO, vaulting on a horse without the aid of stirrups. PONTIC, sour. POPULAR, vulgar, of the populace. POPULOUS, numerous. PORT, gate; print of a deer's foot. PORT, transport. PORTAGUE, Portuguese gold coin, worth over 3 or 4 pounds. PORTCULLIS, "--of coin," some old coins have a portcullis stamped on their reverse (Whalley). PORTENT, marvel, prodigy; sinister omen. PORTENTOUS, prophesying evil, threatening. PORTER, references appear "to allude to Parsons, the king's porter, who was... near seven feet high" (Whalley). POSSESS, inform, acquaint. POST AND PAIR, a game at cards. POSY, motto. (See Poesie). POTCH, poach. POULT-FOOT, club-foot. POUNCE, claw, talon. PRACTICE, intrigue, concerted plot. PRACTISE, plot, conspire. PRAGMATIC, an expert, agent. PRAGMATIC, officious, conceited, meddling. PRECEDENT, record of proceedings. PRECEPT, warrant, summons. PRECISIAN(ISM), Puritan(ism), preciseness. PREFER, recommend. PRESENCE, presence chamber. PRESENT(LY), immediate(ly), without delay; at the present time; actually. PRESS, force into service. PREST, ready. PRETEND, assert, allege. PREVENT, anticipate. PRICE, worth, excellence. PRICK, point, dot used in the writing of Hebrew and other languages. PRICK, prick out, mark off, select; trace, track; "--away," make off with speed. PRIMERO, game of cards. PRINCOX, pert boy. PRINT, "in--," to the letter, exactly. PRISTINATE, former. PRIVATE, private interests. PRIVATE, privy, intimate. PROCLIVE, prone to. PRODIGIOUS, monstrous, unnatural. PRODIGY, monster. PRODUCED, prolonged. PROFESS, pretend. PROJECTION, the throwing of the "powder of projection" into the crucible to turn the melted metal into gold or silver. PROLATE, pronounce drawlingly. PROPER, of good appearance, handsome; own, particular. PROPERTIES, stage necessaries. PROPERTY, duty; tool. PRORUMPED, burst out. PROTEST, vow, proclaim (an affected word of that time); formally declare non-payment, etc., of bill of exchange; fig. failure of personal credit, etc. PROVANT, soldier's allowance--hence, of common make. PROVIDE, foresee. PROVIDENCE, foresight, prudence. PUBLICATION, making a thing public of common property (N.E.D.). PUCKFIST, puff-ball; insipid, insignificant, boasting fellow. PUFF-WING, shoulder puff. PUISNE, judge of inferior rank, a junior. PULCHRITUDE, beauty. PUMP, shoe. PUNGENT, piercing. PUNTO, point, hit. PURCEPT, precept, warrant. PURE, fine, capital, excellent. PURELY, perfectly, utterly. PURL, pleat or fold of a ruff. PURSE-NET, net of which the mouth is drawn together with a string. PURSUIVANT, state messenger who summoned the persecuted seminaries; warrant officer. PURSY, PURSINESS, shortwinded(ness). PUT, make a push, exert yourself (N.E.D.). PUT OFF, excuse, shift. PUT ON, incite, encourage; proceed with, take in hand, try. QUACKSALVER, quack. QUAINT, elegant, elaborated, ingenious, clever. QUAR, quarry. QUARRIED, seized, or fed upon, as prey. QUEAN, hussy, jade. QUEASY, hazardous, delicate. QUELL, kill, destroy. QUEST, request; inquiry. QUESTION, decision by force of arms. QUESTMAN, one appointed to make official inquiry. QUIB, QUIBLIN, quibble, quip. QUICK, the living. QUIDDIT, quiddity, legal subtlety. QUIRK, clever turn or trick. QUIT, requite, repay; acquit, absolve; rid; forsake, leave. QUITTER-BONE, disease of horses. QUODLING, codling. QUOIT, throw like a quoit, chuck. QUOTE, take note, observe, write down. RACK, neck of mutton or pork (Halliwell). RAKE UP, cover over. RAMP, rear, as a lion, etc. RAPT, carry away. RAPT, enraptured. RASCAL, young or inferior deer. RASH, strike with a glancing oblique blow, as a boar with its tusk. RATSEY, GOMALIEL, a famous highwayman. RAVEN, devour. REACH, understand. REAL, regal. REBATU, ruff, turned-down collar. RECTOR, RECTRESS, director, governor. REDARGUE, confute. REDUCE, bring back. REED, rede, counsel, advice. REEL, run riot. REFEL, refute. REFORMADOES, disgraced or disbanded soldiers. REGIMENT, government. REGRESSION, return. REGULAR ("Tale of a Tub"), regular noun (quibble) (N.E.D.). RELIGION, "make--of," make a point of, scruple of. RELISH, savour. REMNANT, scrap of quotation. REMORA, species of fish. RENDER, depict, exhibit, show. REPAIR, reinstate. REPETITION, recital, narration. REREMOUSE, bat. RESIANT, resident. RESIDENCE, sediment. RESOLUTION, judgment, decision. RESOLVE, inform; assure; prepare, make up one's mind; dissolve; come to a decision, be convinced; relax, set at ease. RESPECTIVE, worthy of respect; regardful, discriminative. RESPECTIVELY, with reverence. RESPECTLESS, regardless. RESPIRE, exhale; inhale. RESPONSIBLE, correspondent. REST, musket-rest. REST, "set up one's--," venture one's all, one's last stake (from game of primero). REST, arrest. RESTIVE, RESTY, dull, inactive. RETCHLESS(NESS), reckless(ness). RETIRE, cause to retire. RETRICATO, fencing term. RETRIEVE, rediscovery of game once sprung. RETURNS, ventures sent abroad, for the safe return of which so much money is received. REVERBERATE, dissolve or blend by reflected heat. REVERSE, REVERSO, back-handed thrust, etc., in fencing. REVISE, reconsider a sentence. RHEUM, spleen, caprice. RIBIBE, abusive term for an old woman. RID, destroy, do away with. RIFLING, raffling, dicing. RING, "cracked within the--," coins so cracked were unfit for currency. RISSE, risen, rose. RIVELLED, wrinkled. ROARER, swaggerer. ROCHET, fish of the gurnet kind. ROCK, distaff. RODOMONTADO, braggadocio. ROGUE, vagrant, vagabond. RONDEL, "a round mark in the score of a public-house" (Nares); roundel. ROOK, sharper; fool, dupe. ROSAKER, similar to ratsbane. ROSA-SOLIS, a spiced spirituous liquor. ROSES, rosettes. ROUND, "gentlemen of the--," officers of inferior rank. ROUND TRUNKS, trunk hose, short loose breeches reaching almost or quite to the knees. ROUSE, carouse, bumper. ROVER, arrow used for shooting at a random mark at uncertain distance. ROWLY-POWLY, roly-poly. RUDE, RUDENESS, unpolished, rough(ness), coarse(ness). RUFFLE, flaunt, swagger. RUG, coarse frieze. RUG-GOWNS, gown made of rug. RUSH, reference to rushes with which the floors were then strewn. RUSHER, one who strewed the floor with rushes. RUSSET, homespun cloth of neutral or reddish-brown colour. SACK, loose, flowing gown. SADLY, seriously, with gravity. SAD(NESS), sober, serious(ness). SAFFI, bailiffs. ST. THOMAS A WATERINGS, place in Surrey where criminals were executed. SAKER, small piece of ordnance. SALT, leap. SALT, lascivious. SAMPSUCHINE, sweet marjoram. SARABAND, a slow dance. SATURNALS, began December 17. SAUCINESS, presumption, insolence. SAUCY, bold, impudent, wanton. SAUNA (Lat.), a gesture of contempt. SAVOUR, perceive; gratify, please; to partake of the nature. SAY, sample. SAY, assay, try. SCALD, word of contempt, implying dirt and disease. SCALLION, shalot, small onion. SCANDERBAG, "name which the Turks (in allusion to Alexander the Great) gave to the brave Castriot, chief of Albania, with whom they had continual wars. His romantic life had just been translated" (Gifford). SCAPE, escape. SCARAB, beetle. SCARTOCCIO, fold of paper, cover, cartouch, cartridge. SCONCE, head. SCOPE, aim. SCOT AND LOT, tax, contribution (formerly a parish assessment). SCOTOMY, dizziness in the head. SCOUR, purge. SCOURSE, deal, swap. SCRATCHES, disease of horses. SCROYLE, mean, rascally fellow. SCRUPLE, doubt. SEAL, put hand to the giving up of property or rights. SEALED, stamped as genuine. SEAM-RENT, ragged. SEAMING LACES, insertion or edging. SEAR UP, close by searing, burning. SEARCED, sifted. SECRETARY, able to keep a secret. SECULAR, worldly, ordinary, commonplace. SECURE, confident. SEELIE, happy, blest. SEISIN, legal term: possession. SELLARY, lewd person. SEMBLABLY, similarly. SEMINARY, a Romish priest educated in a foreign seminary. SENSELESS, insensible, without sense or feeling. SENSIBLY, perceptibly. SENSIVE, sensitive. SENSUAL, pertaining to the physical or material. SERENE, harmful dew of evening. SERICON, red tincture. SERVANT, lover. SERVICES, doughty deeds of arms. SESTERCE, Roman copper coin. SET, stake, wager. SET UP, drill. SETS, deep plaits of the ruff. SEWER, officer who served up the feast, and brought water for the hands of the guests. SHAPE, a suit by way of disguise. SHIFT, fraud, dodge. SHIFTER, cheat. SHITTLE, shuttle; "shittle-cock," shuttlecock. SHOT, tavern reckoning. SHOT-CLOG, one only tolerated because he paid the shot (reckoning) for the rest. SHOT-FREE, scot-free, not having to pay. SHOVE-GROAT, low kind of gambling amusement, perhaps somewhat of the nature of pitch and toss. SHOT-SHARKS, drawers. SHREWD, mischievous, malicious, curst. SHREWDLY, keenly, in a high degree. SHRIVE, sheriff; posts were set up before his door for proclamations, or to indicate his residence. SHROVING, Shrovetide, season of merriment. SIGILLA, seal, mark. SILENCED BRETHERN, MINISTERS, those of the Church or Nonconformists who had been silenced, deprived, etc. SILLY, simple, harmless. SIMPLE, silly, witless; plain, true. SIMPLES, herbs. SINGLE, term of chase, signifying when the hunted stag is separated from the herd, or forced to break covert. SINGLE, weak, silly. SINGLE-MONEY, small change. SINGULAR, unique, supreme. SI-QUIS, bill, advertisement. SKELDRING, getting money under false pretences; swindling. SKILL, "it--s not," matters not. SKINK(ER), pour, draw(er), tapster. SKIRT, tail. SLEEK, smooth. SLICE, fire shovel or pan (dial.). SLICK, sleek, smooth. 'SLID, 'SLIGHT, 'SPRECIOUS, irreverent oaths. SLIGHT, sleight, cunning, cleverness; trick. SLIP, counterfeit coin, bastard. SLIPPERY, polished and shining. SLOPS, large loose breeches. SLOT, print of a stag's foot. SLUR, put a slur on; cheat (by sliding a die in some way). SMELT, gull, simpleton. SNORLE, "perhaps snarl, as Puppy is addressed" (Cunningham). SNOTTERIE, filth. SNUFF, anger, resentment; "take in--," take offence at. SNUFFERS, small open silver dishes for holding snuff, or receptacle for placing snuffers in (Halliwell). SOCK, shoe worn by comic actors. SOD, seethe. SOGGY, soaked, sodden. SOIL, "take--," said of a hunted stag when he takes to the water for safety. SOL, sou. SOLDADOES, soldiers. SOLICIT, rouse, excite to action. SOOTH, flattery, cajolery. SOOTHE, flatter, humour. SOPHISTICATE, adulterate. SORT, company, party; rank, degree. SORT, suit, fit; select. SOUSE, ear. SOUSED ("Devil is an Ass"), fol. read "sou't," which Dyce interprets as "a variety of the spelling of "shu'd": to "shu" is to scare a bird away." (See his "Webster," page 350). SOWTER, cobbler. SPAGYRICA, chemistry according to the teachings of Paracelsus. SPAR, bar. SPEAK, make known, proclaim. SPECULATION, power of sight. SPED, to have fared well, prospered. SPEECE, species. SPIGHT, anger, rancour. SPINNER, spider. SPINSTRY, lewd person. SPITTLE, hospital, lazar-house. SPLEEN, considered the seat of the emotions. SPLEEN, caprice, humour, mood. SPRUNT, spruce. SPURGE, foam. SPUR-RYAL, gold coin worth 15s. SQUIRE, square, measure; "by the--," exactly. STAGGERING, wavering, hesitating. STAIN, disparagement, disgrace. STALE, decoy, or cover, stalking-horse. STALE, make cheap, common. STALK, approach stealthily or under cover. STALL, forestall. STANDARD, suit. STAPLE, market, emporium. STARK, downright. STARTING-HOLES, loopholes of escape. STATE, dignity; canopied chair of state; estate. STATUMINATE, support vines by poles or stakes; used by Pliny (Gifford). STAY, gag. STAY, await; detain. STICKLER, second or umpire. STIGMATISE, mark, brand. STILL, continual(ly), constant(ly). STINKARD, stinking fellow. STINT, stop. STIPTIC, astringent. STOCCATA, thrust in fencing. STOCK-FISH, salted and dried fish. STOMACH, pride, valour. STOMACH, resent. STOOP, swoop down as a hawk. STOP, fill, stuff. STOPPLE, stopper. STOTE, stoat, weasel. STOUP, stoop, swoop=bow. STRAIGHT, straightway. STRAMAZOUN (Ital. stramazzone), a down blow, as opposed to the thrust. STRANGE, like a stranger, unfamiliar. STRANGENESS, distance of behaviour. STREIGHTS, OR BERMUDAS, labyrinth of alleys and courts in the Strand. STRIGONIUM, Grau in Hungary, taken from the Turks in 1597. STRIKE, balance (accounts). STRINGHALT, disease of horses. STROKER, smoother, flatterer. STROOK, p.p. of "strike." STRUMMEL-PATCHED, strummel is glossed in dialect dicts. as "a long, loose and dishevelled head of hair." STUDIES, studious efforts. STYLE, title; pointed instrument used for writing on wax tablets. SUBTLE, fine, delicate, thin; smooth, soft. SUBTLETY (SUBTILITY), subtle device. SUBURB, connected with loose living. SUCCUBAE, demons in form of women. SUCK, extract money from. SUFFERANCE, suffering. SUMMED, term of falconry: with full-grown plumage. SUPER-NEGULUM, topers turned the cup bottom up when it was empty. SUPERSTITIOUS, over-scrupulous. SUPPLE, to make pliant. SURBATE, make sore with walking. SURCEASE, cease. SUR-REVERENCE, save your reverence. SURVISE, peruse. SUSCITABILITY, excitability. SUSPECT, suspicion. SUSPEND, suspect. SUSPENDED, held over for the present. SUTLER, victualler. SWAD, clown, boor. SWATH BANDS, swaddling clothes. SWINGE, beat. TABERD, emblazoned mantle or tunic worn by knights and heralds. TABLE(S), "pair of--," tablets, note-book. TABOR, small drum. TABRET, tabor. TAFFETA, silk; "tuft-taffeta," a more costly silken fabric. TAINT, "--a staff," break a lance at tilting in an unscientific or dishonourable manner. TAKE IN, capture, subdue. TAKE ME WITH YOU, let me understand you. TAKE UP, obtain on credit, borrow. TALENT, sum or weight of Greek currency. TALL, stout, brave. TANKARD-BEARERS, men employed to fetch water from the conduits. TARLETON, celebrated comedian and jester. TARTAROUS, like a Tartar. TAVERN-TOKEN, "to swallow a--," get drunk. TELL, count. TELL-TROTH, truth-teller. TEMPER, modify, soften. TENDER, show regard, care for, cherish; manifest. TENT, "take--," take heed. TERSE, swept and polished. TERTIA, "that portion of an army levied out of one particular district or division of a country" (Gifford). TESTON, tester, coin worth 6d. THIRDBOROUGH, constable. THREAD, quality. THREAVES, droves. THREE-FARTHINGS, piece of silver current under Elizabeth. THREE-PILED, of finest quality, exaggerated. THRIFTILY, carefully. THRUMS, ends of the weaver's warp; coarse yarn made from. THUMB-RING, familiar spirits were supposed capable of being carried about in various ornaments or parts of dress. TIBICINE, player on the tibia, or pipe. TICK-TACK, game similar to backgammon. TIGHTLY, promptly. TIM, (?) expressive of a climax of nonentity. TIMELESS, untimely, unseasonable. TINCTURE, an essential or spiritual principle supposed by alchemists to be transfusible into material things; an imparted characteristic or tendency. TINK, tinkle. TIPPET, "turn--," change behaviour or way of life. TIPSTAFF, staff tipped with metal. TIRE, head-dress. TIRE, feed ravenously, like a bird of prey. TITILLATION, that which tickles the senses, as a perfume. TOD, fox. TOILED, worn out, harassed. TOKEN, piece of base metal used in place of very small coin, when this was scarce. TONNELS, nostrils. TOP, "parish--," large top kept in villages for amusement and exercise in frosty weather when people were out of work. TOTER, tooter, player on a wind instrument. TOUSE, pull, rend. TOWARD, docile, apt; on the way to; as regards; present, at hand. TOY, whim; trick; term of contempt. TRACT, attraction. TRAIN, allure, entice. TRANSITORY, transmittable. TRANSLATE, transform. TRAY-TRIP, game at dice (success depended on throwing a three) (Nares). TREACHOUR (TRECHER), traitor. TREEN, wooden. TRENCHER, serving-man who carved or served food. TRENDLE-TAIL, trundle-tail, curly-tailed. TRICK (TRICKING), term of heraldry: to draw outline of coat of arms, etc., without blazoning. TRIG, a spruce, dandified man. TRILL, trickle. TRILLIBUB, tripe, any worthless, trifling thing. TRIPOLY, "come from--," able to perform feats of agility, a "jest nominal," depending on the first part of the word (Gifford). TRITE, worn, shabby. TRIVIA, three-faced goddess (Hecate). TROJAN, familiar term for an equal or inferior; thief. TROLL, sing loudly. TROMP, trump, deceive. TROPE, figure of speech. TROW, think, believe, wonder. TROWLE, troll. TROWSES, breeches, drawers. TRUCHMAN, interpreter. TRUNDLE, JOHN, well-known printer. TRUNDLE, roll, go rolling along. TRUNDLING CHEATS, term among gipsies and beggars for carts or coaches (Gifford). TRUNK, speaking-tube. TRUSS, tie the tagged laces that fastened the breeches to the doublet. TUBICINE, trumpeter. TUCKET (Ital. toccato), introductory flourish on the trumpet. TUITION, guardianship. TUMBLER, a particular kind of dog so called from the mode of his hunting. TUMBREL-SLOP, loose, baggy breeches. TURD, excrement. TUSK, gnash the teeth (Century Dict.). TWIRE, peep, twinkle. TWOPENNY ROOM, gallery. TYRING-HOUSE, attiring-room. ULENSPIEGEL. See Howleglass. UMBRATILE, like or pertaining to a shadow. UMBRE, brown dye. UNBATED, unabated. UNBORED, (?) excessively bored. UNCARNATE, not fleshly, or of flesh. UNCOUTH, strange, unusual. UNDERTAKER, "one who undertook by his influence in the House of Commons to carry things agreeably to his Majesty's wishes" (Whalley); one who becomes surety for. UNEQUAL, unjust. UNEXCEPTED, no objection taken at. UNFEARED, unaffrighted. UNHAPPILY, unfortunately. UNICORN'S HORN, supposed antidote to poison. UNKIND(LY), unnatural(ly). UNMANNED, untamed (term in falconry). UNQUIT, undischarged. UNREADY, undressed. UNRUDE, rude to an extreme. UNSEASONED, unseasonable, unripe. UNSEELED, a hawk's eyes were "seeled" by sewing the eyelids together with fine thread. UNTIMELY, unseasonably. UNVALUABLE, invaluable. UPBRAID, make a matter of reproach. UPSEE, heavy kind of Dutch beer (Halliwell); "--Dutch," in the Dutch fashion. UPTAILS ALL, refrain of a popular song. URGE, allege as accomplice, instigator. URSHIN, URCHIN, hedgehog. USE, interest on money; part of sermon dealing with the practical application of doctrine. USE, be in the habit of, accustomed to; put out to interest. USQUEBAUGH, whisky. USURE, usury. UTTER, put in circulation, make to pass current; put forth for sale. VAIL, bow, do homage. VAILS, tips, gratuities. VALL. See Vail. VALLIES (Fr. valise), portmanteau, bag. VAPOUR(S) (n. and v.), used affectedly, like "humour," in many senses, often very vaguely and freely ridiculed by Jonson; humour, disposition, whims, brag(ging), hector(ing), etc. VARLET, bailiff, or serjeant-at-mace. VAUT, vault. VEER (naut.), pay out. VEGETAL, vegetable; person full of life and vigour. VELLUTE, velvet. VELVET CUSTARD. Cf. "Taming of the Shrew," iv. 3, 82, "custard coffin," coffin being the raised crust over a pie. VENT, vend, sell; give outlet to; scent, snuff up. VENUE, bout (fencing term). VERDUGO (Span.), hangman, executioner. VERGE, "in the--," within a certain distance of the court. VEX, agitate, torment. VICE, the buffoon of old moralities; some kind of machinery for moving a puppet (Gifford). VIE AND REVIE, to hazard a certain sum, and to cover it with a larger one. VINCENT AGAINST YORK, two heralds-at-arms. VINDICATE, avenge. VIRGE, wand, rod. VIRGINAL, old form of piano. VIRTUE, valour. VIVELY, in lifelike manner, livelily. VIZARD, mask. VOGUE, rumour, gossip. VOICE, vote. VOID, leave, quit. VOLARY, cage, aviary. VOLLEY, "at--," "o' the volee," at random (from a term of tennis). VORLOFFE, furlough. WADLOE, keeper of the Devil Tavern, where Jonson and his friends met in the 'Apollo' room (Whalley). WAIGHTS, waits, night musicians, "band of musical watchmen" (Webster), or old form of "hautboys." WANNION, "vengeance," "plague" (Nares). WARD, a famous pirate. WARD, guard in fencing. WATCHET, pale, sky blue. WEAL, welfare. WEED, garment. WEFT, waif. WEIGHTS, "to the gold--," to every minute particular. WELKIN, sky. WELL-SPOKEN, of fair speech. WELL-TORNED, turned and polished, as on a wheel. WELT, hem, border of fur. WHER, whether. WHETSTONE, GEORGE, an author who lived 1544(?) to 1587(?). WHIFF, a smoke, or drink; "taking the--," inhaling the tobacco smoke or some such accomplishment. WHIGH-HIES, neighings, whinnyings. WHIMSY, whim, "humour." WHINILING, (?) whining, weakly. WHIT, (?) a mere jot. WHITEMEAT, food made of milk or eggs. WICKED, bad, clumsy. WICKER, pliant, agile. WILDING, esp. fruit of wild apple or crab tree (Webster). WINE, "I have the--for you," Prov.: I have the perquisites (of the office) which you are to share (Cunningham). WINNY, "same as old word "wonne," to stay, etc." (Whalley). WISE-WOMAN, fortune-teller. WISH, recommend. WISS (WUSSE), "I--," certainly, of a truth. WITHOUT, beyond. WITTY, cunning, ingenious, clever. WOOD, collection, lot. WOODCOCK, term of contempt. WOOLSACK ("--pies"), name of tavern. WORT, unfermented beer. WOUNDY, great, extreme. WREAK, revenge. WROUGHT, wrought upon. WUSSE, interjection. (See Wiss). YEANLING, lamb, kid. ZANY, an inferior clown, who attended upon the chief fool and mimicked his tricks. 
52194	----	BOB BURTON; OR, THE YOUNG RANCHMAN OF THE MISSOURI BY HORATIO ALGER, JR., AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK SERIES," "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," "ATLANTIC SERIES," ETC. [Illustration: Logo] PHILADELPHIA: PORTER & COATES. COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY PORTER & COATES. TO J. HENRY PLUMMER, NOW OF TALLAPOOSA, GA. FROM WHOM I HAVE RECEIVED VALUABLE ASSISTANCE IN THE PREPARATION OF THIS VOLUME, IT IS DEDICATED WITH FRIENDLY REGARD. [Illustration: AARON WOLVERTON STEALS THE RECEIPT.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. MR. BURTON'S RANCH, 5 II. AARON WOLVERTON, 15 III. A LITTLE RETROSPECT, 23 IV. THE SUDDEN SUMMONS, 33 V. WOLVERTON'S FIRST MOVE, 42 VI. THE LOST RECEIPT, 51 VII. WOLVERTON'S ADVENTURE WITH CLIP, 60 VIII. WOLVERTON'S DISMAY, 69 IX. SAM'S GIFT, 77 X. SAM IN A TIGHT PLACE, 85 XI. AN ANGRY CONFERENCE, 94 XII. WOLVERTON'S WATERLOO, 104 XIII. WHAT BOB FOUND IN THE CREEK, 111 XIV. THE BOAT AND ITS OWNER, 120 XV. BOB BUYS THE FERRY-BOAT, 128 XVI. WOLVERTON'S BAFFLED SCHEME, 137 XVII. WOLVERTON'S POOR TENANT, 146 XVIII. WOLVERTON'S WICKED PLAN, 154 XIX. MR. WOLVERTON MEETS TWO CONGENIAL SPIRITS, 163 XX. AN UNEXPECTED PASSENGER, 172 XXI. HOW WOLVERTON WAS FOOLED, 180 XXII. THE FIRST DAY, 189 XXIII. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER, 198 XXIV. CLIP MAKES A LITTLE MONEY FOR HIMSELF, 207 XXV. CLIP'S SECRET MISSION, 215 XXVI. WAS IT THE CAT? 224 XXVII. THE PASSENGER DISCOVERED, 233 XXVIII. SAM FINDS A RELATION, 243 XXIX. ROCKY CREEK LANDING, 251 XXX. AN UNLUCKY EVENING, 261 XXXI. HOW CLIP WAS CAPTURED, 269 XXXII. THE BOYS IMPRISONED, 277 XXXIII. A LUCKY ESCAPE, 289 XXXIV. MR. WOLVERTON'S LETTER, 297 XXXV. BOB'S ARRIVAL IN ST. LOUIS, 303 XXXVI. A THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD, 308 XXXVII. BROWN AND MINTON WALK INTO A TRAP, 312 XXXVIII. WHAT BOB BROUGHT HOME, 318 XXXIX. CONCLUSION, 324 BOB BURTON; OR, THE YOUNG RANCHMAN OF THE MISSOURI. CHAPTER I. MR. BURTON'S RANCH. "Harness up the colt, Clip; I'm going to the village." "All right, massa!" "What makes you call me massa? One would think I were a slave-owner." "Can't help it, massa. There I done forgot it agin," said Clip, showing his white teeth--preturnaturally white they showed in contrast with his coal-black skin. "You see I used to say that to my old massa, down in Arkansaw." "What's my name, Clip?" "Mister Burton." "Then call me Mr. Burton. Now go, and don't waste any time." "All right, massa." "That boy's incorrigible," said Richard Burton to himself. "He hasn't got cut of his early ways yet; careless and shiftless as he is, I believe he is devoted to me and my family." Clip, as may be inferred, was a negro boy, now turned of fourteen, who for four years had been attached to the service of Richard Burton, a ranchman, whose farm lay on a small stream tributary to the Missouri, in the fertile State of Iowa. He had fled from his master in the northern part of Arkansas, and, traveling by night, and secreting himself by day, had finally reached Iowa; where he found a safe refuge in the family of Mr. Burton. Indeed he had been picked up by Bob Burton, a boy a year older than himself, who had brought him home and insisted on his father taking charge of the young fugitive. On a large ranch there was always something to do, and Clip was soon made useful in taking care of the horses, in doing errands and in many odd ways. While waiting for the wagon, Mr. Burton went into the house, and sought his wife. "Mamy," he said, "I am going to the village to pay Wolverton his interest." "I wish he didn't hold the mortgage, Richard," said Mrs. Burton, looking up from her work. "So do I, but why is it any the worse for him to hold it than for any one else?" "Richard, you may think me foolish and fanciful, but I distrust that man. It is impressed upon my mind that he will some day do us harm." "That is foolish and fanciful in good truth, Mamy. Now Wolverton seems to me a--well, not exactly an attractive man, but good natured and friendly. When I needed three thousand dollars last spring, on account of a poor crop and some extra expenses, he seemed not only willing, but really glad to lend it to me." "He took a mortgage on the ranch," said Mary Burton dryly. "Why, of course. He is a man of business, you know. You wouldn't expect him to lend the money without security, would you?" "And you pay him a large interest?" "Ten per cent." "There isn't much friendship in lending money on good security at ten per cent., Richard." "Oh, you put things in a wrong way, Mary. Money is worth ten per cent. out here, and of course I didn't want Wolverton to lose money by me. He could get that interest elsewhere." "You are very unsuspecting, Richard. You credit everybody with your own true, unselfish nature." "Why, that's a compliment, Mary," laughed the husband, "and deserves a kiss." He bent over and touched his wife's cheek with his lips. Mary Burton had reached the age of thirty-six, and was no longer in her first youth, but her face seemed even more lovelier than when he married her, so Richard Burton thought. He too was a man of fine presence, with a frank, open face, that invariably won the favor of those who met him for the first time. He was in the full vigor of manhood, and when he and his wife attended the Methodist church on Sundays, many eyes were attracted by the handsome couple. They had one son, Bob, who will soon receive attention. "I have a great mind, Richard, to tell you why I distrust and fear Aaron Wolverton," said his wife after a slight pause. "I wish you would, Mary. Perhaps, when I know, I can talk you out of your apprehension." "Did you ever know that Aaron Wolverton was once a suitor for my hand?" Richard Burton burst into an explosive laugh. "What! That dried-up old mummy had the presumption to offer you his hand!" "He actually did, Richard," said Mrs. Burton, smiling. "I wonder you did not laugh in his face. Why, the man is fifteen years older than I am, twenty years older than you." "That difference is not unprecedented. I did not reject him because he was older than myself. If you had been as old as he when you offered yourself, I think I would have accepted you." "Poor old fellow! Did he take it hard?" asked Burton, half jocosely. "If you mean did he show any traces of a broken heart, I answer no. But when, after pressing his suit persistently, he found my resolution to be inflexible, his face became distorted with passion. He swore that he would be revenged upon me some day, and that if I dared to marry any one else he would never rest till he had brought harm to the husband of my choice." "I wish I had been there. I would have made him take back those words, or I would have horsewhipped him." "Don't take any notice of them, Richard," said Mary Burton, hastily. "It will be much better." "I agree with you," said her husband, his quick anger melting. "After all, the old fellow's disappointment was so great that I can excuse a little impetuosity, and even rudeness. You see, Mary, Wolverton isn't a gentleman." "No; and never will be." "He acted as his nature prompted. But it was all over years ago. Why, Mary, he is always friendly with me, even if I am your husband." "That is on the outside, Richard; but I fear he is crafty. He is like an Indian; his thirst for vengeance keeps alive." "Admitting all that, though I don't, what harm can he do, Mary, while I am here to protect you?" and the husband expanded his breast in conscious strength, and looked down proudly on his fair wife. "Why, I could wring his neck with only one hand." "Well, perhaps I am foolish, Richard," the wife admitted. "Of course you are, Mary." Just then Clip put his head inside the door. "De hoss is ready, massa!" he said. "All right, Clip! I'll come right out." Richard Burton kissed his wife hastily, and went out. As he closed the door, a bright, handsome boy, strongly made, and bearing a resemblance to both father and mother, entered. "Hallo, mother! Are you all right?" he asked. "I hope so, Robert." "You look serious, as if you were worrying over something." "I was thinking of Mr. Wolverton. Your father has gone to pay him interest on the mortgage." "Wolverton is a mean old hunks. He's got a nephew living with him, a boy about my age. He works him nearly to death, and I am sure the poor boy doesn't get half enough to eat." "I was wishing your father didn't owe money to such a man." "Oh, well, mother, there's no use in worrying. It's only three thousand dollars, and if we have a good crop next year, father will be able to pay off at least half of it. You can see we've got a splendid ranch, mother. There isn't another within twenty miles where the land is as rich." "I shall be glad to see the day when the mortgage is wholly paid off, and we are out of debt." "So shall I, mother." "Does Mr. Wolverton ever take any notice of you, Robert?" "He took some notice of me this morning," laughed Bob. "That reminds me. I just left three prairie chickens with Rachel in the kitchen." "Did you shoot them this morning, Robert?" "Yes, mother; you see I have my hunting dress on. But I shot two more. I was bringing them home across a field of Wolverton's, when the old fellow suddenly made his appearance, and, charging me with shooting them on his land, laid claim to them. I denied the charge and told him I proposed to keep them. With that he seized me by the collar, and we had a rough-and-tumble fight for five minutes." "Oh, Robert, how imprudent!" "Well, mother, it was more than flesh and blood could stand. The upshot of it was that I left him lying on his back trembling with rage. I threw down two of the chickens to appease him. I hope he'll have them for dinner, and Sam'll get a share of them. The poor fellow is half starved. I don't believe he gets a square meal once a week." "I am afraid you have made an enemy of Mr. Wolverton, Robert." "I can't help it, mother. Would you have me bow down to him, and meekly yield up my rights?" "But, Robert, to get into a fight with a man so much older?" "I don't want to get into any difficulty, mother. It was forced upon me. Besides, I left him two of the chickens." "Was Clip with you?" "I reckon I was, missis," said Clip, displaying his ivories. "I laughed like to split when Massa Bob laid de old man down on his back. Wasn't he jest ravin'? Wouldn't have lost dat sight, missis, for de biggest watermillion I ever seed." Mrs. Burton smiled, but her smile was a faint one. She knew Aaron Wolverton, and she feared that some time or other he would try to be revenged on Bob. CHAPTER II. AARON WOLVERTON. Richard Burton drove rapidly to the village. I may state here that the name of the township was Carver. Like most Western villages, it consisted principally of one long, central street, containing buildings of all sizes and descriptions, from a three-story hotel to a one-story office. But there seemed to be a good deal going on all the time--much more than in an Eastern town of the size. Western people are active, progressive, never content to stand still. In the drowsy atmosphere that pervades many an Eastern country town they would stagnate, but there perpetual motion is the rule. Everybody in Carver knew Richard Burton. Everybody liked him also; he was easy and social with all. I have said everybody, but I must make one exception, and that was the man on whom he now proposed to call. About midway on the main street was a small one-story building, about twelve feet square. Above the door was a sign: AARON WOLVERTON, REAL ESTATE AGENT. Mr. Wolverton had considerable capital, which he was in the habit of lending on mortgage, always for a large interest, and on substantial security. He was supposed to be rich, but did not live like a rich man. His dwelling lay a little way back from the street; it was small, cramped, and uncomfortable, and his style of living was of the most economical character. He was a bachelor, and the only other members of his family were his sister, Sally Wolverton, who resembled her brother in person and character, and a nephew, Sam, the son of a brother, who came in for a liberal share of ill-treatment from the uncle, on whom he was dependent. Richard Burton reined up in front of Wolverton's office, and, leaping from his carriage, unceremoniously opened the outer door. "Good morning, Wolverton," he said, cheerily. Aaron Wolverton, a meagre and wrinkled man of fifty-five, looked up from his desk, and scanned his visitor's face attentively. He was not sure but Richard Burton, who was a high-spirited man, had come to take him to task for his attack upon Bob a short time before. Whenever he thought of it, he fairly trembled with rage and humiliation, for the boy had conquered him, and he knew it. Burton's words reassured him. "I have come to pay interest on the mortgage, Wolverton. I suppose you haven't forgotten that?" "No." "Catch you forgetting a thing of that kind. That wouldn't be like you." "I suppose you don't want to lift the mortgage?" "No; it is all I can do to pay the interest. The first six months have passed remarkably quick." "Not to me." "No, for you are to receive money, I to pay it. It makes all the difference in the world. I suppose you are not in need of the money?" "No, not at present," answered Wolverton, slowly; "but if I had it I could get higher interest." "Higher interest! Isn't ten per cent. enough for you?" "Nothing is enough, as long as I can get more." "Come, Wolverton, don't be such a money-grabber. You must be rolling in money." The old man shrugged his shoulders in deprecation. "Times are dull, and--I lose money sometimes," he said. "Not much, if you know it," said Burton, jocosely. "Well, just write a receipt for six months' interest, one hundred and fifty dollars." Aaron Wolverton took the proffered bills, eyeing them with eager cupidity, and put them in his desk. Then he made out a receipt, and handed it to his visitor. "You will be paying the mortgage next year?" he said inquiringly. "I don't know, Wolverton. If the crops are good, I may pay a part. But I am afraid I am not a very good manager. I can't save money like you, and that brings me round to the question: For whom are you piling up all this wealth? Is it for Sam?" "Sam is a young loafer," said Wolverton, with a frown. "I give him a home and his living, and he is almost too lazy to breathe." "You were not that way at his age?" "No. I worked early and late. I was a poor boy. All that I have, I made by hard work." "Take my advice, Wolverton, and get the worth of it while you live. But perhaps you are saving with a view to matrimony. Ha, ha!" And Richard burst into a ringing laugh. Wolverton puckered up his face, and snarled: "Why shouldn't I marry if I choose? What is there to laugh at?" "No reason at all. I advise you to marry. You ought to, for I have found happiness in marrying one of the sweetest women in the world." Then without any apparent reason, remembering that the man before him had aspired to the hand of his wife, he burst into another laugh, which he kept up till the tears ran from his eyes. He didn't notice the evil expression which it called up in the face of the moneylender. "I'd like to kill him where he stands," thought Aaron Wolverton. "She must have told him about me. Curse him! he stole her from me, and now he dares to laugh in my face!" But Wolverton was not a man to indulge even his evil temper when it was impolitic to do so. He forced himself to look indifferent, and merely said: "Let them laugh that win, Mr. Burton. Perhaps my time may come some day." "Perhaps it may, Wolverton. I heartily hope that you may find some one to make your life happy. I am happy myself, and I like to see others happy." There was a little more conversation, and then Richard Burton went out. "Good-bye, Wolverton. Come to my ranch some time. I'll give you a seat at supper, and we will smoke a cigar afterwards." The colt--for it was scarcely more than that--was getting restless. It was pawing the ground and evidently anxious to get away. "Your horse has a bad temper, Mr. Burton," said Wolverton. "Yes, he needs taming. He's not well trained yet." "There's something more than that," Wolverton said to himself, thoughtfully. "Horses are like men--they often have nasty tempers. I wouldn't ride behind that brute for--for the money Burton has just paid me. Some day he'll get upset, or thrown. And if he does," he continued, after a pause, "why should I lament? He has taken from me the only woman I ever loved. She might have made a different man of me--perhaps." Just then a boy came up the street. He stopped and eyed Aaron Wolverton with a little misgiving. "Sam," said Wolverton, sharply, "what kept you so long? Do you want the strap again?" "Indeed, uncle, I hurried as fast as I could. Mr. Jenks kept me waiting." "That is probably a lie," growled Wolverton. "However, since you are here, go into your dinner. It is cold by this time, most likely." It was cold and uninviting, but Sam could not afford to be dainty, and ate what was set before him by his aunt. CHAPTER III. A LITTLE RETROSPECT. Richard Burton, three years previous to the opening of this story, was a dry-goods merchant in St. Louis. Becoming tired of the dull routine of his daily life, and with a wistful remembrance of the country, where he had passed his boyhood, he sold out his business for a few thousand dollars, and with the sum realized bought a large ranch located on a small river or creek running into the Missouri. In taking this course he was influenced in no small degree by a city acquaintance, Aaron Wolverton, who six months before had located himself in the same township, and who, indeed, had made the purchase of the ranch on his behalf. Wolverton made a large commission on the transaction--larger than Richard Burton was aware; but it must be admitted he had bought him an excellent property. Burton was entirely unacquainted with the fact that Wolverton had at an earlier period been an unsuccessful suitor for his wife's hand, nor did he know it till the morning on which our story opens. It is always rather a hazardous experiment when a man, engaged till middle life in other business, becomes a tiller of the soil without special training for his new occupation. Few persons make farming profitable, however well qualified, and the St. Louis merchant was hardly likely to do more than make a living. In fact, he did not make both ends meet, but fell behind every year till he felt compelled to borrow three thousand dollars on mortgage of Aaron Wolverton. His wife expressed uneasiness, but he laughed away her remonstrances, and assured her he should be able to pay it back in a couple of years, if fortune favored him with good crops. "You know, Mary," he said cheerfully, "there are a good many extra expenses just at first, but it will be different in future. Wolverton assures me that the ranch is a fine one, and that I can pay him back sooner than he desires, for he is glad to lend on such excellent security." Mrs. Burton was silent, but she was not convinced. Robert Burton, popularly called Bob, was the only son of the ex-merchant. He thoroughly enjoyed the removal to the country, having a taste for manly sports. He usually spent a part of the day in study, reciting to a clergyman in the village, and the rest of his time he employed in hunting, fishing, and farm work. Clip, the young refugee, was his chosen companion, and was sincerely attached to Massa Bob, as he generally called him. The negro lad was full of fun and innocent mischief, but had no malice about him. Bob tried to teach him to read, but Clip was no scholar. He complained that study made his head ache. "But you ought to know something, Clip," expostulated Bob. "You don't want to grow up an ignoramus." "What's dat?" asked Clip, bewildered. "Never heard such a long word. Is it anything very bad?" "It means a know-nothing, Clip." "I guess you're right, Massa Bob. Dat's what I am." "But don't it trouble you, Clip?" "No, Massa Bob; I guess I was never cut out for a scholar." Still Bob persevered in his effort to teach Clip. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to get him to understand the difference between capital B and R, he said: "Clip, I don't believe you have got any sense." "Spec's I haven't, Massa Bob," answered Clip, philosophically. "How many have you got?" Bob laughed. "I don't know exactly," he replied; "but I hope I have as many as the average." "I reckon you've got a lot. You learn awful easy." "I am afraid I shall have to learn for both of us, Clip." "Dat's so!" said Clip, in a tone of satisfaction. "Dat'll do just as well." So Bob was finally obliged to give up teaching Clip in despair. He was led to accept the conclusion of his young _protégé_ that he was never meant for a scholar. In one respect Bob and Clip shared the prejudices of Mrs. Burton. Neither liked Aaron Wolverton. They felt friendly, however, to Sam Wolverton, the nephew; and more than once Sam, with his appetite unsatisfied at home, came over to Burton's ranch and enjoyed a hearty lunch, thanks to the good offices of Bob Burton. One day he came over crying, and showed the marks of a severe whipping he had received from his uncle. "What did you do, Sam?" asked Bob. Sam mentioned the offense, which was a trifling one, and unintentional besides. "Your uncle is a brute!" said Bob indignantly. "Dat's so, Sam," echoed Clip. "It would do me good to lay the whip over his shoulders." Sam trembled, and shook his head. He was a timid boy, and such an act seemed to him to border on the foolhardy. "How old are you, Sam?" "Fourteen." "In seven years you will be a man, and he can't tyrannize over you any longer." "I don't believe I shall live so long," said Sam, despondently. "Yes, you will. Even in four years, when you are eighteen, your uncle won't dare to beat you." "Why don't you run away, like I did?" asked Clip, with a bright idea. But Sam was not of the heroic type. He shrank from throwing himself on the world. "I should starve," he said. "Would you run away, Clip, if you were in my place?" "Wouldn't I just!" "And you, Bob?" "He wouldn't strike me but once," said Bob, proudly. "It's all well enough for you, but I think I'm a coward. When my uncle comes at me my heart sinks into my boots, and I want to run away." "You'll never make a hero, Sam." "No, I won't. I'm an awful coward, and I know it." "How is your aunt? Is she any better than your uncle?" "She's about the same. She don't whip me, but she's got an awful rough tongue. She will scold till she's out of breath." "How long have you lived with your uncle?" "About four years. When my father died, he told me to go to Uncle Aaron." "Didn't he leave any property?" "Uncle Aaron says he didn't leave a cent, and I suppose it's so; but father told me in his last sickness there'd be some property for me." "I've no doubt there was, and he cheated you out of it," said Bob indignantly. "That's just my opinion of your uncle." "Even if it is so, I can't do anything. It'll do no good. But I'd like to know how it is, for Uncle Aaron is all the time twitting me with living on him." "As if you don't do enough to earn your own living. Why, you work harder than Clip, here, though that isn't saying much," added Bob, with a smile. Clip showed his white teeth, and seemed to enjoy the joke. "Spec's I was born lazy," he said, promptly. "Dat ain't my fault, ef I was born so." "That wouldn't be any excuse with Uncle Aaron," remarked Sam. "He thinks I'm lazy, and says he means to lick the laziness out of me." "I think we had better hire out Clip to him. He needs a little discipline like that sort." "Oh golly, massa Bob! I couldn't stand it nohow," said Clip, with a comical expression of alarm. "Massa Wolverton's the meanest white man I ever seed. Wish an earthquake would come and swallow him up." "Your father was round to see my uncle this morning," said Sam. "Yes, I know; he went to pay him some interest money." "Your father is a nice gentleman. I wish I was his nephew," said poor Sam, enviously. "Yes, Sam; he's always kind. He's a father to be proud of." "By the way, Sam, I've got some good news for you." "What is it, Bob?" "Your uncle carried home a pair of prairie chickens this morning. You'll have one good dinner, at least." "Where did he get them?" "I shot them." "And you gave them to him?" asked Sam, surprised. "Well, yes, after a little squabble," and Bob related the adventure of the morning. "How brave you are, Bob!" said Sam admiringly. "You actually had a quarrel with Uncle Aaron?" "Yes," answered Bob, with a smile. "When I got through, your uncle was lying on his back resting. I threw down two of the chickens, as much for your sake as any other reason. I hope you'll get your share." "I saw the chickens in the kitchen before I came away, and wondered where they came from. I knew Uncle Aaron wouldn't buy them." "Has your uncle got a gun?" "No; I think he's afraid of a gun." "And you are afraid of him?" "I can't help it, Bob. He flogs me sometimes with a horsewhip." "I'd like to see him try it on me," said Bob, with emphasis. "But as I said before, you'll be a man some time, Sam, and then he won't dare touch you." CHAPTER IV. THE SUDDEN SUMMONS. When Richard Burton left the office of Aaron Wolverton, he did not return home immediately. He had a business call to make in the next township, and drove over there. Finding that he was likely to be detained, he went to the hotel to dine, and, the day being warm, sat on the piazza and smoked a cigar afterwards. It was not until four o'clock that he turned his horse's head in the direction of Carver. The horse he drove was young and untrained. It would have been dangerous for an unskillful driver to undertake to manage him. Robert Burton, however, thoroughly understood horses, and was not afraid of any, however fractious. But he had been persuaded to drink a couple of glasses of whisky by acquaintances at the hotel, and he was easily affected by drink of any kind. So his hand was not as strong or steady as usual when he started on his homeward journey. The horse seemed instinctively to know that there was something the matter with his driver, and, as he turned back his head knowingly, he prepared to take advantage of it. So he made himself more troublesome than usual, and Burton became at first annoyed and then angry. "What ails you, you vicious brute?" he exclaimed, frowning. "You need a lesson, it seems." He gave a violent twitch to the reins, more violent than he intended, and the animal swerved aside suddenly, bringing one wheel of the wagon into forcible collision with a tree by the roadside. This, coming unexpectedly, threw Richard Burton violently from his seat, and he was pitched out of the carriage, his head being thrown with force against the tree which had been the occasion of the shock. There was a dull, sickening thud, and the poor man lay insensible, his eyes closed and his breast heaving. The horse detached himself from the wagon and ran home--they were within half a mile of the village now--leaving his driver without sense or motion beside the wrecked wagon. He had lain there not over twenty minutes, when a pedestrian appeared upon the scene. It was Aaron Wolverton, who was on his way to the house of a tenant to collect rent. He had been walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, thinking intently, when all at once, raising his eyes, he started in amazement at the sight of the wrecked carriage and the prostrate man. "Who can it be?" he asked himself in excitement. His eyes were failing, and he could not distinguish, till close at hand, the person of the stricken man. "Robert Burton!" he exclaimed in excitement, when at last he had discovered who it was. "How on earth did this accident happen?" He bent over the prostrate man and placed his hand upon his heart. Alas! it had already ceased to beat. The features wore a startled and troubled look, the reflection of the feelings excited by the collision. "Well, well!" ejaculated Wolverton, awed in spite of himself by the sight, "who would have dreamed of this? and only this morning he called on me to pay his interest." There was a sudden suggestion, begotten of his greed, that entered that instant into Wolverton's mind. "He can't have gone home since," he bethought himself. "He must have the receipt with him." Even if he had, what did it concern Wolverton? The money had been paid, but there was no evidence of it except the receipt which he had given him. With trembling fingers, Wolverton, bending over, searched the clothes of the dead man, half turning his eyes away, as if he feared to meet Robert Burton's look. At last he found it. Burton had thrust it carelessly into his vest pocket. With a furtive look, to see if he were observed, Aaron Wolverton put the receipt into his own pocket. Then he rose to his feet, and turned to go away. He had no desire to remain any longer by the side of the dead. Meanwhile the horse had dashed into the village at wild speed. Now it happened that Clip, sent on an errand to the store by Mrs. Burton, was in the village. His eyes opened wide when he saw the horse dash by him. "What's dat mean?" Clip asked himself, staring with all his eyes at the runaway horse. "What's come of Massa Burton? Must have been an accident. Wagon must have upset, and--golly! I hope Massa Burton isn't killed nor noting." Clip was all alive with excitement. He had the sense not to attempt to follow the horse, but ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the horse had come. There, he argued, must be the wagon and its rider. It was a straight road, and he was not long in reaching the scene of the casualty. He came in sight of it at the moment when Aaron Wolverton was bending over the prostrate man, and searching his pockets. Here was another surprise for Clip. "What is Massa Wolverton doing," he asked himself. He was sure he was not up to any good, for, as we have already seen, he had no love for the real estate agent, and thought him a very bad man. Clip had no small share of curiosity, and, intent on finding out what Wolverton was doing, he slid behind a tree about a foot in diameter, which happened to be conveniently situated. Grief struggled with curiosity, for Clip had already seen the wrecked team and the prostrate figure of the kind master, to whom he felt warmly attached. "Poor Massa Burton! I hope he isn't dead," thought Clip. "Jes' as soon as old Wolverton goes away I'll go up and look. Won't Mrs. Burton feel bad?" All the while Clip was watching the movements of the real estate agent. "What's he searchin' Massa Burton's pockets for?" he asked himself. "Spec's he's going to rob him. Didn't think the old man was so mean before. I'd jes' like to jump out and scare him." Meanwhile Wolverton finished his discreditable business, happily unconscious that any one was witness of his mean act. Then, as already stated, he got up and walked swiftly away, not venturing to look back. Had he done so he would have seen Clip stealing from behind the tree which had served to screen him from observation, and running towards the wreck. Clip had never before seen death, but there was something in the mute look of Richard Burton that awed the soul of the colored boy. Clip had an affectionate heart. He felt that Richard Burton must be dead, and the thought overpowered him. "Poor Massa Burton!" he cried, bursting into tears. "He's done dead, sure 'nough. Oh, what will we do?" A minute later Clip bounded off like a deer, to carry the sad news to the village. He met the village doctor driving along in his top buggy, and he quickly called out to him: "Go quick, Massa Doctor, for de love of God. Poor Massa Burton's upset himself, and I 'spec's he's dead." "Whereabouts, Clip?" demanded the doctor, startled. "Up the road a piece." "Jump in with me and show me." So Clip, seated beside the doctor, guided him to the fatal spot. The doctor lost no time in jumping out of his buggy and approaching the fallen man. He didn't need to feel his pulse, or place his hand over his heart. To his practiced eye there were other indications that disclosed the terrible truth. "Is he dead?" asked Clip, in an awed voice. "Yes, Clip; your poor master is dead," answered the doctor, sadly. He had known Richard Burton well, and, like all the rest of his neighbors, had a warm esteem for him. "How did this happen, Clip?" he asked. "I don't know, Massa Doctor; 'deed I don't," answered Clip. "I was walkin' along, when I saw the colt runnin' like mad, wid his harness on, and I 'spected something had happened. So I came up, and dat's what I saw." "We can't do anything, Clip, except to see that he is carried home. I dread to break the news to his poor wife." Meanwhile Aaron Wolverton had locked himself in his office. He drew the receipt from his pocket, read it through carefully, and chuckled: "I'll get the money out of the widder. She can't prove that the interest has been paid! But I don't care so much for that as I do to get even with that impudent rascal Bob. He'll rue this day, as sure as my name is Aaron Wolverton." CHAPTER V. WOLVERTON'S FIRST MOVE. Why did not Aaron Wolverton burn the receipt, and get rid once for all of the only proof that the interest had been paid? It would have been the most politic thing to do, inasmuch as he had made up his mind to be dishonest. But, though unprincipled, he was not a bold man. The thought did certainly occur to him, and he even went so far as to light a match. But more timid counsel prevailed, and he concealed it in his desk, carefully locking the desk afterwards. It is unnecessary to describe the grief of the little family at Burton's Ranch when the body of the master was brought home. No one had dreamed of speedy death for Richard Burton. He seemed so strong and vigorous that it would have seemed safe to predict for him a long life--long beyond the average; yet here, in middle life, in the fullness of health and vigor, the summons had come. To Mrs. Burton, who was a most devoted wife, it was a crushing blow. It seemed at first as if it would be happiness to lie down beside her dead husband, and leave the world for him. "What have I to live for now?" she asked, mournfully. "You have me, mother," answered Bob, gently. "I have lost my father. What would become of me if I should lose my mother also?" "You are right, Robert," said Mrs. Burton. "I was wrong to give way; but it is a very hard trial." "Indeed it is, mother," said Robert, kissing her affectionately. "But we must try to bear up." Mrs. Burton felt that this was her plain duty, and henceforth strove to control her emotions. She ceased to sob, but her face showed the grief she suffered. The funeral took place, and the little family held a council to decide what was to be done. "Can we carry on the ranch now that your father is gone?" asked Mrs. Burton, anxiously. "Would it not be better to sell it?" "No, mother; the sacrifice would be too great." "But I do not feel capable of managing it, Robert." "You may think me presumptuous, mother, but my proposal is to assist you, relieving you of the greater part of the care. Between us we can carry it on, I am confident." "You are only a boy of sixteen, Robert," objected his mother. "That is true; but I have watched carefully the manner in which the ranch has been carried on. Of course you must help, and you will try to get a man with whom I can advise. I am sure we can make a good deal more out of the farm than we could realize from investing the money it would bring." "And are you willing to undertake this, Robert? It will be a hard task." "I'll help him, missis," said Clip, eagerly. "I shall have Clip to advise me, mother," said Robert. "No doubt Clip is willing," said Mrs. Burton, smiling faintly; "but after all, it will be only two boys." "Try us a single year, mother," said Bob, confidently. Mrs. Burton gave her consent, and Bob at once took his father's place, rising early and going to the field to superintend the farming operations. He seemed to have developed at once into a mature man, though in appearance he was still the same. Clip was his loyal assistant, though, being a harum-scarum boy, fond of fun and mischief, he was of very little service as adviser. He had mentioned to Bob seeing Aaron Wolverton bending over the body of his father, and exploring his pockets. This puzzled Bob, but he was not prepared to suspect him of anything else than curiosity, until his mother received a call from the real estate agent a month after her husband's decease. Aaron Wolverton had been anxious to call before, but something withheld him. It might have been the consciousness of the dishonorable course he had taken. Be that as it may, he finally screwed up his courage to the sticking-point, and walked out to Burton's Ranch early one afternoon. Mrs. Burton was at home, as usual, for she seldom went out now. She had no intimate friends in the neighborhood. All that she cared for was under her own roof. She looked up in some surprise when Mr. Wolverton was ushered into the sitting-room. "I hope I see you well, Mrs. Burton," said the real estate agent, slipping to a seat, and placing his high hat on his knees. "I am well in health, Mr. Wolverton," answered the widow, gravely. "Yes, yes, of course; I understand," he hastily answered. "Terribly sudden, Mr. Barton's death was, to be sure, but dust we are, and to dust we must return, as the Scripture says." Mrs. Burton did not think it necessary to make any reply. "I came over to offer my--my condolences," continued Mr. Wolverton. "Thank you." "And I thought perhaps you might stand in need of some advice from a practical man." "Any advice will be considered, Mr. Wolverton." "I've been thinkin' the thing over, and I've about made up my mind that the best thing you can do is to sell the ranch," and the real estate agent squinted at Mrs. Burton from under his red eyebrows. "That was my first thought; but I consulted with Robert, and he was anxious to have me carry on the ranch with his help." Aaron Wolverton shook his head. "A foolish plan!" he remarked. "Excuse me for saying so. Of course you, being a woman, are not competent to carry it on--" "I have my son Robert to help me," said the widow. Aaron Wolverton sniffed contemptuously. "A mere boy!" he ejaculated. "No; not a mere boy. His father's death and his affection for me have made a man of him at sixteen. He rises early every morning, goes to the fields, and superintends the farming operations. Peter, my head man, says that he is a remarkably smart boy, and understands the business about as well as a man." "Still I predict that he'll bring you deeper in debt every year." "I don't think so; but, at any rate, I have promised to try the experiment for one year. I can then tell better whether it will be wise to keep on or sell." "Now, Mrs. Burton, I have a better plan to suggest." "What is it, Mr. Wolverton?" "In fact, I have two plans. One is that you should sell me the ranch. You know I hold a mortgage on it for three thousand dollars?" "I know it, Mr. Wolverton!" answered the widow, gravely. "I'll give you three thousand dollars over and above, and then you will be rid of all care." "Will you explain to me how Robert and I are going to live on the interest of three thousand dollars, Mr. Wolverton?" "You'll get something, and if the boy runs the ranch you'll get nothing. He can earn his living, and I don't think you will suffer, even if you have only three thousand dollars." "It is quite out of the question. Mr. Burton considered the ranch worth ten thousand dollars." "A very ridiculous over-valuation--pardon me for saying so." "At any rate, I don't propose to sell." "There's another little circumstance I ought to mention," added Wolverton, nervously. "There is half a year's interest due on the mortgage. It was due on the very day of your husband's death." Mrs. Burton looked up in amazement. "What do you mean, Mr. Wolverton?" she said. "My husband started for your office on the fatal morning of his death, carrying the money--one hundred and fifty dollars--to meet the interest. Do you mean to tell me that he did not pay it?" "That is strange, very strange," stammered Aaron Wolverton, wiping his forehead with a bandana handkerchief. "What became of the money?" "Do you mean to say that it was not paid to you?" asked the widow, sharply. "No, it was not," answered Wolverton, with audacious falsehood. CHAPTER VI. THE LOST RECEIPT. "I can't understand this," said Mrs. Burton, beginning to be troubled. "My poor husband had made all arrangements for paying his interest on the day of his death. When he left the house, he spoke of it. Do you mean to say he did not call at your office?" If Aaron Wolverton had dared, he would have denied this, but Mr. Burton had been seen to enter the office, and so that he would not do him any good. "He did call upon me, Mrs. Burton." "And said nothing about the interest?" "He said this, that he would pay me the coming week." "He said that, when he had the money in his pocket?" said Mrs. Burton, incredulously. "Of course I didn't know that he had the money with him. He probably thought of another way in which he wanted to use a part or all of it." "I don't believe it. He never mentioned any other use for it, and he was not owing any one except you. Mr. Wolverton, I don't like to say it, but I think he paid you the interest." "Do you doubt my word?" demanded Wolverton, with assumed indignation. "Suppose I say that you have forgotten it." "I would not forget anything of that kind. You are very unjust, Mrs. Burton, but I will attribute that to your disappointment. Let me suggest one thing, however. If your husband had paid me, he would have been sure to take a receipt. If you have his wallet here--I happen to know that he was in the habit of carrying a wallet--and you doubt my word, examine the wallet and see if you can find the receipt." Mrs. Burton thought this a good suggestion, and went up-stairs for the wallet. She opened it, but, as Wolverton had good reason to know would be the case, failed to find the important paper. "I can't find it," she said, as she re-entered the room. "Did I not tell you so?" returned Wolverton, triumphantly. "Doesn't that settle it? Wasn't your husband a good enough business man to require a receipt for money paid?" "Yes, yes," murmured the widow. "Mr. Wolverton, if you are right it arouses in my mind a terrible suspicion. Could my husband have been waylaid, murdered, and robbed?" "No, I don't think so. His death was evidently the result of accident--the upset of his team." "What then became of the money--the hundred and fifty dollars which he carried with him?" "There, my dear lady, you ask me a question which I cannot answer. I am as much in the dark as you are." "If this story is true, then we are one hundred and fifty dollars poorer than we supposed. It will be bad news for Robert." "It need not be bad news for you, Mrs. Burton," said Wolverton, in an insinuating tone, shoving his chair a little nearer that occupied by the widow. Mrs. Burton looked up in surprise. "How can it fail to be bad news for me?" she asked. "A loss like that I cannot help feeling." "Do you think I would be hard on _you_, Mrs. Burton?" asked Wolverton, in the same soft voice. "If you are disposed to wait for the money, or relinquish a part under the circumstances, Robert and I will feel very grateful to you, Mr. Wolverton." "I might, upon conditions," said the agent, furtively shoving his chair a little nearer. "What conditions?" asked Mrs. Burton, suspiciously. "I will tell you, if you won't be offended. Mrs. Burton--Mary--you can't have forgotten the early days in which I declared my love for you. I--I love you still. If you will only promise to marry me--after a while--all shall be easy with you. I am a rich man--richer than people think, and can surround you with luxuries. I will be a father to that boy of yours, and try to like him for your sake. Only tell me that you will be mine!" Mrs. Burton had been so filled with indignation that she let him run on, quite unable to command her voice sufficiently to stem the torrent of his words. As he concluded, she rose to her feet, her eyes flashing, and her voice tremulous with anger, and said: "Mr. Wolverton, are you aware that my poor husband has been dead but a month?" "I am perfectly aware of it, Mary." "Don't address me so familiarly, sir." "Mrs. Burton, then, I am perfectly acquainted with that fact, and would not have spoken now, but I saw you were anxious about the future, and I wished to reassure you. Of course I wouldn't hurry you; I only meant to get some kind of an answer that I might depend upon." "And you thought that, after loving such a man as Richard Burton, I would be satisfied to take such a man as you?" said the widow, with stinging sarcasm. "Richard Burton was not an angel," said Wolverton, harshly, for his pride was touched by the contempt which she made no effort to conceal. "Don't dare to say anything against him!" said the widow, her eyes flashing ominously. "Well, then, he was an angel," said Wolverton, sulkily; "but he's dead, and you will need to look to another protector." "My son will protect me," said Mrs. Burton, proudly. "That boy?" said Wolverton, contemptuously. "But I make allowance for a mother's feelings. Once more, Mary, I make you the offer. Remember that I am a rich man, and can surround you with luxuries." "I would rather live in a log house on a crust, than to marry you, Mr. Wolverton," she said, impetuously. "If you were the only man in the world, I would go unmarried to my grave rather than wed you!" Wolverton rose, white with wrath. "You are tolerably explicit, madam," he said. "I can't charge you with beating round the bush. But let me tell you, ma'am, that you have done the unwisest act of your life in making me your enemy." "I did not mean to make you an enemy," said Mrs. Burton, softening. "I suppose I ought to acknowledge the compliment you have paid me, but I must decline, once for all, and request you never again to mention the subject." Aaron Wolverton was not so easily appeased. "I do not care to stay any longer," he said. "You had better mention to your son about the interest." Mrs. Burton had an opportunity to do this almost immediately, for Bob and Clip entered the house just as Wolverton was leaving it. "What have you done to Mr. Wolverton, mother?" asked Bob. "He looked savage enough to bite my head off, and wouldn't even speak to me." "Robert, I have some bad news to tell you. Mr. Wolverton tells me that your father didn't pay him the interest on the day of his death." "I believe he tells a falsehood," said Bob, quickly. "But he says, with some show of reason, if the interest was paid, why didn't your father take a receipt?" "Can no receipt be found?" "No; I searched your father's wallet in vain." "What is a receipt, missis?" asked Clip. "It's a piece of paper with writing on it, Clip," said the widow, adjusting her explanations to Clip's intelligence. "Golly! I saw de old man take a piece of paper from Massa Burton's pocket after he was dead--when he was a-lyin' on the ground." "Say that again, Clip," said Bob, eagerly. Clip repeated it, and answered several questions put to him by Mrs. Burton and Bob. "It's all clear, mother," said Bob. "That old rascal has got up a scheme to rob you. He thinks there isn't any proof of the payment. If he suspected that Clip had been a witness of his robbery he would have been more careful." "What shall I do, Bob?" "Wait a while. Let him show his hand, and then confront him with Clip's testimony. I wonder if he destroyed the receipt?" "Probably he did so." "If he didn't, I may get it through Sam. Don't be worried, mother. It'll all come out right." One thing the widow did not venture to tell Bob--about Mr. Wolverton's matrimonial offer. It would have made him so angry that she feared he would act imprudently. CHAPTER VII. WOLVERTON'S ADVENTURE WITH CLIP. Bob and his mother deliberated as to whether they should charge Mr. Wolverton openly with the theft of the receipt. On the whole, they decided to wait a while, and be guided by circumstances. If he took any measures to collect the money a second time, there would be sufficient reason to take the aggressive. Bob had another reason for delay. He intended to acquaint Sam Wolverton with the matter, and request him to keep on the lookout for the receipt. Should he find it, he knew that Sam would gladly restore it to the rightful owner. He cautioned Clip not to say anything about what he saw on the day of his father's death, as it would put Wolverton on his guard, and lead him to destroy the receipt if still in his possession. I must now relate a little incident in which Clip and Aaron Wolverton were the actors. The creek on which Burton's Ranch was located was a quarter of a mile distant from the house. It was about a quarter of a mile wide. Over on the other side of the creek was the town of Martin, which was quite as large as Carver. In some respects it was a more enterprising place than Carver, and the stores were better stocked. For this reason there was considerable travel across the creek; but as there was no bridge, the passage must be made by boat. Bob owned a good boat, which he and Clip used considerably. Both were good rowers, and during Mr. Burton's life they spent considerable time in rowing for pleasure. Now Bob's time was so occupied that the boat was employed only when there was an errand in the opposite village. "Clip," said Bob, one morning, "I want you to go down to Martin." "Yes, Massa Bob," said Clip, with alacrity, for he much preferred such a jaunt to working in the fields. The errand was to obtain a hammer and a supply of nails at the variety store in Martin. Clip was rather given to blunder, but still there was no reason why he should not execute the errand satisfactorily. Clip went down to the creek, and unfastened the boat. He jumped in, and began to paddle away, when he heard a voice calling him. "Here, you Clip!" Looking round, Clip recognized in the man hailing him Aaron Wolverton. Mr. Wolverton did not own any boat himself, and when he had occasion to go across the river he generally managed to secure a free passage with some one who was going over. If absolutely necessary, he would pay a nickel; but he begrudged even this small sum, so mean was he. Clip stopped paddling, and answered the call. "Hi, Massa Wolverton; what's the matter?" "Come back here." "What fo'?" "I want you to take me over to Martin." Now Clip was naturally obliging, but he disliked Wolverton as much as one of his easy good nature could do. So he felt disposed to tantalize him. "Can't do it, Massa Wolverton. I'm in a terrible hurry." "It won't take you a minute to come back." "Massa Bob will scold." "You needn't mind that, boy. Come back, I say!" "I dassn't." "Don't be a fool, you little nigger. I'll pay you." "What'll you give?" asked Clip, cautiously. "I'll give you--a cent." "Couldn't do it, nohow. What good's a cent to me?" "A cent's a good deal of money. You can buy a stick of candy." "'Tain't enough, Massa Wolverton. I ain't goin' to resk gettin' licked for a cent." Cunning Clip knew that there was no danger of this, but he thought it would serve as an argument. "I'll give you two cents," said Wolverton, impatiently. "Couldn't do it," said Clip. "Ef it was five, now, I might 'sider it." Finally Wolverton was obliged to accede to Clip's terms, and the colored boy pushed the boat to shore, and took in his passenger. "Can you row good, Clip?" asked Wolverton, nervously, for he was very much afraid of the water, and he had never had Clip for a boatman before. "You jes' bet I can, Massa Wolverton. I can row mos' as good as Massa Bob." "Well, show it then; I am in a hurry to get over the creek." Clip rowed to the middle of the creek, and then stopped paddling. "I reckon you'd better pay me the money now, Massa Wolverton," he said. "Why, you young rascal, are you afraid to trust me?" "I dunno 'bout dat; but I wants my money." "You haven't earned it yet. What are you afraid of?" "You might forget to pay me, Massa Wolverton." "No, I sha'n't. Push on." "I'm goin' to sleep," said Clip, lying back in a lazy attitude. "You young rascal! I've a good mind to fetch you a slap on the side of the head." "Better not, Massa Wolverton," drawled Clip. "Might upset the boat." "Give me the oars," said Wolverton, impatiently. He took them; but he had never rowed in his life, and he almost immediately turned the boat around. "Hi, yah!" laughed Clip, delighted. "Where was you raised, Massa Wolverton, not to understand rowin' no better dan dat?" "Take the oars, you black scoundrel, and row me across, or I'll pitch you out of the boat!" "Ef you do, what'll 'come of you, Massa Wolverton?" said Clip, not at all alarmed. This was indeed an important consideration for a man so timid on the water as the real estate agent. "You put me out of all patience," said Wolverton, furiously. "Are you going to row or are you not?" "I want my money," said Clip. Wolverton was compelled to hand over a nickel, but registered a vow that if ever he caught Clip on land, he would make him pay for his impudence. Clip took the oars, and made very good progress till he was about fifty feet from the other side of the creek. Then he began to make the boat rock, stopping his rowing. "What are you about?" shouted Wolverton, turning pale. "It's good fun, ain't it, Massa Wolverton?" said Clip; laughing insolently. "Stop, you little rascal! You'll upset the boat." "Golly! ain't dis fun?" said Clip, continuing his rocking. "I'll choke you, if you don't stop," screamed Wolverton. He rose to catch hold of Clip. The boy jumped up, and ducked his head. The result of the combined motion was that the boat, which was flat-bottomed, capsized, and the two were thrown into the water. There was no danger, for the water at this point was only four feet deep; and Clip could swim, while Aaron Wolverton was too tall to be drowned in that depth of water. Wolverton was almost scared out of his wits. He cut such a ludicrous figure as he floundered in the water, that Clip screamed with delight. The black boy swam to the boat, and, managing to right her, got in again; but Wolverton waded to the shore, almost beside himself with rage. "Is you wet, Massa Wolverton?" asked Clip, innocently, showing his white teeth. "Come ashore, and I'll lick you!" shouted Wolverton, who had by this time landed, his clothes dripping wet. "I reckon I'm too busy," answered Clip, with a grin. "I'm sorry you's wet, Massa Wolverton. Hi yah!" "I'll wring your neck, you young tike!" said Wolverton, savagely. "Dat old man's a hog," mused Clip. "Ain't much like my poor old gran'ther. _He_ was always kin' an' good. I mind him sittin' in front of de ole cabin door down in Arkansaw. I 'spec' de old chap's done dead afore this," concluded Clip, with a sigh. Clip kept at a safe distance from shore, and the agent was compelled to defer his vengeance, and go to the house of an acquaintance to borrow some dry clothes. When he returned, it is needless to say that it was not in Clip's boat. He opened his desk, to enter a business transaction in his account-book, when he made a startling discovery. _The receipt had disappeared!_ CHAPTER VIII. WOLVERTON'S DISMAY. Wolverton uttered a cry of dismay when he found that the receipt had disappeared. With trembling fingers he turned over a pile of papers in the hope of finding the important paper. "Where on earth can it be?" he asked himself, with a troubled face. He set himself to consider when he had seen it last and where he had placed it. "It must be in the desk somewhere," he decided, and resumed his search. Those of my readers who have mislaid any article can picture to themselves his increasing perplexity as the missing paper failed to turn up. He was finally obliged to conclude that it was not in the desk. But, if so, where could it be? If not found, or if found by any one else, his situation would be an embarrassing one. He had assured Mrs. Burton that the interest money had not been paid. Now suppose the receipt were found, what would be the inference? He could not help acknowledging that it would look bad for him. Until he learned something of its whereabouts he would not dare to press Mrs. Burton for a second payment of the interest money. "It is as bad as losing a hundred and fifty dollars," he groaned. "It is a pile of money to lose." Aaron Wolverton did not appear to consider that it was losing what was not his property, and was only preventing him from pushing a fraudulent claim. He actually felt wronged by this inopportune loss. He felt somehow that he was the victim of misfortune. But what could have become of the receipt? That was what troubled him. Was there anybody who was responsible for its disappearance? Naturally it would be important for Mrs. Burton to get hold of it; but then, they did not know of its existence. They had no evidence that the receipt had even been delivered to Richard Burton. Still it was possible that Bob Burton had visited the house, and searched the desk. He would inquire of his sister. He opened the door leading to the kitchen, where Miss Sally Wolverton was engaged in some domestic employment. "Sally, has the Burton boy been here this morning?" "No; why should he come? He isn't one of your visitors, is he?" "Was he here yesterday?" "No; what makes you ask?" "There was a little business, connected with the farm, which he might have come about." "I am glad he didn't come," said Sally. "He's too high-strung for me." "I don't like him myself; but sometimes we have to do business with those we don't like." "That's so. How's the widder left?" "She's got the ranch, but I hold a mortgage of three thousand dollars on it," replied her brother, his features expanding into a wintry smile. A man who can laugh heartily possesses redeeming traits, even if in some respects he is bad; but Aaron Wolverton had never been known to indulge in a hearty laugh. "Can she pay?" "Not at present." "Is the mortgage for a term of years?" "No; it can be called in at the end of any year." "I never liked that woman," said Miss Sally Wolverton, grimly. Sally Wolverton did not like any woman who was younger and prettier than herself, and there were few who were not prettier. She had never known of her brother's infatuation for the lady she was criticising, otherwise she would have been tempted to express herself even more strongly. She was strongly opposed to his marriage, as this would have removed her from her place in his household, or, even if she remained, would have deprived her of her power. Aaron did not care at present to take her into his confidence. Still he could not forbear coming, in a faint way, to the defense of the woman he admired. "Mrs. Burton is a fine-looking woman," he said. "Fine looking!" repeated Sally with a contemptuous sniff. "I don't admire your taste." "She isn't in your style, Sally," said Aaron, with a sly twinkle in his eye. Sally Wolverton was taller than her brother, with harsh features, a gaunt, angular figure, and an acid expression. "I hope not," she answered. "I hope I don't look like an insipid doll." "You certainly don't, Sally; you have expression enough, I am sure." "Do you think Mrs. Burton pretty?" asked Sally, suspiciously. "Oh, so so!" answered Aaron, guardedly; for he did not care to reveal the secret to his sister at present. She was useful to him as a housekeeper, and moreover (an important point) she was very economical; more so than any person whom he could hire. He did indeed pay his sister, but only a dollar a week, and out of this she saved nearly one half, having the gift of economy in quite as large a measure as himself. This assurance, and her brother's indifferent tone, relieved Sally from her momentary suspicion. Yet, had she been able to read her brother's secret thoughts, she would have been a prey to anxiety. He had made up his mind, if ever he did marry Mrs. Burton, to give Sally her walking-ticket. "I can't afford to support two women," he reflected, "and my wife ought to be able to do all the work in so small a household." "Why are you so anxious to know whether any of the Burtons have been here?" "I thought they might come," answered her brother, evasively. "You haven't seen anything of that black imp, Clip, have you?" "No; has he any business with you?" "I have some business with him," snarled Wolverton. "He played a trick on me this morning." "What sort of a trick?" "I got him to carry me across the creek in his boat, and he managed to upset me." "Did he do it a-purpose?" "Yes; he laughed like a hyena when he saw me floundering in the water." "If he comes round here, I'll give him a lesson. I can't abide a nigger any way. They're as lazy as sin, and they ain't got no more sense than a monkey. It's my opinion they are a kind of monkey, any way." Fortunately for the colored race all are not so prejudiced against them as Sally Wolverton--otherwise they would be in a bad case. "By the way, Sally, have you seen a stray paper about the floor in my room?" asked Wolverton, with assumed carelessness. "What sort of a paper was it?" "It was a--a receipt," answered her brother, hesitating. "What kind of a receipt--from whom?" asked Sally, who possessed her share of general curiosity. "That isn't to the point. If you have seen such a paper, or picked it up, I shall feel relieved. I might have to pay the money over again if I don't find it." This was misrepresenting the matter, but Wolverton did not think it expedient to give his sister a clew to so delicate a secret. "No; I have seen no paper," she said shortly, not relishing his evasive reply. "Have you searched your desk?" "Yes." "And didn't find it?" "No." "Suppose I look. Four eyes are better than two." "No, thank you, Sally," answered her brother, hastily. "I am particular about not having my papers disturbed." Aaron Wolverton would have gained some valuable information touching the missing paper if he could have transferred himself at that moment to Burton's Ranch. Bob and Clip were out in the yard when Sam Wolverton made his appearance, breathless and excited. "What's the matter, Sam?" asked Bob, wondering. "Let me catch my breath," gasped Sam. "I--I've got some good news." "Then you are welcome. Has your uncle got married?" "No; nor aunt Sally either," replied Sam. "What do you say to that?" and he drew from his vest pocket a long strip of paper. "What's that?" asked Bob, eagerly. "_It's the receipt_", answered Sam. CHAPTER IX. SAM'S GIFT. "What!" exclaimed Bob, in great excitement. "Not the receipt for the money?" "That's just what it is," answered Sam, nodding emphatically. "Let me see it." Sam put the paper in Bob's hand. There it was in regular form, a receipt for one hundred and fifty dollars, being the semi-annual interest on a mortgage on Burton's Ranch, dated on the day of Richard Burton's death, and signed by Aaron Wolverton. "Hurrah!" shouted Bob, waving it aloft. "Then father did pay it, after all, and that mean scoundrel--excuse my speaking of your uncle in such terms, Sam--" "I don't mind," said Sam, philosophically. "That mean scoundrel wanted us to pay the money a second time. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Sam. But where on earth did you find it?" "I'll tell you, Bob," answered Sam, perching himself on the fence. "This forenoon Uncle Aaron started out on business--I don't know where he went." "I know," said Clip, giving way to a burst of merriment. "How do you know?" "I rowed him across de creek. I was out in de boat when old Massa Wolverton come along and axed me to take him across. I made him pay me a nickel, and he got into de boat," and Clip began to laugh once more. "I don't see anything to laugh at, Clip." "You would, massa Bob, ef you'd been dar. We was almost across when de old boat upset, yah! yah! and old Massa Wolverton--it makes me laugh like to split--tumbled into de water, and got wet as a drownded rat." "Clip, you bad boy, you did it on purpose," said Bob, trying to look stern. "Wish I may die!" asseverated Clip, stoutly, for he was not an imitator of George Washington. "Didn't de old man look mad, dough? He jest shook his fist at me, and called me a black imp, 'deed he did." "I am afraid he was right, Clip," said Bob, shaking his head. "But you haven't told me about the receipt, Sam." "He sent me into his room to get his hat, when right down on the floor by his desk, I saw a piece of paper. I remembered what you told me, Bob, about the receipt, so I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. I had to be quick about it, for Uncle Aaron is always in a hurry. Well, I took out the hat, and I didn't dare to take out the paper and look at it till he was out of sight." "And then--" "Well, then I saw it was the paper you wanted." "Mr. Wolverton took it from the pocket of my poor father when he lay dead on the spot where he was thrown out," said Bob, gravely. "It would be hard to think of a meaner piece of rascality." "Well, I'm glad you've got it, Bob. I don't know as I was right in taking it, but I'll take the risk." "If you never do anything worse than that, Sam, you won't have much to answer for. I wish you'd let me give you something." "No, Bob, you are my friend, and it would be a pity if I couldn't do you a favor without getting paid for it." "But this is a great favor. It is worth a hundred and fifty dollars. Without it we might, and probable would, have to pay the interest money over again. Now, when your uncle calls for it, we shall only have to show him the receipt." "He'll wonder where it came from." "I hope it won't get you into trouble, Sam." "He won't suspect me. He'll know I couldn't break into his desk, and he won't know anything about having dropped it on the floor. I don't see how he came to be so careless." "Depend upon it, Sam, it was the work of Providence. Mother says that God often overrules the designs of the wicked, and I think this is an instance. Henceforth, Sam, though you are old Wolverton's nephew, I shall consider you a friend of our family. Why can't you stay to supper to-night?" "It would never do, Bob, unless I asked permission." "Then ask permission." "I am afraid it wouldn't be granted." "If your uncle is as mean as I think he is, he would be glad for you to get a meal at the expense of somebody else." "He wouldn't like to have me enjoy myself," said Sam. "Is he so mean as that?" "Whenever he hears me singing, he looks mad, and wants to know why I am making a fool of myself." "He's an uncle to be proud of," said Bob, ironically. "I just wish I could live at your house, Bob." "Perhaps I can make an exchange, and give Clip to your uncle instead of you." "Oh, Massa Bob, don't you do it!" exclaimed Clip, looking scared. "Old Massa Wolverton would kill me, I know he would. He hates niggers, I heard him say so." Bob and Sam laughed, being amused by the evident terror of the young colored boy. "I won't do it, Clip, unless you are very bad," said Bob, gravely, "though I think Sam would be willing to change." "Indeed I would," said Sam with a sigh. "There's no such good luck for me." When Bob carried in the receipt and showed it to his mother, her face lighted up with joy. "This is indeed a stroke of good fortune," she said; "or rather it seems like a direct interposition of Providence--that Providence that cares for the widow and the fatherless. You must make Sam a present." "So I will, mother; but if he understands it is for this he won't take anything." "Sam is evidently very different from his uncle. He is a sound scion springing from a corrupt trunk. Leave it to me to manage. Won't he stay to supper?" "Not to-night. I invited him, but he was afraid to accept the invitation, for fear of being punished." "Is his uncle so severe, then?" "I suspect he beats Sam, though Sam doesn't like to own it." "And this man, this cruel tyrant, wants to marry me," thought Mrs. Burton, shuddering. Two days later Sam chanced to be in the house with the two boys, when Mrs. Burton passed through the room, and greeted him pleasantly. "When is your birthday?" she asked. "Last week--Thursday--ma'am." "How old are you?" "Fifteen." "Did you receive a birthday present?" Sam shook his head. "There's no one to give me presents," he said. "You have an uncle and aunt, Sam." "They never give presents. They tell me I ought to be thankful that they take care of me, and save me from going to the poor-house." "There would be no danger of that, Sam," said Bob. "If your uncle ever turns you out to shift for yourself, come and live with us." "I wish he would turn me out to-morrow, then," said Sam; and it was evident the boy meant it. "Sam, you will permit me to make up for your uncle's neglect," said Mrs. Burton, kindly. "Here is a neck-tie. I bought it for Robert, but I can get another for him. And here is something else which may prove acceptable." She drew from her pocket a silver dollar, and put it into Sam's hand. "Is this really for me?" asked Sam, joyfully. "Yes; it is only a small gift, but--" "I never had so much money before in my life," said Sam. "It makes me feel rich." Mrs. Burton looked significantly at Bob. Her woman's wit had devised a way of rewarding Sam for the service he had done the family without his being aware of it. The gift was well meant, but it was destined to get poor Sam into trouble. CHAPTER X. SAM IN A TIGHT PLACE. Many a man who had come unexpectedly into a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars would not have felt so rich as Sam with his silver dollar. It must be remembered that he had never before had so much money at one time in his life. The prospect of spending it opened up dazzling possibilities. There were so many things that he wanted, that it was hard to decide which to select. Among other things, Sam wanted a fishing-pole. There was a supply at a variety store in the village. He had never inquired the price, because he had no money. Now that he was wealthy he determined to inquire. So he went into the store and, pointing to the coveted article, asked the price. "Seventy-five cents," answered the old man, Gordon Locke, who kept the store. "Seventy-five cents!" repeated Sam, thoughtfully. This would only leave him twenty-five cents, and there were so many other things he wanted. "Was you calc'latin' to buy, Sam?" asked Mr. Locke, pushing up his iron-bound spectacles. "I don't know," said Sam, slowly; "I didn't think I'd have to pay so much." "It's cheap, for the quality," said the store keeper. "This ain't no common fishing-pole. It comes all the way from York." "Yes, it seems a nice one," Sam admitted. "Hev you got the money about you?" asked the old man. "Yes," answered Sam, unguardedly. "Then you'd better take the pole. You won't find no better within fifty mile." "I'll think about it," said Sam. He could not make up his mind to part with his precious dollar so soon. As long as he had it, he felt like a man of property. When it was once changed, he would once more be a poor boy. In spite of the storekeeper's persuasions, he walked out with his money intact, leaving the coveted fishing-pole behind. Now it so happened that his uncle, who never allowed anything to pass unnoticed, saw from the window Sam come out of the store, which was nearly opposite. "What business has he there, I wonder?" he said to himself. Five minutes later he made an errand to visit the store himself. "Good-day, Mr. Wolverton," said Gordon Locke, deferentially. "Good-day, Locke! Didn't I see my nephew, Sam, come out of here just now?" "Like as not you did. He was here." "What business had he here?" "He was looking at them fishin'-rods." "He was, hey?" said Wolverton, pricking up his ears. "Yes; he reckoned he'd buy one soon." "What's the price?" "Seventy-five cents." "He reckoned he'd pay seventy-five cents for a fishin'-rod," said Wolverton, slowly. "Did he show you the money?" "No; but he said he had it." "Oho, he had the money," repeated Aaron Wolverton, shaking his head ominously. "Where'd he get it? That's what I'd like to know." "I reckon you gave it to him; he's your nephew." "I don't pamper him in any such way as that. So he's got money. I'll have to look into that." Wolverton, who was of a suspicious disposition, was led to think that Sam had stolen the money from him. He could think of no other way in which the boy could get possession of it. He went home, and sought his sister Sally. "Sally, where is Sam?" "I don't know." Then, noticing the frown upon her brother's brow, she inquired, "Is anything the matter?" "I think there is. Sam has money." "What do you mean? Where'd he get it, Aaron?" "That's what I want to find out," and he told her of Sam's visit to the store. "Have you missed any money, Aaron?" "Not that I know of. You haven't left any round?" "No." "It stands to reason the boy has taken money from one of us. Even if he hasn't, whatever he has belongs to me by right, as I am takin' care of him." "Half of it ought to go to me," said Sally, who was quite as fond of money as her brother. "I don't know about that. But where's the boy?" "I don't know. He may have gone over to see the Burtons. He's there most of the time." "I'll foller him." Aaron Wolverton went into the shed, and came out with a horse-whip. He did not keep a horse, but still he kept a whip. For what purpose Sam could have told if he had been asked. "If the boy's become a thief, I want to know it," said Wolverton to himself. Sam had really started on the way to the Burtons. His uncle struck his trail, so to speak, and followed him. He caught up with his nephew about half a mile away. Sam had thrown himself down on the ground under a cotton-wood tree, and gave himself up to pleasant dreams of the independence which manhood would bring. In his reverie he unconsciously spoke aloud. "When I'm a man, Uncle Aaron won't dare to boss me around as he does now." The old man, creeping stealthily near, overheard the words, and a malicious smile lighted up his wrinkled face. "Oho, that's what he's thinkin' of already," he muttered. "What more?" "I wish I could live with the Burtons," proceeded the unconscious Sam. "They would treat a boy decently." "So I don't treat him decently," repeated Wolverton, his small eyes snapping. He had by this time crawled behind the trunk of the tree under which Sam was reclining. "I sometimes think I'd like to run away and never come back," continued Sam. "You do, hey?" snarled Wolverton, as he stepped out from behind the tree. Sam jumped to his feet in dire dismay, and gazed at his uncle panic-stricken. "Did you just come?" he stammered. "I didn't hear you." "No, I reckon not," laughed his uncle, with a queer smile. "So you want to get quit of your aunt and me, do you?" "I don't reckon to live with you always," faltered Sam. "No; but you ain't a-goin' to leave us just yet. There's a little matter I've got to inquire into." Sam looked up inquiringly. "What is it?" "What did you go into Locke's store for?" demanded his uncle, searchingly. "I just went in to look round," answered Sam, evasively. "You went to look at a fishing-pole," said Aaron Wolverton, sternly. "What if I did?" asked Sam, plucking up a little courage. "Did you have the money to buy it?" "Ye--es," answered Sam, panic stricken. "How much money have you got?" "A dollar." "Which you stole from me!" asserted Wolverton, with the air of a judge about to sentence a criminal to execution. "No, I didn't. It didn't come from your house." "Where did it come from?" "Mrs. Burton gave it to me--for my birthday." "I don't believe it. It's one of your lies. Give it to me this instant." Poor Sam became desperate. What! was he to lose the only money of any account which he ever possessed? He was not brave, but he made a stand here. "You have no right to it," he said, passionately. "It's mine. Mrs. Burton gave it to me." "I tell you it's a lie. Even if she had done so I should have the right, as your uncle, to take it from you. Give it to me!" "I won't!" said Sam, desperately. "Won't, hey?" repeated Wolverton, grimly. "Well, we'll see about that." He raised the horse-whip, and in an instant Sam's legs--he was standing now--felt the cruel lash. "Won't, hey?" repeated his uncle. "We'll see." "Help!" screamed Sam. "Will no one help me?" "I reckon not," answered his uncle, mockingly, and he raised his whip once more. But before the lash could descend, it was snatched from him, and, turning angrily, he confronted Bob Burton, fierce and indignant, and saw Clip standing just behind him. CHAPTER XI. AN ANGRY CONFERENCE. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you brute!" exclaimed Bob. "Do you want me to thrash you, too?" snarled Wolverton, angrily. "You can try, if you want to," returned Bob, contemptuously. "Sam, what was he going to whip you for?" asked Bob, turning to his unfortunate friend. "I'll answer that question," said Wolverton, "though it's no concern of yours. The boy has been robbing me." "What have you to say, Sam?" "It's not true." "What do you charge him with taking, Mr. Wolverton?" "A dollar." "It's the one your mother gave me, Bob." "To be sure! I saw her give it to you myself." "He lies, and you swear to it," said Wolverton, with a sneer. "Mr. Wolverton, you have brought a false charge against your nephew, and you know it. If you don't care to take his word or mine, you can come over to our house and ask my mother whether Sam's story is true." "It doesn't matter whether it's true or false," said Wolverton, doggedly. "Sam is under my charge, and I have a right to any money he comes by." "I always knew you were mean," said Bob, contemptuously, "but this is ahead of anything I ever imagined. Do you still accuse Sam of robbing you?" "I don't know whether he did or not." "You can easily satisfy yourself by calling on my mother." "I mean to call on your mother, but it won't be on this business," said Wolverton, opening his mouth and showing the yellow fangs which served for teeth. "You are at liberty to call on any business errand," said Bob. "Indeed, you are very kind, remarkably kind, considering that the ranch is as much mine as your mother's." "How do you make that out?" "I have a mortgage on it for half its value." "I deny it. The ranch is worth much more than six thousand dollars. Besides, the time has not yet come when you have the right to foreclose." "There you are wrong, young man! As the interest has not been promptly paid, I can foreclose at any time." "You will have to see my mother about that," said Bob, carefully concealing the fact that the receipt had been recovered. "I thought you would change your tune," said Wolverton, judging from Bob's calmer tone that he was getting alarmed. Bob smiled, for he felt that he had the advantage, and foresaw Wolverton's discomfiture when the receipt was shown him. "I am not quite so excited as I was," he admitted. "When I saw you with the whip uplifted I was ready for anything." "Give me back the whip!" said Wolverton, menacingly. "Will you promise not to use it on Sam?" "I'll promise nothing, you young whipper-snapper! What business have you to interfere between me and my nephew?" "The right of ordinary humanity." "Give me the whip." "Then make me the promise?" "I won't." "Then I propose to keep it." "I will have you arrested for theft." "Do so. I will explain matters to Judge Turner." Judge Turner, the magistrate before whom such cases came, heartily despised and hated Aaron Wolverton, as the latter knew full well. He would certainly dismiss any charge brought against Bob by such a man. This consideration naturally influenced him. "Very well," he said, though with an ill grace, "if your mother gave Sam the money, I retract the charge of theft. Nevertheless, as his guardian, I demand that the dollar be given to me." "Give it to me to keep for you, Sam," said Bob. Sam gladly took it from his pocket, and threw it towards Bob, who dexterously caught it. "Now, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob, quietly; "you will have to demand the money from me; Sam hasn't got it." "You'll have to pay for your impudence, Robert Burton!" said Wolverton, wrathfully. "You forget that you are all in my power." "You may find yourself mistaken, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob. "At any rate, I don't think I shall lose any sleep on that score." "You can tell your mother I shall call this evening," continued Wolverton. "I expect her to be ready with the interest, which is long overdue." "I will give her your message, Mr. Wolverton. Now, Clip, let us go on. Mr. Wolverton will excuse us, I know, when I tell him that we have an errand in the village." "Yah, yah!" laughed Clip, gleefully; not that there was anything particular to laugh at, but because it took very little to excite Clip's risibilities. Mr. Wolverton turned upon Clip with a frown. He had not forgotten the trick Clip played upon him when he was upset in the river, and he would have liked nothing better than to flog him till he roared for mercy. "What is that black ape grinning about?" he demanded. Clip ought to have felt insulted, but he was only amused. "Yah, yah!" he laughed again. Aaron Wolverton made a dash at him with his recovered whip, but Clip nimbly jumped to one side and laughed again. "Didn't do it dat time, Massa Wolverton," said Clip, showing his teeth. "I'll get even with you yet, you black monkey!" If Clip had been alone, Wolverton would have proceeded then and there to carry out his threat. But he had a wholesome respect for Bob, whose physical strength and prowess he well knew. It made him angry whenever he thought of this boy, who seemed born to be a thorn in his side. He was stronger than Wolverton, though the land agent was a man grown, and it was humiliating to Wolverton to be obliged to admit this fact. But he had one consolation in the mortgage he held upon the Burton ranch. Here the law was on his side, and he saw his way clear to annoy and injure Bob and his family, without running any risk himself. As for the chance of the mortgage ever being paid off, that he thought extremely small. If Richard Burton were still alive, he would have been right, but Bob, young as he was, bade fair to be a better manager than his father. He was not so sanguine, or, if the truth must be told, so reckless in his expenditures. Besides, he knew, though his father was ignorant of it, that Wolverton, for some reason which he could not penetrate, was a bitter enemy of the family, and that his forbearance could not be depended upon. When Bob and Clip had left the scene Aaron Wolverton turned to Sam, and scowled at his unfortunate nephew, in a way which was by no means pleasant or reassuring. "I've a good mind to flog you for all the trouble you've brought upon me," he said. "I don't see what I've done, uncle." "You don't, hey? Haven't you sided with that upstart, the Burton boy?" Sam was judiciously silent, for he saw his uncle was very much irritated. "Why did you give that dollar to him?" "He told me to." "Suppose he did; is he your guardian or am I?" "You are, Uncle Aaron." "I'm glad you are willing to admit it. Then why did you give him the dollar?" "Because his mother gave it to me. If you had given it to me, I wouldn't have done it." "You'll have to wait a good while before I give you a dollar." Sam was of the same opinion himself, but did not think it wise to say so. "You deserve to be punished for what you have done," said his uncle, severely. "I wish I were as strong and brave as Bob," thought Sam. "I don't see how he dares to stand up before Uncle Aaron and defy him. He makes me tremble." The truth was, Sam was not made of heroic mold. He was a timid boy and was easily overawed. He lacked entirely the qualities that made Bob so bold and resolute. He could admire his friend, but he could not imitate him. "Now, come home," said Wolverton, shortly. Sam followed his uncle meekly. When they reached home Sam was set to work. At twelve o'clock the bell rang for dinner. Sam dropped his axe (he had been splitting wood) and entered the kitchen, where the frugal meal was spread. His uncle was already sitting in his place, and Sam prepared to sit down in his usual chair. "Samuel," said his uncle, "you have disobeyed me. You do not deserve any dinner." Sam's countenance fell, for he was very hungry. "I am very hungry," he faltered. "You should have thought of that when you disobeyed me and gave your money to the Burton boy. This is intended as a salutary lesson, Samuel, to cure you of your stubbornness and disobedience." "You are quite right, Aaron," said Miss Sally in her deep voice. "Samuel needs chastening." Poor Sam slunk out of the door in a state of depression. Not being ordered to return to his work, he went out into the street, where he met Bob and Clip, and to them he told his tale of woe. "Your uncle is as mean as they make 'em," said Bob. "Here, go into the baker's and buy some doughnuts and pie." He handed Sam a quarter, and the hungry boy followed his advice, faring quite as well as he would have done at his uncle's table. Rather to Mr. Wolverton's surprise, he worked all the afternoon without showing signs of hunger, and that gentleman began to consider whether, after all, two meals a day were not sufficient for him. CHAPTER XII. WOLVERTON'S WATERLOO. Though the receipt was lost, Wolverton could not give up his plan of extorting the interest from Mrs. Burton a second time. It might have been supposed that he would have some qualms of conscience about robbing the widow and the fatherless, but Mr. Wolverton's conscience, if he had any, gave him very little trouble. He would have thought himself a fool to give up one hundred and fifty dollars if there was the slightest chance of securing them. Towards evening of the day on which Bob had interfered with him, he took his hat and cane, and set out for Burton's Ranch. It so happened that Bob answered the bell. He had been sitting with his mother, chatting about their future plans. "Good-evening, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob, who felt it incumbent upon him to be polite to a guest, even though he disliked him. "Evening," returned Wolverton, curtly. "Is your mother at home?" "Yes, sir. Will you come in?" Wolverton had not the good manners to acknowledge the invitation with thanks, but strode into the sitting-room, following Bob. The widow anticipated his visit, having been informed by Bob that he had announced his intention of coming. "Good-evening, Mr. Wolverton. Take a seat," she said, pointing to a chair a few feet from her own. "Robert, take Mr. Wolverton's hat." Wolverton looked at the widow with a hungry gaze, for she was the only woman, he had ever loved. "If she would only marry me, all her troubles would be over," he said to himself. "She's a fool to refuse." We, who have some idea of Mr. Wolverton's character and disposition, are more likely to conclude that marriage with such a man would be only the beginning of trouble. "I've come on business, Mrs. Burton," said the visitor, in an aggressive tone. "State it, if you please, Mr. Wolverton," the widow answered, calmly. "Hadn't you better send your son out of the room? We'd better discuss this matter alone." "I have no secrets from Robert," said the widow. "Oh, well, just as you please; I don't care to have him interfere in what doesn't concern him." "Any business with my mother does concern me," said Bob; "but I will try not to give you any trouble." "The business is about that interest," Wolverton began, abruptly. "What interest?" "You must know what I mean--the interest on the mortgage." "My husband paid it on the day of his death." "It's easy enough to say that," sneered Wolverton, "but saying it isn't proving it, as you must have the good sense to know." "When my husband left me on that fatal morning, he told me that he was going to your office to pay the interest. I know he had the money and with him, for he had laid down the wallet, and I saw the roll of bills." "Why didn't he pay it, then? That's what I'd like to know." "Didn't he pay it to you, Mr. Wolverton?" asked Mrs. Burton, with a searching glance. "Carry back your memory to that day, and answer me that question." Mr. Wolverton showed himself a little restive under this interrogatory, but he assumed an air of indignation. "What do you mean, widder?" he demanded, bringing down his cane with emphasis upon the floor. "Do you doubt my word?" "I think you may be mistaken, Mr. Wolverton," said Mrs. Burton, composedly. "Who has been putting this into your head, widder? Is it that boy of yours?" Bob answered for himself: "I don't mind saying that I did tell mother that I thought the money had been paid." "Humph! you think yourself mighty smart, Bob Burton," snarled Wolverton. "Nat'rally you'd like to get rid of paying the interest, if you could; but you've got a business man to deal with, not a fool." "You are no fool where money is concerned, there's no doubt about that. But I want to ask you one thing, if my father didn't pay you the money which mother can testify to his carrying with him on the morning of his death, what became of it?" "How should I know? Did you search his wallet when he was brought home?" "Yes." "And you didn't find the money?" "No." "So you conclude that he paid it to me. Let me tell you, young man, that doesn't follow. He may have been robbed when he was lying on the ground insensible." "I think very likely he was," returned Bob, quietly. "What do you mean by that?" demanded Wolverton, uneasily. "Who could have robbed him?" "Possibly some one that we wouldn't be likely to suspect." "What does he mean? Can he possibly suspect me?" thought Wolverton, fixing his eyes on Bob's face. "But no! I certainly didn't take any money from him." "You may be right," he said aloud; "but that hasn't anything to do with my claim for interest. Whether your father was robbed of the money, or spent it, is all one to me. It wasn't paid to me, I can certify." "Would you be willing to swear that the money was not paid to you that day, Mr. Wolverton?" "Do you mean to insult me? Haven't I told you it was not paid?" "Do you expect me to pay it to you, then?" asked Mrs. Burton. "Widder, I am surprised you should ask such a foolish question. It lies in a nutshell. I'm entitled to interest on the money I let your husband have on mortgage. You admit that?" "Yes." "I'm glad you admit that. As your husband didn't pay, I look to you for it. I can say no more." Mrs. Burton took a pocket-book from a pocket in her dress, and handed it to Robert. Bob opened it, and drew therefrom a folded paper. "Mr. Wolverton," he said, quietly, "I hold in my hand a receipt signed by yourself for the interest--one hundred and fifty dollars--dated the very day that my poor father died. What have you to say to it?" Mr. Wolverton sprang to his feet, pale and panic-stricken. "Where did you get that paper?" he stammered, hoarsely. [Illustration: BOB PRODUCES THE MISSING RECEIPT.] CHAPTER XIII. WHAT BOB FOUND IN THE CREEK. "When my poor husband left your office this receipt was in his possession," answered Mrs. Burton. "I deny it," exclaimed Aaron Wolverton, in a tone of excitement. "Where else should it be?" inquired the widow, eying him fixedly. "I don't know. How should I?" "So you deny that the signature is yours, Mr. Wolverton?" "Let me see it." "I would rather not," said Bob, drawing back the receipt from Wolverton's extended hand. "That's enough!" said Wolverton quickly. "You are afraid to show it. I denounce it as a base forgery." "That will do no good," said the boy, un-terrified. "I have shown the receipt to Mr. Dornton, and he pronounces the signature genuine." "What made you show it to him?" asked Wolverton, discomfited. "Because I thought it likely, after your demanding the interest the second time, that you would deny it." "Probably I know my own signature better than Mr. Dornton can." "I have no doubt you will recognize it," and Bob, unfolding the paper, held it in such a manner that Wolverton could read it. "It may be my signature; it looks like it," said Wolverton, quickly deciding upon a new evasion, "but it was never delivered to your father." "How then do you account for its being written?" asked Mrs. Burton, in natural surprise. "I made it out on the day your husband died," Wolverton answered glibly, "anticipating that he would pay the money. He did not do it, and so the receipt remained in my desk." Bob and his mother regarded each other in surprise. They were not prepared for such a barefaced falsehood. "Perhaps you will account for its not being in your desk now," said Bob. "I can do so, readily," returned Wolverton, maliciously. "Somebody must have stolen it from my desk." "I think you will find it hard to prove this, Mr. Wolverton." "It is true, and I don't propose to lose my money on account of a stolen receipt. You will find that you can't so easily circumvent Aaron Wolverton." "You are quite welcome to adopt this line of defense, Mr. Wolverton, if you think best. You ought to know whether the public will believe such an improbable tale." "If you had the receipt why didn't you show it to me before?" Wolverton asked in a triumphant tone. "I came here soon after your father's death, and asked for my interest. Your mother admitted, then, that she had no receipt." "We had not found it then." "Where, and when, did you find it?" "I do not propose to tell." Wolverton shook his head, satirically. "And a very good reason you have, I make no doubt." "Suppose I tell you my theory, Mr. Wolverton." "I wish you would," and Wolverton leaned back in his chair and gazed defiantly at the boy he so much hated. "My father paid you the interest, and took a receipt. He had it on his person when he met with his death. When he was lying outstretched in death"--here Bob's eyes moistened--"some one came up, and, bending over him, took the receipt from his pocket." Mr. Wolverton's face grew pale as Bob proceeded. "A very pretty romance!" he sneered, recovering himself after an instant. "It is something more than romance," Bob proceeded slowly and gravely. "It is true; the man who was guilty of this mean theft from a man made helpless by death is known. He was seen at this contemptible work." "It is a lie," cried Wolverton, hoarsely, his face the color of chalk. "It is a solemn truth." "Who saw him?" "I don't propose to tell--yet, if necessary, it will be told in a court of justice." Wolverton saw that he was found out, but he could not afford to acknowledge. His best way of getting off was to fly into a rage, and this was easy for him. "I denounce this as a base conspiracy," he said, rising as he spoke. "That receipt was stolen from my desk." "Then we do not need to inquire who took it from the vest-pocket of my poor father." "Robert Barton, I will get even with you for this insult," said Wolverton, shaking his fist at the manly boy. "You and your mother." "Leave out my mother's name," said Bob, sternly. "I will; I don't think she would be capable of such meanness. You, then, are engaged in a plot to rob me of a hundred and fifty dollars. To further this wicked scheme, you or your agent have stolen this receipt from my desk. I can have you arrested for burglary. It is no more nor less than that." "You can do so if you like, Mr. Wolverton. In that case the public shall know that you stole the receipt from my poor father after his death. I can produce an eye-witness." Wolverton saw that he was in a trap. Such a disclosure would injure him infinitely in the opinion of his neighbors, for it would be believed. There was no help for it. He must lose the hundred and fifty dollars upon which, though he had no claim to it, he had so confidently reckoned. "You will hear from me!" he said, savagely, as he jammed his hat down upon his head, and hastily left the apartment. "Aaron Wolverton is not the man to give in to fraud." Neither Bob nor his mother answered him, but Mrs. Burton asked anxiously, after his departure: "Do you think he will do anything, Bob?" "No, mother; he sees that he is in a trap, and will think it wisest to let the matter drop." This, in fact, turned out to be the case. Mortifying as it was to give in, Wolverton did not dare to act otherwise. He would have given something handsome, mean though he was, if he could have found out, first, who saw him rob the dead man, and next, who extracted the stolen receipt from his desk. He was inclined to guess that it was Bob in both cases. It never occurred to him that Clip was the eye-witness whose testimony could brand him with this contemptible crime. Nor did he think of Sam in connection with his own loss of the receipt. He knew Sam's timidity, and did not believe the boy would have dared to do such a thing. All the next day, in consequence of his disappointment, Mr. Wolverton was unusually cross and irritable. He even snapped at his sister, who replied, with spirit: "Look here, Aaron, you needn't snap at me, for I won't stand it." "How will you help it?" he sneered. "By leaving your house, and letting you get another housekeeper. I can earn my own living, without working any harder than I do here, and a better living, too. While I stay here, you've got to treat me decently." Wolverton began to see that he had made a mistake. Any other housekeeper would cost him more, and he could find none that would be so economical. "I don't mean anything, Sally," he said; "but I'm worried." "What worries you?" "A heavy loss." "How much?" "A hundred and fifty dollars." "How is that?" "I have lost a receipt, but I can't explain how. A hundred and fifty dollars is a great deal of money, Sally." "I should say it was. Why can't you tell me about it?" "Perhaps I will some time." About two months later, while Bob was superintending the harvesting of the wheat--the staple crop of the Burton ranch--Clip came running up to him in visible excitement. "Oh, Massa Bob," he exclaimed, "there is a ferry-boat coming down the creek with nobody on it, and it's done got stuck ag'inst a snag. Come quick, and we can take it for our own. Findings is keepings." Bob lost no time in following Clip's suggestion. He hurried to the creek, and there, a few rods from shore, he discovered the boat stranded in the mud, for it was low tide. CHAPTER XIV. THE BOAT AND ITS OWNER. The boat was shaped somewhat like the popular representations of Noah's ark. It was probably ninety feet in length by thirty-eight feet in width, and was roofed. Bob recognized it at once as a ferry-boat of the style used at different points on the river, to convey passengers and teams across the river. It was a double-ender, like the much larger ferry-boats that are used on the East River, between New York and Brooklyn. The creek on which the Burton ranch was located was really large enough for a river, and Bob concluded that this boat had been used at a point higher up. "I wish I owned that boat, Clip," said Bob. "What would you do with it, Massa Bob?" "I'll tell you what I'd do, Clip; I'd go down to St. Louis on it." "Will you take me with you, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, eagerly. "I will, if I go, Clip." "Golly, won't that be fine!" said the delighted Clip. "How long will you stay, Massa Bob?" Clip supposed Bob intended a pleasure trip, for in his eyes pleasure was the chief end of living. But Bob was more practical and business-like. He had an idea which seemed to him a good one, though as yet he had mentioned it to no one. "Get out the boat, Clip," he said, "and we'll go aboard. I want to see if the boat will be large enough for my purpose." Clip laughed in amusement. "You must think you'self mighty big, Massa Bob," he said, "if you think there isn't room on that boat for you an' me." "It would certainly be large enough for two passengers like ourselves, Clip," answered Bob, smiling; "for that matter our rowboat is large enough for two boys, but if I go I shall carry a load with me." Clip was still in the dark, but he was busying himself in unloosing the rowboat, according to Bob's bidding. The two boys jumped in, and a few strokes of the oars carried them to the ferry-boat. Fastening the flat-bottomed boat, the two boys clambered on deck. Bob found the boat in good condition. It had occurred to him that it had been deserted as old and past service, and allowed to drift down the creek, but an examination showed that in this conjecture he was mistaken. It was sufficiently good to serve for years yet. This discovery was gratifying in one way, but in another it was a disappointment. As a boat of little value, Bob could have taken possession of it, fairly confident that no one would interfere with his claim, but in its present condition it was hardly likely to be without an owner, who would appear sooner or later and put in his claim to it. "It seems to be a pretty good boat," said Bob. "Dat's so, Massa Bob." "It must have slipped its moorings and drifted down the creek during the night. I wish I knew who owned it." "You an' me own it, Massa Bob. Finding is keeping." "I am afraid it won't be so in the present case. Probably the owner will appear before long." "Can't we get off down de river afore he comes, Massa Bob?" "That wouldn't be honest, Clip." Clip scratched his head in perplexity. He was not troubled with conscientious scruples, and was not as clear about the rights of property as his young patron. He was accustomed, however, to accept whatever Bob said as correct and final. In fact, he was content to let Bob do his thinking for him. "What was you goin' to take down de ribber, Massa Bob?" he asked. "I'll tell you what I was thinking of, Clip. You know we are gathering our crop of grain, and of course it must be sold. Now, traders ask a large commission for taking the wheat to market, and this would be a heavy tax. If I could load it on board this boat, and take it down myself, I should save all that, and I could sell it myself in St. Louis." "Can I go, too?" asked Clip, anxiously. "You shall go if I do," answered Bob. "When will you know?" asked Clip, eagerly. "When I find out whether I can use this boat. I had thought of building a raft, but that wouldn't do. No raft that I could build would carry our crop to St. Louis. This boat will be just the thing. I think it must have been used for that purpose before. See those large bins on each side. Each would contain from fifty to a hundred bushels of wheat. I only wish I knew the owner. Even if I couldn't buy the boat, I might make a bargain to hire it." Bob had hardly finished his sentence when he heard a voice hailing him from the bank. Going to the end of the boat, he looked towards the shore, and saw a tall angular figure, who seemed from his dress and appearance to be a Western Yankee. His figure was tall and angular, his face of the kind usually described as hatchet face, with a long thin nose, and his head was surmounted by a flapping sombrero, soft, broad-brimmed, and shapeless. "Boat ahoy!" called the stranger. "Did you wish to speak to us?" asked Bob, politely. "I reckon I do," answered the stranger. "I want you to take me aboard that boat." "Is the boat yours?" asked Bob. "It doesn't belong to anybody else," was the reply. "Untie the boat, Clip. We'll go back!" ordered Bob. The two boys dropped into the rowboat, and soon touched the bank. "If you will get in we'll row you over," said Bob. "When did you lose the boat?" "It drifted down last night," answered the new acquaintance. "I've been usin' it as a ferry-boat about twenty miles up the creek. Last night I thought it was tied securely, but this morning it was gone." "I don't see how it could have broken away." "Like as not some mischievous boy cut the cable," was the answer. "Any way, here it is, and here am I, Ichabod Slocum, the owner." "Then the boat and its owner are once more united." "Yes, but that don't take the boat back to where it belongs. It's drifted down here, easy enough; mebbe one of you boys will tell me how it's goin' to drift back." "There may be some difficulty about that," answered Bob with a smile. "How long have you owned the boat?" "About two years. I've been usin' her as a ferry-boat between Transfer City and Romeo, and I've made a pretty fair livin' at it." Bob was familiar with the names of these towns, though he had never been so far up the creek. "I'm afraid you'll have trouble in getting the boat back," he said. "It will make quite an interruption in your business." "I don't know as I keer so much about that," said Ichabod Slocum, thoughtfully. "I've been thinkin' for some time about packin' up and goin' farther west. I've got a cousin in Oregon, and I reckon I might like to go out there for a year or two." "Then, perhaps you might like to dispose of the boat, Mr. Slocum," said Bob, eagerly. "Well, I might," said Ichabod Slocum, cautiously. "Do you know of anybody around here that wants a boat?" "I might like it myself," was Bob's reply. "What on airth does a boy like you want of a ferry-boat?" asked Slocum, in surprise. "I have a plan in my head," said Bob; "and think it would be useful to me." "There ain't no call for a ferry-boat here," said Ichabod. "No; you are right there. I may as well tell you what I am thinking of. Our crop of grain is ready to harvest, and I should like to load it on this boat and carry it down to St. Louis and sell it there myself." CHAPTER XV. BOB BUYS THE FERRY-BOAT. "Good!" said Mr. Slocum. "I like your pluck. Well, there's the boat. You can have it if you want it--for a fair price, of course." "What do you call a fair price?" asked Bob. "I don't mind sayin' that I bought it second-hand myself, and I've got good value out of it. I might sell it for--a hundred and twenty-five dollars." Bob shook his head. "That may be cheap," he answered; "but I can't afford to pay so much money." "You can sell it at St. Louis when you're through usin' it." "I should have to take my risk of it." "You seem to be pretty good on a trade, for a boy. I reckon you'll sell it." "Do you want all the money down. Mr. Slocum?" "Well, I might wait for half of it, ef I think it's safe. What's your security?" "We--that is, mother and I--own the ranch bordering on the other side of the creek. The wheat crop we are harvesting will probably amount to fourteen hundred bushels. I understand it is selling for two dollars a bushel or thereabouts." (This was soon after the war, when high prices prevailed for nearly all articles, including farm products.) "I reckon you're safe, then," said Mr. Slocum. "Now we'll see if we can agree upon a price." I will not follow Bob and Mr. Slocum in the bargaining that succeeded. The latter was the sharper of the two, but Bob felt obliged to reduce the price as much as possible, in view of the heavy mortgage upon the ranch. "I shall never breathe easy till that mortgage is paid, mother," he said. "Mr. Wolverton is about the last man I like to owe. His attempt to collect the interest twice shows that he is unscrupulous. Besides, he has a grudge against me, and it would give him pleasure, I feel sure, to injure me." "I am afraid you are right, Robert," answered his mother. "We must do our best, and Heaven will help us." Finally Mr. Slocum agreed to accept seventy-five dollars cash down, or eighty dollars, half in cash, and the remainder payable after Bob's river trip was over and the crop disposed of. "I wouldn't make such terms to any one else," said the boat-owner, "but I've been a boy myself, and I had a hard row to hoe, you bet. You seem like a smart lad, and I'm favorin' you all I can." "Thank you, Mr. Slocum. I consider your price very fair, and you may depend upon my carrying out my agreement. Now, if you will come up to the house, I will offer you some dinner, and pay you the money." [Illustration: BOB BUYS THE FERRY-BOAT.] Ichabod Slocum readily accepted the invitation, and the three went up to the house together. When Bob told his mother of the bargain he had made, she was somewhat startled. She felt that he did not realize how great an enterprise he had embarked in. "You forget, Robert, that you are only a boy," she said. "No, mother, I don't forget it. But I have to take a man's part, now that father is dead." "St. Louis is a long distance away, and you have no experience in business." "On the other hand, mother, if we sell here, we must make a great sacrifice--twenty-five cents a bushel at least, and that on fourteen hundred bushels would amount to three hundred and fifty dollars. Now Clip and I can navigate the boat to St. Louis and return for less than quarter of that sum." "The boy speaks sense, ma'am," said Ichabod Slocum. "He's only a kid, but he's a smart one. He's good at a bargain, too. He made me take fifty dollars less for the boat than I meant to. You can trust him better than a good many men." "I am glad you have so favorable an opinion of Robert, Mr. Slocum," said Mrs. Burton. "I suppose I must yield to his desire." "Then I may go, mother?" "Yes, Robert; you have my consent." "Then the next thing is to pay Mr. Slocum for his boat." This matter was speedily arranged. "I wish, Mr. Slocum," said Bob, "that you were going to St. Louis. I would be very glad to give you free passage." "Thank you, lad, but I must turn my steps in a different direction." "Shall I have any difficulty in managing the boat on our course down the river?" "No, you will drift with the current. It is easy enough to go down stream. The trouble is to get back. But for that, I wouldn't have sold you the boat. At night you tie up anywhere it is convenient, and start again the next morning." "That seems easy enough. Do you know how far it is to St. Louis, Mr. Slocum?" "There you have me, lad. I ain't much on reckonin' distances." "I have heard your father say, Robert, that it is about three hundred miles from here to the city. I don't like to have you go so far from me." "I've got Clip to take care of me, mother," said Bob, humorously. "I'll take care of Massa Bob, missis," said Clip, earnestly. "I suppose I ought to feel satisfied with that assurance," said Mrs. Burton, smiling, "but I have never been accustomed to think of Clip as a guardian." "I'll guardian, him, missis," promised Clip, amid general laughter. After dinner, in company with Mr. Slocum, Bob and Clip went on board the ferry-boat, and made a thorough examination of the craft, with special reference to the use for which it was intended. "You expect to harvest fourteen hundred bushels?" inquired Mr. Slocum. "Yes; somewhere about that amount." "Then you may need to make two or three extra bins." "That will be a simple matter," said Bob. "The roof over the boat will keep the wheat dry and in good condition. When you get to the city you can sell it all to one party, and superintend the removal yourself. You can hire all the help you need there." Bob was more and more pleased with his purchase. "It is just what I wanted," he said, enthusiastically. "The expenses will be almost nothing. We can take a supply of provisions with us, enough to keep us during the trip, and when the business is concluded we can return on some river steamer. We'll have a fine time, Clip." "Golly! Massa Bob, dat's so." "You will need to tie the boat," continued Ichabod Slocum, "or it may float off during the night, and that would upset all your plans. Have you a stout rope on the place?" "I think not. I shall have to buy one at the store, or else cross the river." "Then you had better attend to that at once. The boat may become dislodged at any moment." After Mr. Slocum's departure, Bob lost no time in attending to this important matter. He procured a heavy rope, of sufficient strength, and proceeded to secure the boat to a tree on the bank. "How soon will we start, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, who was anxious for the excursion to commence. He looked upon it somewhat in the light of an extended picnic, and it may be added that Bob also, apart from any consideration of business, anticipated considerable enjoyment from the trip down the river. "Don't tell anybody what we are going to do with the boat, Clip," said Bob. "It will be a fortnight before we start, and I don't care to have much said about the matter beforehand." Clip promised implicit obedience, but it was not altogether certain that he would be able to keep strictly to his word, for keeping a secret was not an easy thing for him to do. Of course it leaked out that Bob had bought a ferry-boat. Among others Mr. Wolverton heard it, but he did not dream of the use to which Bob intended to put it. He spoke of it as a boy's folly, and instanced it as an illustration of the boy's unfitness for the charge of the ranch. It was generally supposed that Bob had bought it on speculation, hoping to make a good profit on the sale, and Bob suffered this idea to remain uncontradicted. Meanwhile he pushed forward as rapidly as possible the harvest of the wheat, being anxious to get it to market. When this work was nearly finished Mr. Wolverton thought it time to make a proposal to Mrs. Burton, which, if accepted, would bring him a handsome profit. CHAPTER XVI. WOLVERTON'S BAFFLED SCHEME. Mrs. Burton was somewhat surprised, one evening, when told that Mr. Wolverton was at the door, and desired to speak with her. Since the time his demand for a second payment of the interest had been met by a production of the receipt, he had kept away from the ranch. It might have been the mortification arising from baffled villainy, or, again, from the knowledge that no advantage could be gained from another interview. At all events, he remained away till the wheat was nearly harvested. Then he called, because he had a purpose to serve. "Tell Mrs. Burton that I wish to see her on business," he said to the servant who answered his knock. "You can show Mr. Wolverton in," said the widow. Directly the guest was ushered into her presence. "I needn't ask if I see you well, Mrs. Burton," he said, suavely. "Your appearance is a sufficient answer." "Thank you," answered Mrs. Burton, coldly. Aaron Wolverton noticed the coldness, but did not abate any of his suavity. He only said to himself: "The time will come when you will feel forced to give me a better reception, my lady!" "I have called on a little business," he resumed. "Is it about the interest?" asked the widow. "No; for the present I waive that. I have been made the victim of a base theft, and it may cost me a hundred and fifty dollars: but I will not speak of that now." "What other business can you have with me?" "I have come to make you an offer." "What!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton, indignantly. Aaron Wolverton chuckled, thereby showing a row of defective and discolored teeth. "You misunderstand me," he said. "I come to make you an offer for your wheat crop, which I suppose is nearly all gathered in." "Yes," answered the widow relieved. "Robert tells me that it will be all harvested within three days." "Just so. Now, I am willing to save you a great deal of trouble by buying the entire crop at a fair valuation." "In that case, Mr. Wolverton, you will allow me to send for Robert. He attends to the business of the ranch, and understands much more about it than I do." "Wait a minute, Mrs. Burton. Robert is no doubt a smart boy, but you give him too much credit." "I don't think I do. He has shown, since his father's death, a judgment not often found in a boy of his age." "She is infatuated about that boy!" thought Wolverton. "However, as I have a point to carry, I won't dispute with her." "You may be right," he said, "but in this matter I venture to think that you and I can make a bargain without any outside help." "You can, at any rate, state your proposition, Mr. Wolverton." "Have you any idea as to the amount of your wheat crop?" "Robert tells me there will be not far from fourteen hundred bushels." Wolverton's eyes showed his pleasure. If he made the bargain proposed, this would bring him an excellent profit. "Very good!" he said. "It will be a great help to you." "Yes; I feel that we are fortunate, especially when I consider that the ranch has been carried on by a boy of sixteen." "Well, Mrs. Burton, I am a man of few words. I will give you a dollar and a half a bushel for your wheat, and this will give you, on the basis of fourteen hundred bushels, twenty-one hundred dollars. You are a very fortunate woman." "But, Mr. Wolverton, Robert tells me he expects to get at least two dollars a bushel." It must be remembered that grain was then selling at "war prices." "I don't know what the boy can be thinking of," said Wolverton, contemptuously. "Two dollars a bushel! Why don't he say five dollars at once?" "He gained his information from a St. Louis paper." "My dear madam, the price here and the price in St. Louis are two entirely different matters. You must be aware that it will cost a good deal to transport the wheat to St. Louis." "Surely it cannot cost fifty cents a bushel?" "No; but it is a great mistake to suppose that you can get two dollars a bushel in St. Louis." "I must leave the matter to Robert to decide." "Excuse my saying that this is very foolish. The boy has not a man's judgment." "Nevertheless, I must consult him before deciding." Mrs. Barton spoke so plainly that Wolverton said, sullenly: "Do as you please, Mrs. Burton, but I would like to settle the matter to-night." Robert was sent for, and, being near the house, entered without delay. Mr. Wolverton's proposition was made known to him. "Mr. Wolverton," said Bob, regarding that gentleman with a dislike he did not attempt to conceal, "You would make a very good bargain if we accepted your proposal." "Not much," answered Wolverton, hastily. "Of course I should make a little something, but I am chiefly influenced in making the offer, by a desire to save your mother trouble." "You would make seven hundred dollars at least, out of which you would only have to pay for transportation to St. Louis." "That is a very ridiculous statement!" said Wolverton, sharply. "Why so? The wheat will fetch two dollars a bushel in the market." "Some one has been deceiving you." "Shall I show you the paper in which I saw the quotations?" "No; it is erroneous. Besides, the expense of carrying the grain to market will be very large." "It won't be fifty cents a bushel." "Young man, you are advising your mother against her best interests. Young people are apt to be headstrong. I should not expect to make much money out of the operation." "Why, then, do you make the offer?" "I have already told you that I wished to save your mother trouble." "We are much obliged to you, but we decline your proposal." "Then," said Wolverton, spitefully, "I shall have to hold you to the terms of the mortgage. I had intended to favor you, but after the tone you have taken with me, I shall not do so." "To what terms do you refer, Mr. Wolverton?" asked the widow. "I will tell you. I have the right at the end of six months to call for a payment of half the mortgage--fifteen hundred dollars. That will make, in addition to the interest then due, sixteen hundred and fifty dollars." "Can this be true?" asked Mrs. Burton, in dismay, turning to Robert. "It is so specified in the mortgage," answered Wolverton, triumphantly. "You can examine it for yourself. I have only to say, that, had you accepted my offer, I would have been content with, say, one quarter of the sum, knowing that it would be inconvenient for you to pay half." Bob, as well as his mother, was taken by surprise, but in no way disposed to yield. "We should be no better off," he said. "We should lose at least five hundred dollars by accepting your offer, and that we cannot afford to do." "You refuse, then," said Wolverton, angrily. "Yes." "Then all I have to say is that you will rue this day," and the agent got up hastily, but upon second thought sat down again. "How do you expect to get your grain to market?" he asked. "I shall take it myself." "What do you mean?" "I shall store it on a boat I have purchased, and Clip and I will take it to St. Louis." "You must be crack-brained!" ejaculated Wolverton. "I never heard of a more insane project." "I hope to disappoint you, Mr. Wolverton. At any rate, my mind is made up." Wolverton shuffled out of the room, in impotent rage. "We have made him our enemy, Robert," said his mother, apprehensively. "He was our enemy before, mother. He evidently wants to ruin us." As Wolverton went home, one thought was uppermost in his mind. "How could he prevent Bob from making the trip to St. Louis?" CHAPTER XVII. WOLVERTON'S POOR TENANT. Bob hired a couple of extra hands, and made haste to finish harvesting his wheat, for he was anxious to start on the trip down the river as soon as possible. His anticipations as to the size of the crop were justified. It footed up fourteen hundred and seventy-five bushels, and this, at two dollars per bushel, would fetch in market nearly three thousand dollars. "That's a pretty good crop for a boy to raise, mother," said Bob, with pardonable exultation. "You haven't lost anything by allowing me to run the ranch." "Quite true, Robert. You have accomplished wonders. I don't know what I could have done without you. I know very little of farming myself." "I helped him, missis," said Clip, coveting a share of approval for himself. "Yes," said Bob, smiling. "Clip has been my right-hand man. I can't say he has worked very hard himself, but he has superintended the others." "Yes, missis; dat's what I done!" said Clip, proudly. He did not venture to pronounce the word, for it was too much for him, but he was vaguely conscious that it was something important and complimentary. "Then I must buy Clip a new suit," said Mrs. Burton, smiling. "I'll buy it in St. Louis, mother." When the grain was all gathered in Bob began to load it on the ferry-boat. Wolverton sent Sam round every day to report progress, but did not excite his nephew's suspicions by appearing to take unusual interest in the matter. To prepare the reader for a circumstance which happened about this time, I find it necessary to introduce another character, who was able to do Bob an important service. In a small house, about three-quarters of a mile beyond the Burton ranch, lived Dan Woods, a poor man, with, a large family. He hired the house which he occupied and a few acres of land from Aaron Wolverton, who had obtained possession of it by foreclosing a mortgage which he held. He permitted Woods, the former owner, to remain as a tenant in the house which once belonged to him, charging him rather more than an average rent. The poor man raised vegetables and a small crop of wheat, enough of each for his own family, and hired out to neighbors for the balance of his time. He obtained more employment on the Burton ranch than anywhere else, and Mrs. Burton had also sympathized with him in his difficult struggle to maintain his family. But, in spite of friends and his own untiring industry, Dan Woods fell behind. There were five children to support, and they required not only food but clothing, and Dan found it uphill work. His monthly rent was ten dollars; a small sum in itself, but large for this much-burdened man to pay. But, however poorly he might fare in other respects, Dan knew that it was important to have this sum ready on the first day of every month. Wolverton was a hard landlord, and admitted of no excuse. More than once after the rent had been paid there was not a dollar left in his purse, or a pinch of food in his house. A week before this time Dan was looking for his landlord's call with unusual anxiety. He had been sick nearly a week during the previous month, and this had so curtailed his earnings that he had but six dollars ready in place of ten. Would his sickness be accepted as an excuse? He feared not. Wolverton's call was made on time. He had some expectation that the rent would not be ready, for he knew Dan had been sick; but he was resolved to show him no consideration. "His sickness is nothing to me," he reflected. "It would be a pretty state of affairs if landlords allowed themselves to be cheated out of their rent for such a cause." Dan Woods was at work in the yard when Wolverton approached. He was splitting some wood for use in the kitchen stove. His heart sank within him when he saw the keen, sharp features of his landlord. "Good morning, Dan," said Wolverton, with suavity. His expression was amiable, as it generally was when he was collecting money, but it suffered a remarkable change if the money was not forthcoming. "Good-morning, sir," answered Woods, with a troubled look. "You've got a nice, snug place here, Dan; it's a fine home for your family." "I don't complain of it, sir. As I once owned it myself, probably I set more store by it than a stranger would." "Just so, Dan. You get it at a very low rent, too. If it were any one but yourself I should really feel that I ought to raise the rent to twenty dollars." "I hope you won't do that, sir," said Woods, in alarm. "It's all I can do to raise ten dollars a month, with all my other expenses." "Oh, well, I'll let it remain at the present figure _as long as you pay me promptly_," emphasizing the last words. "Of course I have a right to expect that." Dan's heart sank within him. It was clear he could not expect any consideration from such a man. But the truth must be told. "No doubt you are right, Mr. Wolverton, and you've found me pretty prompt so far." "So I have, Dan. I know you wouldn't be dishonest enough to make me wait." Dan's heart sank still lower. It was becoming harder every minute to own that he was deficient. "Still, Mr. Wolverton, bad luck will come----" "What!" exclaimed Wolverton, with a forbidding scowl. "As I was saying, sir, a man is sometimes unlucky. Now, I have been sick nearly a week out of the last month, as you may have heard, and it's put me back." "What are you driving at, Dan Woods?" demanded Wolverton, severely. "I hope you're not going to say that you are not ready to pay your rent?" "I haven't got the whole of it, sir; and that's a fact." "You haven't got the whole of it? How much have you got?" "I can pay you six dollars, Mr. Wolverton." "Six dollars out of ten! Why, this is positively shameful! I wonder you are not ashamed to tell me." "There is no shame about it that I can see," answered Dan, plucking up his spirit. "I didn't fall sick on purpose; and when I was sick I couldn't work." "You ought to have one month's rent laid by, so that whatever happens you could pay it on time." "That's easy to say, Mr. Wolverton, but it takes every cent of my earnings to pay my monthly expenses. There's little chance to save." "Any one can save who chooses," retorted Wolverton, sharply. "Shall I get you the six dollars, sir?" "Yes, give it to me." "And you will wait for the other four?" "Till to-morrow night." "But how can I get it by to-morrow night?" asked Dan in dismay. "That's your lookout, not mine. All I have to say is, unless it is paid to me to-morrow night you must move the next day." With these words Wolverton went off. Dan Woods, in his trouble, went to Bob Burton the next day, and Bob readily lent him the money he needed. "Thank you!" said Dan, gratefully; "I won't forget this favor." "Don't make too much of it, Dan; it's a trifle." "It's no trifle to me. But for you my family would be turned out of house and home to-morrow. The time may come when I can do you a service." "Thank you, Dan." The time came sooner than either anticipated. CHAPTER XVIII. WOLVERTON'S WICKED PLAN. Wolverton was somewhat puzzled when on his next call Dan Woods paid the balance due on his rent. "So you raised the money after all?" he said. "I thought you could if you made an effort." "I borrowed the money, sir." "Of whom?" "It isn't any secret, Mr. Wolverton. I borrowed it of a neighbor who has always been kind to me--Bob Burton." Wolverton shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't know he had money to lend," he said. "He always has money for a poor man who needs it." "All right! I shall know where to go when I need money," responded Wolverton, with a grin. "It suits me well enough to have the boy throw away his money," Wolverton said to himself. "It will only draw nearer the time when he will have to sue me for a favor." That day Wolverton read in a St. Louis paper that wheat was steadily rising, and had already reached two dollars and six cents per bushel. "I could make a fine thing of it if I had only received the Barton wheat at a dollar and a half a bushel," he reflected, regretfully. "If I had only the widow to deal with, I might have succeeded, for she knows nothing of business. But that confounded boy is always putting a spoke in my wheel. If he carries out his plan, and markets the wheat, it will set him on his feet for the year to come." This reflection made Wolverton feel gloomy. There are some men who are cheered by the prosperity of their neighbors, but he was not one of them. He began to speculate as to whether there was any way of interfering with Bob's schemes. Generally when a man is seeking a way of injuring his neighbor he succeeds in finding one. This was the plan that suggested itself to Wolverton: If he could set the ferry-boat adrift when the grain was all stored it would float down stream, and the chances were against its being recovered. It would be mean, and even criminal, to be sure. For the first, Wolverton did not care; for the second, he would take care that no one caught him at it. He did not think of employing any one else in the matter, for he knew of no one he could trust; and he felt that he could do it more effectually than any agent, however trustworthy. Wolverton was so full of the plan, which commended itself to him as both simple and effective, that he took a walk late in the evening from his house to the point on the creek where the boat was tethered. Now, it so happened that Dan Woods, who had been employed all day, had occasion to go to the village in the evening to procure a few groceries from the village store. He delayed for a time, having met an old acquaintance, and it was half-past nine when he set out on his return homeward. His way led him not only by the Burton homestead, but by the river bend where Bob kept his rowboat--the same point also where the ferry-boat was tied. As he approached, he caught sight of a man's figure standing on the bank. Who it was he could not immediately distinguish on account of the darkness. "It may be some one bent on mischief," he thought to himself. "I will watch him and find out, if I can, who it is." He kept on his way stealthily till he was within a dozen feet, when he slipped behind a tree. Then it dawned upon him who it was. "It's Aaron Wolverton, as I'm a living man," he ejaculated, inwardly. "What can he be doing here?" It was Wolverton, as we know. The old man stood in silence on the bank, peering through the darkness at the shadowy form of the ferry-boat, which already contained half the wheat crop of Burton's Ranch--the loading having commenced that morning. He had one habit which is unfortunate with a conspirator--the habit of thinking aloud--so he let out his secret to the watchful listener. "Sam tells me they expected to get half the crop on board to-day," he soliloquized. "I sent him over to get that very information, though he don't know it. It is too early to do anything yet. To-morrow night the whole cargo will be stored, and then it will be time to cut the rope and let it drift. I should be glad to see the boy's face," he chuckled, "when he comes down to the creek the next morning and finds the boat gone. That will put him at my mercy, and the widow, too," he added, after a pause. "He will repent too late that he thwarted me. I will work in secret, but I get there all the same!" Wolverton clasped his hands behind his back and, turning, walked thoughtfully away. He did not see his tenant, who was crouching behind a tree not over three feet from the path. Dan Woods had no very favorable opinion of Wolverton, but what he had heard surprised and shocked him. "I didn't think the old man was as wicked as that!" he said to himself. "He is scheming to ruin Bob and his mother. Why should he have such a spite against them?" This is a question which we can answer, but Woods became more puzzled the more he thought about it. One thing was clear, however; he must apprise Bob of the peril in which he stood. Even if he had not received the last favor from our hero, he would have felt in duty bound to do his best to defeat Wolverton's wicked plan. The next morning, therefore, he made an early call at Burton's Ranch, and asked for a private interview with Bob. He quickly revealed to him the secret of which he had become possessed. "Thank you, Dan," said Bob, warmly. "You have done me a favor of the greatest importance. I knew Wolverton was my enemy, and the enemy of our family, but I did not think he would be guilty of such a mean and wicked action. If he had succeeded, I am afraid we should have lost the farm." "You won't let him succeed?" said Dan Woods, anxiously. "No; forewarned is forearmed. I shall be ready for Mr. Wolverton!" And Bob closed his lips resolutely. He deliberated whether he should let his mother know of the threatened danger, but finally decided not to do so. It would only worry her, and do no good, as whatever measures of precaution were to be taken, he must take. He did not even tell Clip; for though the young colored boy was devoted to him, he was lacking in discretion, and might let out the secret. Bob did not want to prevent the attempt being made. He wished to catch Wolverton in the act. He did, however, take into his confidence a faithful man who had worked for his father ever since the ranch was taken, thinking it prudent to have assistance near if needed. That day the rest of the wheat was stored on the ferry-boat. All would be ready for a start the next morning, and this Bob had decided to make. He sent Clip to bed early, on the pretext that he must have a good night's sleep, as he would be called early. If Clip had had the least idea of what was in the wind he would have insisted on sitting up to see the fun, but he was absolutely ignorant of it. Wolverton had learned from Sam, who was surprised that his uncle should let him spend almost all his time with his friends, Bob and Clip, that the cargo had been stored. "When do they start?" he asked, carelessly. "To-morrow morning, uncle," Sam answered. "If I had thought of it," said Wolverton, "I would have asked young Burton to take my wheat along, too." "I don't think he would have room for it, Uncle Aaron. The boat is about full now." "Oh, well; I shall find some other way of sending it," said Wolverton, carelessly. About nine o'clock Wolverton stole out in the darkness, and made his way stealthily to the bend in the creek. He had with him a sharp razor--he had no knife sharp enough--which he judged would sever the thick rope. Arrived at the place of his destination, he bent over and drew out the razor, which he opened and commenced operations. But there was an unlooked-for interference. A light, boyish figure sprang from behind a tree, and Bob Barton, laying his hand on Wolverton's shoulder, demanded, indignantly: "What are you doing here, Mr. Wolverton?" Wolverton started, dropped the razor in the river, and, with an expression of alarm, looked up into Bob's face. CHAPTER XIX. MR. WOLVERTON MEETS TWO CONGENIAL SPIRITS. "What are you doing here, Mr. Wolverton?" repeated Bob, sternly. "Oh, it's you, Bob, is it?" said Wolverton, with assumed lightness. "Really, you quite startled me, coming upon me so suddenly in the dark." "I noticed that you were startled," responded Bob, coolly. "But that isn't answering my question." By this time Wolverton was on his feet, and had recovered his self-possession. "What right have you to put questions to me, you young whelp?" he demanded, angrily. "Because I suspect you of designs on my property." "What do you mean?" snarled Wolverton. "I will tell you; I think you meant to cut the rope, and send my boat adrift." "How dare you insult me by such a charge?" demanded the agent, working himself into a rage. "I have reason to think that you meant to do what I have said." "Why should I do it?" "In order to injure me by the loss of my wheat." "You are a fool, young man! I am inclined to think, also, that you are out of your head." "If you had any other purpose, what is it?" Wolverton bethought himself that in order to avert suspicion, he must assign some reason for his presence. To do this taxed his ingenuity considerably. "I thought I saw something in the water," he said. "There it is; a twig; I see now." "And what were you going to do with the razor?" "None of your business!" said Wolverton, suddenly, finding it impossible, on the spur of the moment, to think of any reason. "That is easy to understand," said Bob, significantly. "Now, Mr. Wolverton, I have a warning to give you. If anything befalls my boat, I shall hold you responsible." "Do you know who I am?" blustered Wolverton. "How do you, a boy, dare to talk in this impudent way to a man who has you in his power?" "It strikes me, Mr. Wolverton, that I hold you in my power." "Who would believe your unsupported assertion? sneered the agent." "It is not unsupported. I brought with me Edward Jones, my faithful assistant, who has seen your attempt to injure me." At this, Edward, a stalwart young man of twenty-four, stepped into view. "I saw it all," he said, briefly. "You are ready to lie, and he to swear to it," said Wolverton, but his voice was not firm, for he saw that the testimony against him was too strong to be easily shaken. "I don't wonder you deny it, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob. "I won't remain here any longer to be insulted," said Wolverton, who was anxious to get away, now that his plan had failed. Bob did not reply, and the agent slunk away, feeling far from comfortable. "What cursed luck sent the boy to the creek to-night?" he said to himself. "I was on the point of succeeding, and then I would have had him in my power. Could he have heard anything?" Wolverton decided, however, that this was not likely. He attributed Bob's presence to chance, though his words seemed to indicate that he suspected something. He was obliged to acknowledge his defeat. Yet it would be possible for him to return in an hour or two, and carry out his evil plan. But it would be too hazardous. The crime would inevitably be traced to him, and he would be liable to arrest. No, hard though it was to bring his mind to it, he must forego his scheme, and devise something else. When the agent had left the scene, Bob Burton said: "Edward, you may go home. I mean to stay here on guard." "But you will not be in condition to start to-morrow morning. You will be tired out." "I can't take any risks this last evening, Edward." "Then let me take your place. I will stay here." "But it will be hard on you." "I will lie later to-morrow morning. You can relieve me, if you like, at four o'clock." "Let it be so, then! Too much is at stake for us to leave anything to chance. I don't think, however, that Wolverton would dare to renew his attempt." Meanwhile Wolverton retraced his steps to his own house. There was one lonely place on the way, but the agent was too much absorbed in his own reflections to have room for fear. His occupation of mind was rudely disturbed, when from a clump of bushes two men sprang out, and one, seizing him by the shoulder, said, roughly: "Your money or your life!" Wolverton was not a brave man, and it must be confessed that he was startled by this sudden summons. But he wasn't in the habit of carrying money with him in the evening, and an old silver watch, which would have been dear at four dollars, was not an article whose loss would have seriously disturbed him. So it was with a tolerable degree of composure that he answered: "You have stopped the wrong man." "We know who you are. You are Aaron Wolverton, and you are a rich man." "That may and may not be, but I don't carry my money with me." "Empty your pockets!" Wolverton complied, but neither purse nor pocket book was forthcoming. "Didn't I tell you so?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "We won't take your word for it." The first highwayman plunged his hand into the agent's pockets, but his search only corroborated Wolverton's statement. "You, a rich man, go without money!" he exclaimed with rough contempt. "Perhaps I might have expected such a meeting," Wolverton replied, with cunning triumph. "You must have a watch, at any rate!" "I have one that I will sell you for four dollars." As he spoke, he voluntarily produced the timeworn watch, which had served him for twenty years. The thieves uttered an exclamation of contempt. Their disappointment made them angry. They hurriedly conferred as to the policy of keeping Wolverton in their power till he should pay a heavy ransom, but there were obvious difficulties in the way of carrying out this plan. Aaron Wolverton listened quietly to the discussion which concerned him so nearly. He smiled at times, and did not appear particularly alarmed till one, more bloodthirsty than the other, suggested stringing him up to the nearest tree. "My friends," he said, for the first time betraying a slight nervousness. "I can't see what advantage it would be for you to hang me." "You deserve it for fooling us!" replied the second highwayman, with an oath. "In what way?" "By not carrying any money, or article of value." "I grieve for your disappointment," said Wolverton, with much sympathy. "If you mock us, you shall swing, any way." "Don't mistake me! I have no doubt you are very worthy fellows, only a little unfortunate. What sum would have paid you for your disappointment?" "Fifty dollars would have been better than nothing." "That is considerable money, but I may be able to throw it in your way." "Now you're talking! If you are on the square, you'll find us gentlemen. We are ready to hear what you have to say." "Good! But I expect you to earn the money." "How?" inquired the first gentleman, suspiciously. The word earn might mean work, and that was not in his line. "I'll tell you." There was an amiable conference for twenty minutes, but this is not the place to reveal what was said. Enough that it nearly concerned Bob Burton, and involved a new plot against the success of his enterprise. CHAPTER XX. AN UNEXPECTED PASSENGER. The next morning the boys were up bright and early. It was a glorious morning, and Bob accepted it as auspicious of a pleasant and prosperous trip. Clip was in wild spirits. He was naturally vivacious and fond of change, and the prospect of the river trip made him very happy. Bob, as a practical joke, put on a grave face and said: "Clip, I don't know but I shall have to leave you at home." "What fo', Massa Bob?" inquired Clip, his face assuming a look of dismay. "I am afraid my mother won't be able to get along without you. There are so many things to attend to on the ranch." "I can't do no good on the ranch," said Clip, eagerly. "I'm only a lazy, good-for-nothing nigger." "Then I don't see how you can help me, Clip," returned Bob, his eyes twinkling as he listened to this candid confession. "Dat's different, Massa Bob. I ain't no good on the ranch, but I'm powerful help on the river. Please take me along, Massa Bob," pleaded Clip. "Just as likely as not you'll get lost, Clip. Besides, you might meet your old master from Arkansas." "He won't catch dis nigger," said Clip, shaking his head, resolutely. "Please let me go, Massa Bob." "Your arguments are so cogent, Clip, that I suppose I shall have to give in." Instantly Clip's face was radiant. He didn't know what cogent arguments were, but as long as they had accomplished his desire he was content to remain in ignorance. "But if you give me any trouble, Clip," Bob added, seriously, "I may have to put you ashore, and let you walk home." Clip gave the most emphatic assurance of good conduct, and was informed that he could go. There was much to do, even on the last morning, and though the boys were early risers, it was fully ten o'clock before they were ready to start. Half an hour before this Bob had a surprise. Sam Wolverton was seen approaching on a run, breathless and without a hat. He arrived at the landing, just as Bob was putting off in the flat-bottomed boat, with a load of provisions for the voyage. "What on earth is the matter, Sam?" asked Bob, in surprise. "Let me get on the boat and I will tell you." The boat was put back and Sam jumped on. "Now what has happened, Sam?" "Do you see this," said Sam, pointing to his right cheek, which was stained with blood. "What has happened to you? Did you fall and hurt yourself?" "My uncle knocked me over and I fell against a block of wood." "What made him attack you?" inquired Bob, indignantly. "I don't know; he got mad with me for nothing at all. He's been in an awful temper all the morning. Something must have happened to vex him." Bob smiled. He could understand what had happened. Wolverton's disappointment at the failure of his villainous plan had no doubt soured him, and, like a born bully, he had vented his spite upon the poor boy who was dependent upon him. "I wish you'd more spunk, Sam," Bob said. "He wouldn't dare to attack me in that way." "You're stronger and braver than I am, Bob. I can't be like you. I wish I could." "Your uncle is no more nor less than a bully. He imposes upon you because he thinks it is safe to do so. He wouldn't dare tackle me, because he knows it wouldn't be safe." "Bob," said Sam, solemnly, "I've borne it as long as I'm going to. I am not going back to my uncle's house." "Do you mean this, Sam?" "Yes, I do. It's the only home I have, but I would rather go without a home than to be beaten and ill-treated by Uncle Aaron." "I commend your pluck, Sam. I can't say I think you are doing wrong." "I have a favor to ask of you, Bob. You are my only friend." "What is it, Sam?" "Let me go with you to St. Louis. It would make me happy to be with you, and I should be out of my uncle's way." Bob paused for consideration, the proposal being unexpected. "But suppose, Sam, I am charged with abducting you?" "I'll take all the blame. Let me hide on the ferry-boat, and I won't show myself until you've got miles away." "That might do," said Bob, smiling. "Perhaps it isn't exactly square, but with such a man as your uncle we must make use of his own methods." "You will take me, then?" asked Sam, eagerly. By this time they had reached the boat. "Clip," said Bob, "go with Sam and hide him somewhere on the boat, but don't tell me where he is concealed. Then, if old Wolverton comes after him I can say truly that I don't know where he is." "All right, Massa Bob," said Clip, showing his teeth. When the contents of the boat had been transferred to the larger craft, Bob rowed back, leaving Clip and Sam together. The boat was roofed over, as already stated. Besides the bins there was a corner in which some bedding had been placed for the accommodation of the young voyagers. But it seemed difficult to find a suitable hiding-place for Sam. "Where can you put me?" asked the young runaway, with a troubled look. Clip looked about him, rolling his eyes in perplexity. At length his face brightened, for an idea had come to him. In one corner was an empty barrel. Some stores had been brought aboard in it, and it had been suffered to remain, with the idea that it might possibly prove of use. The particular use to which it was to be put certainly never occurred to Bob or Clip. "Get in there, Sam!" said Clip. "Old Mass' Wolverton won't look for you in there." "But I shall be seen." "You wait and I'll show you how we'll manage; only get in!" Thus adjured, Sam got into the barrel, and with some difficulty crouched so that his head was lower than the top of the barrel. "Now I'll show you," said Clip. He took a white cloth--it was apiece of sail-cloth--and spread over the top of the barrel. "Now old Mass' Wolverton will have sharp eyes to see you," said Clip, triumphantly. "That may do," said Sam. "But it isn't necessary to put it on now. It will be time if my uncle makes his appearance. I'll keep out of sight in the center of the boat." Meanwhile Bob had gone to the house to bid good-bye to his mother. "I feel anxious about your going off on such a long trip, Robert," said Mrs. Burton. "You forget that I am almost a man, mother. It is time for me to assume some responsibility." "But you are only a boy, after all, Robert. Think, if anything should happen to you, what would become of me?" "My dear mother, you may depend on my taking excellent care of myself. I don't see what risk or danger there can be in going to St. Louis. It isn't a long trip. I shall be back in less than a fortnight if all goes well." "It will seem a very long fortnight to me, Robert." "I have no doubt you will miss me, mother, but you forget I have Clip to look after me." "Clip is only a poor colored boy, but I am sure he will prove faithful to you," said Mrs. Burton, seriously. "Even the humble are sometimes of great service. I am glad he is going with you." Bob did not mention that Sam Wolverton would also be his companion, as he foresaw that the agent would not unlikely question his mother on that point. Bob returned to the boat, and was just about to cast off, when Wolverton was seen on the bank, waving his hat and shouting frantically. "I guess, Massa Sam, you'd better get into the barrel," said Clip with a grin. CHAPTER XXI. HOW WOLVERTON WAS FOOLED. "What do you want, Mr. Wolverton?" asked Bob, coolly, as he stood at one end of the boat and surveyed the excited agent. "Come ashore, or I'll have you arrested," shouted the irate Wolverton. "You are very kind, Mr. Wolverton; but I am in considerable of a hurry, and have not time to comply with your request." "You'd better come ashore, if you know what's best for yourself." "Please state your business! If it is anything to my advantage, I may come; but I am just ready to start for St. Louis." "Is my nephew Sam on your boat?" "I don't see him. Why should he be on board?" "I suspect him of running away, the ungrateful young rascal? I thought he might be scheming to go down the river with you." "Clip," said Bob, gravely, "has Sam Wolverton engaged passage with us?" "Not as I knows on, Massa Bob." "If he should, charge him fifteen dollars." "Yes, Massa Bob," answered Clip, with a grin. "If you wish your nephew to go to St. Louis on my boat, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob, with ceremonious politeness, "I will take him, being a friend, for fifteen dollars, excursion ticket. You can't complain of that." "But I don't want him to go," roared Wolverton. "I tell you he has run away." "That's very strange, considering how kindly and liberally you have always treated him." Wolverton eyed Bob suspiciously, for he knew well enough that the remark was ironical. "None of your gammon, young man!" he said, crabbedly. "Send Sam ashore." "Really, Mr. Wolverton, you must be joking. What have I got to do with Sam?" "I don't believe a word you say. I mean to search your boat." "You had better do it at once, then, for it is time for me to start." "But how am I to get aboard," asked the agent, perplexed. "You might swim," suggested Bob, "or wade. The water is shallow--not higher than your neck, anywhere." "That is nonsense. Steer your boat to shore, that I may board her." "It can't be done, Mr. Wolverton. We can only drift down with the current." "Then how am I to get aboard?" "That is your lookout." Just then Mr. Wolverton espied the flat-bottomed boat which Bob proposed to take with him. He had attached it by a line to the stern of the ferry-boat. "Row over and take me across." "I can't spare the time." Wolverton was about to give vent to his wrath at this refusal, when he observed a boat approaching, rowed by a German boy named Otto Brandes. "Come here, boy, and row me out to yonder boat," he said. Otto paused in his rowing, and, understanding the man with whom he was dealing, he asked, quietly: "How much will you pay me, Mr. Wolverton?" "Five cents to take me over and back," answered the agent, with some hesitation. Otto laughed. "I don't work for any such wages," he said. "I'll give you ten; but be quick about it." "Give me a quarter and I'll do it." "Do you think I am made of money?" said Wolverton, in anger. "That is an outrageous extortion." "All right! Then hire somebody else," said Otto, coolly. After a fruitless effort to beat down the price, Wolverton sulkily agreed to the terms, and Otto rowed to the bank. "Now, row with all your might," said the agent, as he seated himself in one end of the boat. "Your fare, please," said Otto. "I'll pay you when the trip is over," said Wolverton. "It's a poor paymaster that pays in advance." "Then you'd better get out of the boat. Railroad and boat tickets are always paid in advance." "I'll give you ten cents now, and the balance when I land." "It won't do, Mr. Wolverton. I don't care much about the job anyway; I'm in a hurry to get home." Otto lived about half a mile further down the creek. Much against his will, the agent was obliged to deposit the passage-money in the boy's hand before he would consent to take up the oars and commence rowing. "That rascal Sam is putting me to all this expense," he said to himself. "I'll take my pay out of his skin once I get hold of him." Clip went up to the barrel in which Sam was concealed. "Ol' Wolverton is comin', Massa Sam," he said. "Don't you make no noise, and we'll fool de ol' man." In spite of this assurance, poor Sam trembled in his narrow place of concealment. He knew that he would fare badly if his uncle got hold of him. "How's he coming?" he asked in a stifled voice. "Otto Brandes is rowin' him. He's in Otto's boat." "It's mean of Otto!" "No; he don't know what de ol' man is after." It took scarcely two minutes for Wolverton to reach the ferry-boat. He mounted it with fire in his eye. "Now, where is Sam?" he demanded in a peremptory tone. "You can search for him, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob, coolly. "You seem to know more about where he is than I do." Wolverton began to peer here and there, looking into bins of wheat and all sorts of improbable places. Clip took a broom and began to sweep energetically. Bob could not explain this sudden fit of industry till he saw Clip slyly slip the broom between Wolverton's legs as he was hurrying along, thereby upsetting the unfortunate agent, who tumbled sprawling on the deck. "Why, you black imp!" he exclaimed, furiously, as he picked himself up, "what made you do that?" "Couldn't help it, Massa Wolverton! I 'clare to gracious I couldn't!" said Clip, rolling his eyes in a most wonderful manner. "Are you hurt, Massa Wolverton?" "I most broke my knee!" growled Wolverton, as he rose and limped towards the other end of the boat. "I may be laid up for a week." "It was de ol' broom did it," said Clip, innocently. "Never see such a broom!" Bob had hard work to keep a straight face, as he heard Clip's odd accusation against the unoffending broom. This accident seemed to dampen Wolverton's enthusiasm, and the pain in his knee increasing made him desirous of getting home as soon as possible. Besides, he began to suspect that he was on a wrong scent, as he had thus far found no traces of his runaway nephew. He never once noticed the barrel, over which the piece of sail-cloth had been thrown so carelessly. "Well, did you find Sam?" asked Bob, composedly. "No!" snapped Wolverton. "I seed him jest before you came, Massa Wolverton," said Clip. "Where?" asked the agent, eagerly. "Runnin' along the bank." "In what direction?" Clip pointed up the creek. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" "You didn't ask me, Massa Wolverton." "Take me ashore quick!" said Wolverton to Otto. "Hurry up, Massa Wolverton, and mebbe you'll catch him!" Wolverton was already in the boat, and Otto was rowing him to the shore. Clip went to the barrel and released the prisoner. "De ol' man's gone, Sam!" he said. "I'm glad of it, Clip. I'm almost suffocated." "Golly, didn't we fool him!" and Clip lay down on his back on deck, and gave way to an explosion of mirth. A minute later the rope was drawn in, and the ferry-boat started on its adventurous career down the creek. CHAPTER XXII. THE FIRST DAY. Bob was accustomed to rowing, but navigation with the ferry-boat presented a new and interesting problem which he was eager to solve. A steering apparatus had been rigged up at the stern, which was found strong enough for the purpose required. Bob took his place at the helm in starting, and managed for the first hour to regulate the direction of his craft. By that time they came to a place where the creek widened considerably, and the boat showed a disposition to whirl round in an eddy. This difficulty, however, was overcome by practice, and Bob began to acquire confidence in himself as a navigator. But it was evident that he could not remain at the helm all day. "Come here, Clip," he said; "I want you to rest me in steering." Clip took his place, but his first attempts proved discouraging. He was inclined to steer in just the reverse direction, and twice came near running the boat ashore. "What are you about, Clip?" demanded Bob, in excitement. "Don't you see you are running the boat ashore?" "I done just like you, Massa Bob," protested Clip. "De boat acts contrary; never see such an ol' boat." "It is you that are contrary, Clip. You don't do as I tell you." "I 'clar to gracious I did, Massa Bob. I can't never learn to steer." In fact, Clip, who was naturally lazy, found it very irksome to stand at the helm, and much preferred going here and there on the boat and surveying the scenery on either bank. He hoped that his incompetence would save him from the task. But his dream was rudely disturbed. "If you can't take your turn in steering, Clip," said Bob, "you won't be of any use to me. I shall have to send you home, and get along with Sam's assistance." "Oh, don't send me home, Massa Bob!" exclaimed Clip, in alarm. "I'll try--'deed I will." "I'll try you a little longer, Clip," said Bob; "but you must not blame me for sending you back, if it is necessary." No better argument could have been used to insure satisfactory work from Clip, who was naturally careless, and inclined to shirk work. Nevertheless, Bob felt glad that he had another assistant in Sam Wolverton, who proved to possess all the qualities which Clip lacked. When it was one o'clock, Clip began to show signs of distress. "I'm pow'ful hungry, Massa Bob," he said, in a pleading tone. "So am I, Clip," returned Bob, with a smile. "I will see if I can't do something to relieve you." He had brought from home a basket of sandwiches and a gallon of milk. To these the boys did ample justice, displaying even more appetite than usual. This was not surprising, for they had worked hard, and this in the open air. "Sam," said Bob, "I can't hope to supply you with all the delicacies you would get at home, but I hope you'll make it do with our humble fare." Sam smiled. "All the delicacies on Uncle Aaron's table wouldn't spoil anybody's digestion. I like my dinner to-day better than any I've eaten for a long time. I don't know what uncle and aunt would say if they could see me here." "De ol' man would be wild," said Clip, with a guffaw. "I expect he would, Clip. He isn't fond of me, but he doesn't want to lose me. He will have to do his own chores now, for I don't believe he can get a boy to work for him." About six o'clock in the afternoon, having arrived opposite a town which I will call Rushford, Bob decided to tie up for the night. He and Clip went on shore, leaving Sam in charge of the boat. He did not dare to leave it unguarded, for the cargo, according to his estimate, was worth not far from three thousand dollars. He took the opportunity to enter a restaurant, where he bought Clip and himself cups of coffee, and ordered a fresh supply of sandwiches made up, which he arranged to have delivered at the boat early the next morning. "I don't mean that we shall starve, Clip," he said. Clip showed his teeth. "Dat coffee's awful good, Massa Bob," he said. "Yes, but we can't make it on board the boat. I shall have to depend on getting it at the villages on the way." "How far are we from home, Massa Bob?" "Well thought of, Clip. I will inquire." He asked the keeper of the restaurant the distance to Carver. "I don't know, but I think my waiter comes from that neighborhood. Sam, how far away is Carver?" "Forty miles," answered Sam promptly. "I thought it had been more. We have been eight hours coming on the river." That is because the river (they had left the creek fifteen miles up) was winding in its course. On the whole, however, Bob decided that it was very fair progress for the first day, and that only about two-thirds of the time. Rushford was a town of fifteen hundred inhabitants, and presented as busy an appearance as a town three times the size in the East. Clip, who was fond of variety, was reluctant to return to the boat, but Bob said: "We must relieve Sam, and give him a chance to come ashore and get some coffee. You come with him, and show him the restaurant." This arrangement suited Clip, who liked as much variety and excitement as possible. On returning to the boat Bob was somewhat surprised to find his young lieutenant in conversation with an old lady dressed in antediluvian costume. She had a sharp face, with an eager, birdlike look, and seemed to be preferring a request. "Here's the captain; you can ask him," said Sam, who seemed much relieved by the return of Bob. "Is _he_ the captain?" asked the old lady. "Why, he's nothin' but a boy!" "He's all the captain we have," answered Sam. "Be you in charge of this boat?" asked the old lady. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" "I want to go down to St. Louis," said the old lady, "and I thought maybe you might find room for me." "But, ma'am, why don't you take passage on a river steamer?" "They charge too much," said the old lady. "I hain't got much money, and I s'pose you wouldn't charge me much. Are you any acquainted in St. Louis?" "No, ma'am." "I thought maybe you might know my darter's husband. He keeps a grocery store down near the river. His name is Jeremiah Pratt, and my darter's name is Melinda Ann. I want to give 'em a surprise." "I never met the gentleman." "When do you start?" "To-morrow morning about half-past seven o'clock." "Can't you put it off till eight? I've got to pack my trunk over night, and I've got to eat a bit of breakfast to stay my stummik. How much do you charge? I'd be willing to pay you seventy-five cents." "How much do the steamboats charge?" asked Bob. "I think it's six dollars, or it may be seven. That's too much for a poor woman like me." "I think you will have to pay it, madam, for we have no accommodation for passengers on our boat." "Oh, I ain't a mite particular. You can put me anywhere." "I suppose you wouldn't be willing to get into a grain bin?" "Oh, now you're jokin'. Where do you sleep yourself?" "On a mattress on the floor; that wouldn't be suitable for a lady like you. Besides, we have no separate rooms." "Then you can't take me, no way?" asked the old lady, disappointed. "I am afraid not, madam." "You're real disobligin'. I don't see how I am to get to St. Louis." "I am sorry I can't help you." The old woman hobbled off in evident anger. Bob heard afterwards that she was a woman of ample means, fully able to afford steamboat fare, but so miserly that she grudged paying it. "Now, Sam," said Bob, "Clip will show you the way to a restaurant where you can get a hot cup of coffee and a plate of meat, if you desire it." While the boys were gone, Bob received a visitor. CHAPTER XXIII. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER. Fifteen minutes after Sam and Clip had left him Bob's attention was drawn to a man of somewhat flashy appearance, who, while leaning against a tree on the bank, seemed to be eying him and the boat with attention. He wore a Prince Albert coat which was no longer fit to appear in good society, a damaged hat, and a loud neck-tie. His eyes were roving from one point to another, as if he felt a great deal of interest in Bob or the boat. Our hero was not favorably impressed with this man's appearance. "I wonder what he sees that interests him so much?" he thought. "I say, young man, is this here boat yours?" he asked. "Yes," answered Bob, coldly. "What have you got on board?" Bob felt under no obligation to answer, but reflecting that there was no good excuse for refusing, he said, briefly: "Wheat." "Humph! How much have you got?" This clearly was none of the questioner's business, and Bob replied by another question: "Do you want to buy?" "I don't know," said the stranger. "What do you ask?" "I can't say till I get to St. Louis." "How much do you calc'late to get?" "Two dollars and a quarter," answered Bob, naming a price beyond his expectations. "Ain't that a high figger?" "Perhaps so." "Come, young feller, you don't seem social. Can't you invite me aboard?" "I don't think you would be paid for coming," said Bob, more and more unfavorably impressed. "Oh, I don't mind. My time ain't valuable. I guess I'll come." The stranger stepped across the gang-plank, which Bob had laid from the boat to the shore, and entered without an invitation. Bob was tempted to order him off, but the intruder appeared much stronger than himself; and while he was alone it seemed politic to submit to the disagreeable necessity of entertaining his unwelcome visitor. The latter walked from end to end of the boat, examining for himself without asking permission, or appearing to feel the need of any. He opened the bins and counted them, while Bob looked on uneasily. "I say, young feller, you've got a smart lot of wheat here." "Yes," said Bob, briefly. "Got a thousand bushels, I reckon?" "Perhaps so." "And you expect to get two dollars and a quarter a bushel?" "Perhaps I shall have to take less." "At any rate, you must have two thousand dollars' worth on board." "You can judge for yourself." "I say, that's a pile of money--for a boy." "The wheat doesn't belong to me." "Who owns it, then." "My mother." "What's your mother's name?" "I have answered all the questions I am going to," said Bob, indignantly. "Don't get riled, youngster. It ain't no secret, is it?" "I don't care about answering all the questions a stranger chooses to put to me." "I say, young chap, you're gettin' on your high horse." "What is your object in putting all these questions?" "What is my object?" "That is what I asked." "The fact is, youngster, I've got a ranch round here myself, and I've got about five hundred bushels of wheat I want to market. Naturally I'm interested. See?" Bob did not believe a word of this. "Where is your ranch?" he asked. "About two miles back of the town," answered the stranger, glibly. That lie was an easy one. "I'm thinkin' some of runnin' down to the city to see if I can't sell my wheat in a lump to some merchant. Mebbe I could strike a bargain with you to carry me down." Bob had even more objection to the new passenger than to the old lady, and he answered stiffly: "I have no accommodations for passengers." "Oh, I can bunk anywhere--can lie on deck, on one of the bins. I'm used to roughin' it." "You'd better take passage by the next steamer. This is a freight boat." "There ain't anybody but you aboard, is there?" "Yes; I have two companions." The stranger seemed surprised and incredulous. "Where are they?" he asked. "Gone into the village." The visitor seemed thoughtful. He supposed the two companions were full-grown men, and this would not tally with his plans. This illusion, however, was soon dissipated, for Sam and Clip at this point crossed the gang-plank and came aboard. "Are them your two companions?" asked the stranger, appearing relieved. "Yes." Sam and Clip eyed him curiously, expecting Bob to explain who he was, but our hero was only anxious to get rid of him. "Then you can't accommodate me?" asked the man. "No, sir; but if you'll give me your name and address, I can perhaps sell your crop for you, and leave you to deliver it." "Never mind, young feller! I reckon I'll go to the city myself next week." "Just as you like, sir." He re-crossed the plank, and when he reached the shore took up his post again beside the tree, and resumed his scrutiny of the boat. "What does that man want?" asked Sam. "I don't know. He asked me to give him passage to St. Louis." "You might make money by carrying passengers," suggested Sam. "I wouldn't carry a man like him at any price," said Bob. "I haven't any faith in his honesty or respectability, though he tells me that he owns a ranch two miles back of the town. He came on the boat to spy out what he could steal, in my opinion." "How many days do you think we shall need for the trip, Bob?" asked Sam. "It may take us a week; but it depends on the current, and whether we meet with any obstructions. Are you in a hurry to get back to your uncle?" "No," said Sam, his face wearing a troubled look. "The fact is, Bob, I don't mean to go back at all." "You mean dat, Massa Sam?" asked Clip, his eyes expanding in his excitement. "Yes, I mean it. If I go back I shall have to return to my uncle, and you know what kind of a reception I shall get. He will treat me worse than ever." "I am sure, Sam, my mother will be willing to let you live with us." "I should like nothing better, but my uncle would come and take me away." "Would he have the right?" "I think he would. He has always told me that my poor father left me to his charge." "Do you think he left any property?" "Yes; I feel sure he did; for on his deathbed he called me to him, and said: 'I leave you something, Sam; I wish it were more; but, at any rate, you are not a pauper.'" "Did you ever mention this to your uncle, Sam?" "Yes." "What did he say?" "It seemed to make him very angry. He said that my father was delirious or he would never have said such absurd things. But I know he was in his right mind. He was never more calm and sensible than when he told me about the property." "I am afraid Sam, your uncle has swindled you out of your inheritance." "I think so, too, but I can't prove anything, and it won't do to say anything, for it makes him furious." "What does your aunt say?" "Oh, she sides with Uncle Aaron; she always does that." "Then I can't say I advise you to return to Carver, although Clip and I are sure to miss you." "'Deed I shall, Massa Sam," said Clip. "I think I can pick up a living somehow in St. Louis. I would rather black boots than go back to Uncle Aaron." "I am sure you can. Perhaps some gentleman will feel an interest in you, and take you into his service." "I want to tell you, Bob, that Uncle Aaron hates you, and will try to injure you. You will need to be careful." "That's no news, Sam. He has shown his dislike for me in many ways; but I am not afraid of him," the boy added, proudly. At nine o'clock the boys went to bed. They were all tired, and all slept well. It was not till seven o'clock that Bob awoke. His two companions were asleep. He roused them, and they prepared for the second day's trip. CHAPTER XXIV. CLIP MAKES A LITTLE MONEY FOR HIMSELF. About noon the next day, while Clip was at the helm, there was a sudden jolt that jarred the boat from stem to stern, if I may so speak of a double-ender ferry-boat. Bob and Sam, who had been occupied with re-arranging some of the cargo, rushed up to the colored pilot. "What on earth is the matter, Clip asked Bob. "'Clare to gracious, I dunno, Massa Bob," asseverated Clip. Bob didn't need to repeat the question. Clip had steered in shore, and the boat had run against a tree of large size which had fallen over into the river, extending a distance of a hundred feet into the stream. Of course the boat came to a standstill. "What made you do this, Clip?" said Bob, sternly. "Didn't do it, Massa Bob. Ol' boat run into the tree himself." "That won't do, Clip. If you had steered right, there would have been no trouble." "I steered just as you told me to, Massa Bob." "No, you didn't. You should have kept the boat at least a hundred and fifty feet from the shore." "Didn't I, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, innocently. "No. Don't you see we are not more than fifty feet away now?" "I didn't get out and measure, Massa Bob," said Clip, with a grin. "Now, own up, Clip, were you not looking at something on the bank, so that you didn't notice where you were steering?" "Who told you, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, wondering. "I know it must be so. Do you know you have got us into trouble? How am I going to get the boat back into the stream?" Clip scratched his head hopelessly. The problem was too intricate for him to solve. "I think, Clip, I shall have to leave you over at the next place we come to. You are more bother than you are worth." "Oh, don't, Massa Bob. I won't do so again. 'Deed I won't." Bob didn't relent for some time. He felt that it was necessary to impress Clip with the heinousness of his conduct. At length he agreed to give him one more chance. He had to secure the services of two stout backwoodsmen to remove the tree, and this occasioned a delay of at least two hours. Finally the boat got started again, and for the remainder of the day there was no trouble. Towards the close of the afternoon they reached a place which we will call Riverton. It was a smart Western village of about two thousand inhabitants. Bob and Sam went on shore to get some supper, leaving Clip in charge. "Now, Clip, you must keep your eyes open, and take good care of everything while we are gone," said Bob. "All right, Massa Bob." About ten minutes after the boys went away Clip was sitting on a barrel whistling a plantation melody, when a slender, florid-complexioned young man stepped aboard. "Good-evening, sir," he said, removing his hat. "Evenin'," answered Clip, with a grin. He was flattered by being addressed as "sir." "Are you in charge of this boat?" "Yes; while Massa Bob and Sam are gone ashore." "Are they boys like yourself?" "Yes, sir." "Are you three all that are on board--I mean all that man the boat?" "Yes, massa." "Where are you bound?" "To St. Louis." "Do you think they would take me as passenger?" Clip shook his head. "They won't take no passengers," he answered. "An ol' woman wanted to go as passenger, and another man" (Clip was unconscious of the bull), "but Massa Bob he said no." "Suppose I make a bargain with you," said the man, insinuatingly. "What you mean, massa?" asked Clip, rolling his eyes in wonderment. "Can't you hide me somewhere without their knowing I am on board?" "What for I do dat?" asked Clip. "I'll make it worth your while." "What's dat?" "I'll give you five dollars." "For my own self?" "Yes; for yourself." "And I won't have to give it to Massa Bob?" "No; you can spend it for yourself." "But Massa Bob would find out to-morrer." "If he finds out to-morrow I shan't mind." "And you won't take back the money?" "No; you can keep the money at any rate." "Where's the money?" asked Clip, cautiously. The stranger took out a five-dollar gold piece, and showed it to Clip. Clip had seen gold coins before, and he understood the value of what was offered him. "Where can I put you?" he said. "We'll go round the boat together, and see if we can find a place." The round was taken, and the stranger selected a dark corner behind a bin of wheat. "Will Massa Bob, as you call him; be likely to look here?" "No; I reckon not." "Have you got anything to eat on board which you can bring me by and by?" "I'm goin' on shore soon as Massa Bob gets back. I'll buy something." "That will do." The stranger ensconced himself in his hiding-place, and soon after Bob and Sam returned. "Has anybody been here, Clip?" asked Bob. "No, Massa Bob," answered Clip, solemnly. Poor Clip's moral convictions were rather obtuse, and a lie did not impress him as seriously wrong. "What have you been doing while we were away?" "Nothin', Massa Bob." "That's what you like best to do, Clip, isn't it?" "Dat's where you're right, Massa Bob. Yah, yah!" "Well, you can go to your supper, Clip. Here's some money." "All right, Massa Bob." Clip did not seem in any great hurry to go. He was rather afraid that Bob and Sam would explore the boat while he was away. Finally he walked away with slow steps, looking back from time to time. "What's got into Clip?" said Bob, wonderingly. "I guess he isn't hungry," answered Sam, with a laugh. Ten minutes later Bob's attention was drawn to a crowd of men and boys who were approaching the boat. He naturally wondered what was the object of the assemblage. The leader called out to Bob, when he had approached sufficiently near: "I say, boy, have you seen anything of a man with dark hair, florid complexion, wearing a light suit, running along the bank?" "No, sir. Why?" "A man of that description has stolen a sum of money from a dry-goods store in the town. He was seen running in this direction. We thought you might have seen him." "No, sir; I have seen nothing of such a man." Bob little dreamed that the thief in question was concealed at that moment within twenty-five feet of where he was sitting. CHAPTER XXV. CLIP'S SECRET MISSION. The man who had addressed Bob eyed him sharply on receiving his negative answer. "It is a pretty serious thing to connive at the escape of a criminal," he said. "That remark does not affect me, sir. I know nothing of any criminal. If I had seen him I would tell you." Bob talked so frankly and honestly that it seemed impossible to doubt his word. The leader of the pursuing party turned to consult with a friend. "The boy seems straightforward," he said. "What do you think?" "I agree with you. Still, the man was seen to run in this direction." The first questioner was the one most concerned in the capture of the guilty party, for it was his store that had been robbed. "Have you been here all the time?" he asked, turning once more to Bob. "No, sir; my friend and I have been to the village to get supper." "Did you leave no one on board?" "Yes, sir; a colored boy in my service--a boy named Clip." "Did he mention having seen any suspicious party, or any man who seemed to be running away?" "No, sir." "Where is he? I would like to speak with him." "He has gone to the village to get his supper." If Clip had been present he would no doubt have been questioned, but as he was absent the party of investigation did not think it worth while to wait. "That's rather curious, Sam," said Bob, when they were again alone. "We were suspected of screening a criminal." "I wouldn't give much for the fellow's chance of escape. They are evidently determined to catch him." These words were all distinctly heard by the man in hiding. "I was lucky to fall in with the little nigger," he reflected. "Them boys would have refused to help me. They would give me up now if they knew I was on board. I must be careful." Clip came back at the end of half an hour. If Bob had taken notice of him, he would have noticed that the boy's pockets bulged out as if crowded with articles. But he had no especial reason for suspecting Clip of any underhand proceeding, and sat with Sam talking about home matters, leaving his young colored servant to his own devices. Clip was faithful to his trust. He had agreed to take care of his concealed passenger, and he was determined to do so. As soon as he could do so without observation, he went to the man's hiding-place and poured out the contents of his pockets. There were some buns and small rolls and a few round cakes. "Will they do you, mister?" he asked, in a low voice. "Yes; but I'm terribly thirsty. Have you got any whisky aboard?" Clip shook his head. "We ain't got no 'toxicating liquors," he answered. "Can you bring me a glass of water?" "I'll try. If you'd let me tell Massa Bob you were on board, I guess he'd give you some milk." "Milk be--hanged! No, I'll make it do with water. Don't you tell this Bob, on any account, that I am here!" "All right, massa!" answered Clip; but he was getting more and more puzzled. "Are you goin' to stay in dat place all night?" "Yes." "You'll find it mighty uncomfor'ble. If Massa Bob knew you was here--" "He is not to know, do you hear?" said the other, impatiently. "All right, massa! You know best." "Of course I know best." By this time Clip was missed. "Where are you, Clip?" asked Bob. "I'm jist loafin' around, Massa Bob," said Clip, a little startled. "There's something strange about you to-night, Clip; I don't understand it." "I'm thinkin' of old times down in Arkansaw, Massa Bob." "Would you like to be there now, Clip?" "No, Massa Bob, I'd rather live with you and your mudder. My ol' massa use to give me plenty of lickin's. I don't want to go back, never no more." Clip still continued to be restless and uneasy. He knew he had no authority for taking a passenger on board, and feared that Bob would take away the five dollars if he learned that Clip had accepted so large a sum. To do Clip justice, he had no idea that the man whom he had hidden was an offender against the laws, and that the police were in search of him. Even if he had known this, however, it is not certain that Clip would have been prejudiced against the offender. In truth, his prejudices were against the agents of the law rather than against those who had offended. Bob and Sam usually retired early; but to-night, to Clip's discontent, they remained up later than usual, talking about matters at home. "Isn't you ever goin' to bed, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, at last. "What is your hurry, Clip? Are you sleepy?" "Awful sleepy, Massa Bob," answered Clip; "can't hardly keep my eyes open." "Then you can go to bed any time. Sam and I will soon follow." This was not altogether satisfactory, for Clip meant to get up as soon as Bob and Sam were asleep and visit his passenger, who had expressed a wish to have him do so. However, there was nothing to be said, and Clip withdrew to his bunk and lay down; but, as may readily be guessed, his mind was too active for sleep. There was some one else who was anxious to have Bob and Sam retire. This was the hidden passenger, who found his quarters contracted and uncomfortable. "What's the matter with those confounded boys?" he growled to himself. "They seem determined to sit up on purpose to vex me. When they are once asleep I can get up and stretch my limbs." In about twenty minutes the boys, judging from their deep and regular breathing, had fallen asleep. Clip, who had been waiting anxiously, raised himself on his elbow and eyed them closely. Feeling that it was now safe for him to do so, he slipped out of bed cautiously and began to feel his way toward the hiding-place of his new acquaintance. "They're asleep," he whispered. "Now, what you want, massa?" "It's high time they were," growled the man. "I thought they were going to sit up all night." "So did I," returned Clip. "Are you sure there is no whisky on board?" "No, massa." "I suppose you could get some for me on shore. There's a saloon only three minutes' walk from this place." Clip was reluctant to go on shore on such an errand; but finally the offer of fifty cents for himself induced him to do so. He took a tin cup which Bob had brought with him from home, and started on his errand. At the saloon he was asked, "Do you want this for yourself? We don't sell to boys." "No, massa; it's for a sick man." "Where's the sick man?" "On board a boat." Upon this representation the whisky was obtained, and Clip started on his return. His curiosity led him to take a swallow of the whisky he was carrying, but it did not commend itself to Clip's palate. "It's nasty stuff!" he said with a grimace; "I don't see what fo' people drink it." He carried the drink safely to the passenger, who drank it and smacked his lips over it. "It goes to the right spot," he said. "Do those boys sleep sound?" he asked. "Yes, massa." "Then I'll get out of this beastly hole and take a turn on deck." "Be keerful, massa!" said Clip anxiously. "Oh, yes; I won't make any noise." Clip crept back to bed and succeeded in resuming his place without disturbing or arousing Bob or Sam. CHAPTER XXVI. WAS IT THE CAT? Usually Bob Burton slept all night; but to-night, unfortunately for Clip, he awakened about two o'clock in the morning. By an equally perverse chance, just as he awoke, the concealed passenger, now enjoying the freedom of the deck, broke out into a stentorian sneeze. Bob heard it, and so did Clip, whose uneasiness made him sleep more lightly than usual, and both were startled. "I hope Massa Bob won't hear dat," thought Clip. But Bob did hear it. "What's that?" he asked, half rising in bed. "It's me!" answered Clip, preferring to admit the sneeze rather than have Bob suspect that there was any one else on the boat. "Do you mean to say you sneezed, Clip?" asked Bob, in amazement. "Yes, Massa Bob." "You must be dreaming. The sneeze came from another part of the boat." "Are you sure?" asked Clip. "Yes. What made you tell me that it was you who sneezed?" "I t'ought I did, Massa Bob." "When did you wake up?" "Just now." "The sneeze must have waked you up." "I dunno," answered Clip, dubiously. "There must be some one on board, unless we both dreamed about the sneeze." "Mebbe it's a cat!" remarked Clip, ingenuously. Bob laughed. "It must be a very remarkable cat that would sneeze like that," he said. "Jus' so, Massa Bob," assented Clip, meekly, hoping that Bob would drop the subject. "I think, Clip, I shall get up and search for that cat." "Don't you do it, Massa Bob. He--he might bite you." "I hope I am not such a coward as to be afraid of a cat." Bob rose and lighted a candle which he had with him. Then, followed by Clip, he advanced to the other end of the deck. But the passenger had warning, having heard the conversation which had taken place between Bob and Clip, and had hurriedly retreated to his former hiding-place. It did not occur to Bob to look there, and he returned from his fruitless search more mystified than ever. But, Clip being close beside him, he caught the aroma of the single swallow of whisky which Clip had taken, and he immediately began to suspect poor Clip of having indulged in much deeper potations than he was guilty of. "Clip," he said, suddenly, "I smell whisky." "Does you, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, feeling that he was getting into a scrape. "Yes, I do, Clip; and where do you think it comes from?" "Don't know, Massa Bob; 'deed I don't." "It comes from your mouth, Clip. You've been drinking!" Drops of perspiration stood on Clip's forehead. He could not excuse himself, or explain matters, without betraying his secret. Not thinking of anything to say, he said nothing. "Tell me the truth, Clip; have you been drinking?" "I jes' took a little swaller." "Where did you take it?" "On sho'." "What made you do such a thing? I didn't dream that you were getting intemperate, Clip." "You see, Massa Bob, a gen'leman asked me to bring him a drink of whisky, and I t'ought I'd jest see how it tasted." "Who asked you to bring him some whisky?" asked Bob, who believed this to be a pure fiction on the part of his young companion. "A gen'leman." "What gentleman?" "He didn't tell me his name." "I think you are telling me a lie, Clip." "No I ain't, Massa Bob; it's as true as de Bible." "I don't think you know much about the Bible, Clip." "It's all true what I told you, Massa Bob. If I find de gen'leman, I'll bring him here to tell you." The witness referred to smiled to himself grimly when he heard this statement. "That little nigger's a brick!" he said to himself. "As to that other boy, I'd like to throw him overboard. He's too fond of meddling with other people's business." It may occur to the reader that this was hardly a fair way of stating the case. As the boat belonged to Bob, and he was the commander, it might safely be assumed that he had a right to inquire into anything that excited his suspicion. "Are you goin' back to bed, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, uneasily. "Wait a minute, Clip; I want to get a drink of water." Again poor Clip was in bad luck. The tin dipper had been used to procure the whisky, and of course it still smelled strongly of that liquor. "Clip," said Bob, as soon as he had raised it to his lips, "you got some whisky in this cup." "Ye'es," admitted Clip. "And you drank it yourself instead of giving it to any gentleman." "No, I didn't, Massa Bob," stoutly, and as we know truly, asserted Clip. "I'm ashamed of you, Clip. If you are going to act in this way, I shall have to send you home. You have been acting very queerly this evening. Sam and I both noticed it, but I didn't think you had formed a taste for whisky." "I don't love it, Massa Bob. I hate it. It's awful nasty stuff." "And you didn't drink this dipper full, then?" "No, I didn't." "What did you do with it?" "Throwed it away, Massa Bob. I only took one swaller. I couldn't drink it if you gave me half a dollar; 'deed I couldn't." "I hope this is true, Clip. I shouldn't like to tell my mother that you had become intemperate." "What's the matter?" was heard from Sam's bed at this juncture. "Where are you, Bob?" "Here I am, Sam." "What made you get up?" "I thought I heard a noise on deck; so Clip and I got up." "What was it like?" "A sneeze. Clip thought it might be a cat." Bob and Sam laughed at the ludicrous idea, and Clip joined in, glad that Bob's embarrassing cross-examination was over. "You'd better come to bed, both of you. Very likely you dreamed it." At that moment, and before Bob had put out the candle, there was a most unlooked-for corroboration of Clip's singular theory. An immense tom-cat ran swiftly between Bob's legs, from some place of concealment. Both he and Clip saw it, and the latter was quick to take advantage of the opportune appearance of the animal. "Dare's de cat, Massa Bob," he shouted, triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you it was a cat?" Bob was temporarily nonplussed. Clip seemed to have the best of the argument. "All I can say is, it is a remarkable cat," he said. "I wish it would sneeze again." The rest of the night passed without anything remarkable happening. All three boys slept soundly. Indeed, it was later than usual, probably on account of their sleep being interrupted during the night, that they awoke. According to custom, the boys took turns in going out to breakfast. "Clip, you and Sam can go out together," said Bob. "I will take my turn afterwards." "I ain't in no hurry, Massa Bob," said Clip. "You an' Sam go first, and I'll go afterwards." Bob thought this a little strange, but did not object. When Clip was left alone he went at once to see his charge. "Hope you pass de night good," said Clip, politely. "I'm awfully cramped up," groaned the other. "But you're a trump, Clip. You stood by me like a Trojan." "Thank you, massa. I'm afraid Massa Bob'll find you out. How long you goin' to stay?" "Till I get a few miles from this town. Then he may find me and welcome." Clip felt that it would be a great relief to him when there was no further need of concealment. CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERIOUS PASSENGER IS DISCOVERED. Bob Burton started on his trip down the river quite unaware that he carried a passenger; Clip's peculiar nervousness attracted his attention, and he wondered at it, but finally was led to attribute it to the whisky, of which he credited Clip with having drunk a considerable amount. We know that he was mistaken in this, but those who practice deception are apt to be misjudged, and have no right to complain. One more discovery puzzled Bob. Clip happened to have a hole in the pocket in which he carried the money given him by the mysterious passenger. At first it was not large enough to imperil the safety of the coin; but Clip thrust his hand so often into his pocket, to see if the money was safe, that he had unconsciously enlarged the opening. As a result of this, as he was walking the deck, a two-dollar-and-a-half gold piece, obtained in change, slipped out, and fell upon the deck. Bob happened to be close at hand, and instantly espied the coin. Clip walked on without noticing his loss. Bob stooped and picked up the coin. "A gold piece!" he thought, in amazement. "Where can Clip possibly have got it?" He had not missed any of his own money. Indeed, he knew that none of it was in gold. Certainly the case looked very mysterious. "Clip," he said. "What, Massa Bob?" returned Clip, innocently. "Is this gold piece yours?" Clip started, and, if he had been white, would have turned pale. "I reckon it is, Massa Bob," he answered, with hesitation. "Where did it come from?" "From my pocket," he answered. "But how did it come into your pocket, Clip?" "I put it there." "Look here, Clip," said Bob, sternly. "You are evading the question." "What's dat, Massa Bob?" "You are trying to get rid of telling me the truth. Did you steal this money?" "No, I didn't," answered Clip, indignantly. "I nebber steal." "I am glad to hear it. Then, if you didn't steal it, how did you get it?" Clip scratched his kinky hair. He was puzzled. "I done found it," he answered, at length. "Where did you find it?" "In de--de street." "When and where?" "Dis mornin', when I was comin' from breakfast." "If you found it, there would be no objection to your keeping it," he said, "provided you could not find the original owner." "Can't find him now, nohow," said Clip, briskly. "Come here a minute." Clip approached, not understanding Bob's reason for calling him. Bob suddenly thrust his hand into Clip's pocket, and drew out two silver dollars, and a quarter, the remains of the five-dollar gold piece, Clip having spent a quarter. "What's all this?" he asked, in amazement. "Did you find this money, too?" "Yes, Massa Bob," he answered, faintly. "Clip, I am convinced you are lying." "No, I'm not." "Do you mean to tell me you found all these coins on the sidewalk?" "Yes, Massa Bob." "That is not very likely. Clip, I don't want to suspect you of dishonesty, but it looks very much as if you had been stealing." "No, I haven't, Massa Bob," asserted Clip, stoutly. "Do you still tell me that you found all this money?" Clip began to find himself involved in the intricacies of his lie, and his courage gave out. "No, Massa Bob. Don't you get mad with me, and I'll tell you the trufe." "Tell it, then." "A gemman gave it to me." "A gentleman gave you this money. What did he give it to you for?" "He--he wanted to go down de ribber," stammered Clip. "Wanted to go down the river? Suppose he did," said Bob, not yet understanding; "why should he give you money?" "He wanted me to let him go as a passenger on de boat." "Ha!" said Bob, a sudden light breaking in upon him. "And you agreed to take him?" "Ye-es, Massa Bob." "Where is he now?" It was not Clip that answered this question. There was heard a noise from the corner as of some one moving about, and from his sheltered place of refuge, the mysterious passenger stepped forth. He coolly took out his silk handkerchief and dusted his coat and vest. "Really," he said, "I can't say much for your accommodations for passengers. Have you got such a thing as a clothes-brush on board this craft?" Bob stared at him in amazement, and could not find a word to say for the space of a minute. "Who are you, sir?" he asked, at length. "Who am I? Well, you may call me John Smith, for want of a better name." "When did you come on board?" "At the last landing. I made a bargain with that dark-complexioned young man"--with a grin at Clip--"who for the sum of five dollars agreed to convey me to St. Louis. It wasn't a very high price, if I had decent accommodations." "Why didn't you tell me this, Clip?" demanded Bob. "I--de gemman didn't want me to," stammered Clip. "Quite right," corroborated the stranger. "I told Clip he needn't mention our little arrangement, as he thought you might object to it. I don't blame him for telling you at last, for you forced him to do so. I suppose you are the captain." "I am all the captain there is," answered Bob. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, really. I assure you I am glad to get out of that dusty hole, and presume you will now allow me the freedom of the deck." The stranger was so cool and self-possessed--cheeky, perhaps it might be called--that Bob eyed him in wonder. "Why did you select my boat in preference to a regular passenger steamer?" he asked. "A little whim of mine!" answered the other, airily. "The truth is, I am a newspaper reporter, and I thought such a trip as I am making would furnish the materials for a taking article. I mean to call it 'In the Steerage; or, a Boat Ride on the Missouri.' Good idea, isn't it?" "Why, yes, it might be," said Bob, dryly; "but I think the owner of the boat ought to have been consulted." "Accept my apologies, Captain Bob," said the passenger, with a smile. "If there was a saloon near, I would invite you to take a drink with me, but--" "Never mind. I don't drink. Here, Clip!" "Well, Massa Bob." "You did wrong to take this man's money, and you must return it." At these last words Clip's countenance fell. Bob counted the money and handed it to the stranger. "There are twenty-five cents missing," he said. "I will make that up from my own pocket." "Let the boy keep the money. I don't want it back." "I cannot allow him to keep it." Clip's face, which had brightened at the stranger's words, fell again. "What is your objection?" asked the passenger. "I may as well be frank with you. I understand your reason for embarking on my boat in preference to waiting for a river steamer. You were in a hurry to leave the town." "That's what I said." "Shall I mention the reason?" "If you like." "Because you had been implicated in robbing a store--perhaps several. This is stolen money." "I deny it. I may have been suspected. In fact, I don't mind admitting that I was, and that I thought it my best policy to get away. The good people were likely to give me a great deal of trouble. Thanks to you--" "Not to me." "To Clip, then, I managed to elude their vigilance. It makes me laugh to think of their disappointment." Bob did not appear to look upon it as a joke, however. "Of course I shall not allow you to remain on the boat," he said. "I'll give you twenty-five--thirty dollars," said the stranger, earnestly. "I decline. It would be making me your accomplice. I would be receiving stolen money." "What do you propose, then?" "I will steer the boat as near the shore as I can, and request you to land." The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Very well," he said. "We must be eight or ten miles away from my accusers. I think I can manage for myself now." In ten minutes the stranger stepped jauntily ashore, and, lifting his hat, bade Bob a cheerful good-bye. CHAPTER XXVIII. SAM FINDS A RELATION. As my readers may feel interested in the subsequent adventures of the mysterious passenger, I may state that his extraordinary coolness did not save him. A description of his appearance had been sent to the neighboring towns, and only a few hours after he had left the ferry-boat he was arrested, and taken back to the scene of his theft. A trial was held immediately, and before the end of the week he found himself an inmate of the county jail. On the day succeeding his departure, Bob brought the boat to anchor at a place we will call Sheldon. There was no restaurant, and Bob and Sam took supper at the Sheldon Hotel. Clip had been sent on shore first, and the boys felt in no hurry to return. They accordingly sat down on a settee upon the veranda which ran along the front of the hotel. As they sat there, unknown to themselves they attracted the attention of a middle-aged man with sandy hair and complexion, whose glances, however, seemed to be especially directed towards Sam. Finally, he approached the boys and commenced a conversation. "Young gentlemen," he said, "you are strangers here, I imagine?" "Yes, sir," replied Bob. "Are you traveling through the country?" "We have a boat on the river, sir; but we generally tie up at night, and start fresh in the morning." "How far do you intend going?" "To St. Louis." "Pardon my curiosity, but it is not common for two boys of your age to undertake such an enterprise alone. Are you in charge of the boat?" "He is," said Sam, indicating Bob. "And you, I suppose, are a relative of his?" "No, sir; I help him." "Have you come from a distance?" "Decidedly," thought Bob, "this gentleman is very curious." Still there seemed to be no reason for concealment, and accordingly he mentioned the name of the village in which Sam and himself made their home. Their new acquaintance appeared to take extraordinary interest in this intelligence. "Is there a man named Wolverton who lives in your town?" he asked. "Yes," answered Bob, in surprise; "Aaron Wolverton." "Exactly. This young man," indicating Sam, "has the Wolverton look." Now it was Sam's turn to be surprised. "I am Sam Wolverton," he said. "Do you know my uncle?" "I not only know him, but I knew your father, if you are the son of John Wolverton." "That was my father's name." "Then I am a relative. My name is Robert Granger, and I am a cousin of your mother." "My mother's maiden name was Granger," said Sam, becoming very much, interested. "Do you live here, sir?" "Yes; I have lived in Sheldon for the last ten years. I came from Ohio originally. It was there that your father met my cousin Fanny, and married her. Do you live with your Uncle Aaron?" "I have been living with him," answered Sam, hesitating. "Does that mean that you have left him?" asked Mr. Granger, quickly. Sam looked inquiringly at Bob. He hardly knew whether it would be advisable for him to take this stranger, relation though he were, into his confidence. Bob answered his unspoken inquiry. "Tell him all, Sam," he said. "I have left my Uncle Aaron," said Sam, "without his consent. I hid on board Bob's boat, and got away." "You have run away, then?" "Yes, sir; you may blame me for doing so, but you would not if you knew how meanly Uncle Aaron has treated me!" "I know Aaron Wolverton, and I am far from admiring him," said Robert Granger. "But in what way has he ill-treated you?" "He made me work very hard, and would not always give me enough to eat. He keeps a very plain table." "But why should he make you work hard?" "He said I ought to earn my living." "Did he say that?" "Yes, whenever I complained. He asked me what would have become of me if he had not given me a home." "The old hypocrite! And what has he done with your property?" "My property!" repeated Sam, hardly believing his ears. "Yes. Of course you know that you have property, and that your Uncle Aaron is your guardian?" "I never knew that I had a cent of money, sir. Uncle always said that my father died very poor." "Your father, to my knowledge, left property to the amount of five thousand dollars." "That is all news to me, Mr. Granger." "And to me," added Bob. "I heard Mr. Wolverton tell my father the same story, that John Wolverton died without a cent, and that he had taken in Sam out of charity." "He seems to have taken him in, emphatically." "In what did the property consist?" asked Bob. "In a house, situated in St. Louis--a small house in the outskirts of the city--and some shares of bank stock." "He thought Sam would never find out anything of it." "I should not, if I had not met you, Mr. Granger." "Old Aaron Wolverton is a long-headed man; but even long-headed men sometimes over-reach themselves, and I think he has done so in this instance." "But what can I do, sir? I am only a boy, and if I should say anything about the matter to Uncle Aaron he would deny it, and perhaps treat me the worse." "There is one thing Aaron Wolverton is afraid of, and that is the law. He doesn't care for the honesty or dishonesty of a transaction, but he doesn't mean to let the law trip him up. That is the hold we shall have upon him." "I believe you there," said Bob. "He has already tried to swindle my mother, and he is scheming now to get possession of our ranch. It is partly on that account that I started on this trip down the river." "Do you carry freight, then?" "Yes, sir; I carry a thousand bushels of wheat--rather more, in fact--intending to sell them in St. Louis." "Couldn't you have sent them?" "Yes, sir; but by taking the wheat to market myself I shall save the heavy expense of freight, and commission for selling." "You seem to be a smart boy," said Robert Granger, eying Bob with interest. "I hope you are right," Bob answered, with a laugh. "My young cousin accompanies you to help, I suppose?" "He came on board at the last moment, having determined to run away from Aaron Wolverton." "I wish you could spare him; I should like to take him home to talk over family matters with myself and my lawyer, and we would concert some way of forcing Aaron Wolverton to give up his property. I have some children of my own, who would be glad to make his acquaintance." "Would you like to accept Mr. Granger's invitation, Sam?" asked Bob. "But I am afraid you will need me, Bob." "No; I have Clip. I think it will be well for you to stay. I will call on my way back." So it was arranged that Sam should leave the boat and stay over. Bob returned to the boat alone. The next day proved to be an eventful one. CHAPTER XXIX. ROCKY CREEK LANDING. Twenty miles further down the river, at a point called Rocky Creek, two men of questionable appearance were walking slowly along the bank. One of them has been already introduced as visiting the boat, and displaying a great deal of curiosity about the cargo. The other, also, had the look of one who preferred to live in any other way than by honest industry. "Suppose the boy doesn't touch here?" said one. "Our plan would in that case be put out," said his companion; "but I don't think there is any doubt on that point. Last night he was at Sheldon, and this would naturally be the next stopping-place." "He is drawing near the end of his cruise. It won't do to delay much longer." "You are right, there." "I wasn't in favor of delaying so long. We have risked failure." "Don't worry, Minton. I'm managing this affair. I've got just as much at stake as you." "If all comes out right, I shall be satisfied; but I need the money I am to get for it from old Wolverton." "That's a trifle. I am playing for a larger stake than that." "What, then?" "The paltry fifty dollars divided between two would not have tempted me. Do you know, Minton, how large and valuable a cargo there is on that old ferry-boat?" "No; do you?" "Not exactly; but I know this much, that there are at least a thousand bushels of wheat, which will easily fetch, in St. Louis, two thousand dollars." "How will that benefit us?" "You seem to be very dull, Minton. When we have once shut up young Burton in the place arranged, you and I will take his place, drift down the river, and dispose of the cargo, if necessary, at a point below the market price, and retire with a cool thousand apiece." "You've got a head, Brown!" said Minton, admiringly. "Have you just found that out?" returned Brown, complacently. "Do you really think there is a chance of our succeeding?" "Yes; of course we must be expeditious. Two or three days, now, ought to carry us to St. Louis. Then, by selling below the market price, we can command an immediate sale. Then, of course, we will clear out; go to California, or Europe, or Canada." "But we must get Wolverton's money." "If we can without risk. It won't be worth that." "I don't like the idea of the old man escaping scot-free." "He won't; you may be sure of that," said Brown, significantly. "He has placed himself in our power, and we will get a good deal more than fifty dollars out of him before we get through, or my name isn't Brown." "What a head you've got!" repeated Minton, with cordial admiration of the sharper rascal. "Then there's the other affair, too!" said Brown. "We are safe to make a good round sum out of that." "Yes; but how can we look after the other? It won't be safe for us to remain anywhere in this locality if we sell the cargo." "Leave that to me, Minton. I will get Joe Springer to negotiate for us." By this time the reader will have guessed that these two men were those already referred to as having stopped Wolverton on the night preceding Bob's departure. The arrangement then made, Brown had improved upon. He had engaged to remove the boys from the boat, and set it adrift. But it had occurred to him, after ascertaining the value of the cargo, to sell it for the joint benefit of his confederate and himself. It was the most promising job he had undertaken for a long time, and he was sanguine of ultimate success. He had followed the boat down the river, and had finally selected Rocky Creek as the point most favorable to the carrying out of his design. Meanwhile Bob and Clip were on their way down the river. Sam, as already described, had left them at Sheldon, and was enjoying himself as the guest of Captain Granger, as he found his kinsman was called. Bob missed him, not finding Clip, though improved, as reliable as Sam. But he was drawing near the end of his voyage and was willing to make the sacrifice, since it seemed to be so favorable to Sam's prospects. The information which had been communicated to them touching Aaron Wolverton's breach of trust did not, on the whole, surprise him, except by its audacity; for Wolverton had thus far been careful not to place himself within reach of the law and its penalties. He was delighted to think Sam had found a new friend and protector, who would compel the unfaithful guardian to account for his dishonesty. Clip heartily sympathized with Bob in his feeling upon the subject. He liked Sam, but disliked Wolverton as much as one of his easy, careless disposition was capable of doing. "It seems lonely without Sam," said Bob, while standing at the helm, with Clip sitting on deck whistling just beside him. "Dat's so, Massa Bob." "But I am glad he has found a relation who will help him to get his money." "I'd like to see ol' man Wolverton when Sam come back with Massa Granger." "Probably you will have a chance to see him. If he hadn't driven Sam away by his bad treatment he would never have found out how he had been cheated." "Dat's so, Massa Bob. I'd like to be in Sam's shoes." "You'd have to make your feet smaller, then, Clip!" "Yah! yah!" laughed Clip, who enjoyed a joke at his own expense. Bob found his work harder now that Sam was not on board to relieve him of a part of his duty. But they were making good speed, and there seemed a chance of reaching St. Louis within three days. All was going well, yet an indefinable anxiety troubled Bob. Why, he could not explain. "Clip," he said, "I don't know how it is, but I feel as if something were going to happen." "What can happen, Massa Bob? De boat is all right." "True, Clip. I suppose I am foolish, but I can't get rid of the feeling. Clip, I want you to be very careful to-night. Don't let any mysterious passenger come on board." "No, Massa Bob. I won't do dat agin." "We shall soon be in St. Louis, and then our care and anxiety will be over." "Where will we stop to-night?" "At Rocky Creek." It was a quarter to five when Bob reached the place where he had decided to tie up. There was a village of about five hundred inhabitants situated a little distance from the river-side. A small knot of loungers was gathered at the landing, and with languid interest surveyed the river craft and the young crew. Among them Bob recognized the man who had visited them two or three stations back. He knew him by his dress; the Prince Albert coat, the damaged hat, and the loud neck-tie. But apart from these he remembered the face, dark and unshaven, and the shifty black eyes, which naturally inspired distrust. The man made no movement towards the boat, but leaned indolently against a tree. "Clip," said Bob, quietly, "look at that man leaning against a tree." "I see him, Massa Bob." "Have you ever seen him before?" "Yes, Massa Bob; he came aboard de boat one day." "I thought I couldn't be mistaken. I wonder how he comes to be here. Can he be following us?" It was too hard a problem for Clip, who only shrugged his shoulders. Just then another man from the assembled group lounged on board. It was Minton. "Boat ahoy!" said he, jauntily. "Are you the captain?" "I'm all the captain there is," answered Bob. "Have you any wheat to sell? I am a grain merchant." He looked more like a penniless adventurer, Bob thought. "I have no wheat to sell here," said Bob, coldly. "I am on my way to St. Louis." "Perhaps I can do as well by you as the grain merchants in St. Louis." "I don't care to sell here," said Bob, shortly. "No offense, young man! I suppose a man can make an offer?" "Certainly, sir." But the stranger did not leave the boat. He walked about, scrutinizing the arrangements carefully. "You've got a pretty big cargo, boy," he said. "Yes, sir." "How many bushels now, about?" "Why do you wish to know?" asked Bob, eying the stranger keenly. "I thought I might like to load a boat like this some time, and it might be of use to know how much it would carry." "Do you live in Rocky Creek?" asked Bob, suddenly. "Ye-as." "May I ask your name?" "Smith--James Smith," answered the other, with hesitation. "Very well; when I have sold my cargo I will write you the number of bushels the boat contains." "Thank you." "Decidedly, the boy is sharp!" said Minton to himself. "He's no milk-and-water boy!" He left the boat, and presently joined his friend Brown. CHAPTER XXX. AN UNLUCKY EVENING. Bob was still in the habit of getting his supper, and breakfast the next morning, at the different points where he landed. He left Clip on board, in charge of the boat, while he sought a good place to obtain a meal. He found that Rocky Creek possessed but one hotel, and that of a very modest character, bearing the rather imposing name of the Metropolitan Hotel. He registered his name, and intimated his desire for supper. "Supper is on the table," said the clerk. Bob entered the dining-room, a forlorn-looking room of small dimensions, containing a long table, at which sat two persons, a drummer from St. Louis, and an old man with a gray beard, who kept the principal dry-goods store in Rocky Creek. Bob was assigned a place between the two. "Good-evening," said the drummer, sociably. "Good-evening," responded Bob. "Are you a regular boarder?" "Oh, no; I never was in the place before." "How did you come?" "By river." "Indeed!" said the drummer, puzzled. "Has any steamer touched here to-day?" "No; I came on my own boat." "Bound down the river?" "Yes." "Business, I suppose?" "Yes; I have a load of wheat which I propose to sell in the city." "What house shall you deal with?" "I don't know; I'm not acquainted in St. Louis. I shall inquire when I get there." "Then let me recommend you to go to Pearson & Edge. They will treat you liberally." "Thank you. I will call on them and see what I can do." "Present my card, if you please, and say I sent you there." The drummer produced his card and handed it to Bob. From this our hero learned that his companion was Benjamin Baker, traveling for Dunham & Co., wholesale grocers. "Shall you stay at the hotel this evening?" asked Baker. "No; I shall pass the night on my boat." "How many have you on board?" "Only myself and a colored boy from home--Clip." "Isn't that rather a small crew?" "Perhaps so; but we haven't much to do, except to let the boat drift, keeping her straight meanwhile." "By the way, speaking of Pearson, senior member of the firm I have recommended, he is in great trouble just now." "How is that?" "He had a very pretty little girl of about six years old--little Maud. Two or three days since, as I hear from a friend in the city, the little girl mysteriously disappeared." "Disappeared?" "Just so. Her parents think she must have been kidnapped, as a suspicious-looking person had been noticed by the nurse hovering near when they were out walking together." "They must be in great trouble and anxiety," said Bob, in a tone of sympathy, "if they believe this." "They would be glad to believe it, for in that case the little girl is alive, while otherwise she may have strayed to the river and been drowned. Mr. Pearson, who is wealthy, has offered a reward of one thousand dollars to any one who will restore his little girl to him." As they sat at table, Bob noticed through the window the man Minton, who had called upon him on the arrival of the boat. "Do you know that man, Mr. Baker?" he asked, suddenly. The drummer shook his head. "I am a stranger, too," he said. "But perhaps this gentleman, who is in business at Rocky Creek, may be able to give you some information." Thus appealed to, the old gentleman looked from the window. "It isn't any one I know," he replied. "Why do you ask?" "Because he called upon me on my arrival, representing himself as a grain merchant, and proposed to buy my cargo." The old man shrugged his shoulders. "He looks more like a tramp than a grain merchant," he said. "I agree with you," assented Bob, with a laugh. "Did he mention his name?" "He called himself James Smith; but as he answered my questions in a hesitating manner, I concluded that it was an assumed name." "Very likely." "Then he doesn't live in the village?" "No; but he has been here for a day or two." "I wonder what could have been his object in representing himself to me as a grain merchant?" said Bob, thoughtfully. "Oh," answered the drummer, "he probably wanted to strike up an acquaintance which would justify him in borrowing a few dollars of you. I have met plenty of such characters They live by what they can borrow." When supper was over Bob and the drummer rose together. "Won't you have a cigar, Mr. Burton?" asked the latter. "No, thank you; I don't smoke." "Oh, well, you'll learn after a while. At any rate, sit down and keep me company for a while." "Thank you, but I shall have to go back to the boat and give Clip a chance to get his supper." Clip returned from supper at half-past seven, and Bob, feeling wide awake, decided to go on shore again. He did not care to go to the hotel, but took a leisurely walk through the village and beyond. It was an unfortunate walk, for it made him an easy prey to the men who were scheming against him. In a lonely place two men sprang upon him suddenly, and before he could understand what was going on, he was gagged and helpless. In this condition the two men, taking him between them, hurried him to a lonely house at some distance from the road. Bob Burton was brave, but this sudden and mysterious attack startled and alarmed him not a little. He would have expostulated, but was unable, from being gagged, to utter a word. Reaching the house, a short, sharp knock at the door was answered by a rough-looking man, dressed in a suit of faded and shabby cloth. "So you've got him!" was his laconic greeting. "Yes, Joe! Now where shall we put him?" "Come upstairs." The two men set Bob down, and pushed him forward, and up a staircase, steep and dark. He was thrust into a room with a sloping roof, and the gag was removed from his mouth. "What does all this mean?" he asked, angrily, turning to the two men whom he recognized by the light of the lantern which Joe Springer carried in his hand. "It's all right, my lad!" said Brown. "All you've got to do is to keep quiet, and no harm will come to you." "How long do you mean to keep me here?" asked Bob, with, a feeling of despair in his heart. He suspected now what it all meant. "Two weeks, perhaps; but you will be well taken care of." The men went out leaving the lantern behind them. Bob heard the bolt shot in the lock. He looked around him. There was a low pallet in the corner. He threw himself on it, and, brave boy as he was, came near shedding tears. CHAPTER XXXI. HOW CLIP WAS CAPTURED. Everything had gone well with Bob so far, and he was looking forward hopefully to the end of his journey, and the final success of his expedition. Now all was changed. He was a prisoner, and though Clip was on board the boat, he was utterly incompetent to take the place of his master. Bob hardly dared trust himself to think of the future. He knew not what would become of his valuable cargo, but that it was lost to him seemed probable. This meant utter ruin, for he and his mother would have nothing to live upon till the next harvest, and meanwhile Aaron Wolverton would foreclose the mortgage. Certainly, Bob had reason to shed tears, and could not be charged with being unmanly if for a time he gave up to a feeling of despondency and almost despair. Leaving him for an hour, we will accompany the two conspirators on their return to the boat. Clip was on deck, anxiously watching for the return of Bob. He was beginning to feel a little troubled. "Can't think what's 'come of Massa Bob," he said to himself. "He said he'd be back in fifteen minutes. If anything's happened to him, what'll 'come of Clip?" Instead of fifteen minutes, an hour passed, and still Bob had not returned. Clip was seriously thinking of going on shore and looking for him, when two men came to the river bank. "Hallo!" they said. "Are you Clip?" "Yes," answered Clip, in some surprise, not understanding how these two strangers could know his name. "You are sailing with Robert Burton?" "Yes, massa." "Where is he?" "Gone on shore for a walk. Did you see him anywhere?" "Yes; we come from him." "Why don't he come himself?" "The poor fellow has met with an accident. He has broken his leg." "Massa Bob broken him leg!" ejaculated Clip, turning as pale as his complexion would admit. "How came he to do dat?" "I can't explain," said Brown. "My friend and I came up just after it happened, and we took him to a house near by, where he was put to bed. He asked us to come for you and bring you to him." "Yes, massa; I'll go right off," said Clip, with alacrity. Then he hesitated at the thought of leaving the boat. "What'll I do about de boat?" he asked, in perplexity. "Pooh! no one will run off with it. Probably your friend will want to be brought on board; we will help to bring him. Meanwhile I will stay here and look after things, and my friend will take you to Massa Bob, as you call him." Clip saw no objection to this plan. He was too simple-minded to suspect a trick, and being very much attached to his young master he was anxious to be taken to him. He put on his hat and expressed himself ready to go. "Very well; Minton, show him the house, and see if the boy is fit to be moved." Clip did not see the wink that accompanied the last words. The two started on their journey. Clip, though the smaller, walked so fast that Minton was obliged to quicken his pace. He plied Minton with questions till the latter was tired. "I can't tell you much about it," said the man, at length. "My friend and I saw young Burton lying by the side of the road. He was groaning with pain. We took him up and carried him to a house close by." "He won't die?" faltered Clip, in a tone of anxious inquiry. "Oh, no! He's as safe to live as you or I. A broken leg doesn't amount to much." "I don' see why he lef' the boat," said Clip, mournfully. "Well, accidents will happen," said Minton, philosophically. "Do you think we can get him on de boat, massa?" "Oh, yes. I have no doubt of it. You needn't feel worried. It'll all come right." Clip, however, felt that there was sufficient reason for feeling troubled. He was rather surprised at the length of the walk. "What made Massa Bob go so far?" he asked. "He said he was just exploring a little--wanted to see the country, you know." "He couldn't see much in de dark." "Well, he will explain the matter to you; I can't." At length they reached the lonely house. "This is where your friend was carried," said Minton. Clip thought it was a gloomy place, but his mind was now so occupied with thoughts of Bob, whom he was to see immediately, that he said nothing. Minton knocked at the door. It was opened by Joe Springer, whose appearance rather frightened Clip. "Oh, so you're back?" he said to Minton. "Who is this?" "It's a friend of the boy with the broken leg," answered Minton, with a significant look. "Ho! ho!" laughed Joe, to Clip's surprise. He could not understand what there was to laugh at. "I hope the poor boy's more comfortable," said Minton. "I reckon so," answered Joe, with another grin. "Has he been quiet?" "Yes, he hasn't made any noise; but he's been walking round the room." "Walkin' round wid a broken leg!" repeated Clip, amazed. "What a fool you are, Joe!" exclaimed Minton, in a vexed tone. "How could he walk round with a broken leg?" "I only meant it for a joke," said Joe, in a half-sullen tone. "How did I know his leg was broken?" "My friend, here, was not in when we brought the boy," said Minton, in an aside to Clip. "Now, Joe, we'll go upstairs. Clip, here, has come to keep his friend company." "I hope he'll like it," returned Joe, with another incomprehensible grin. "Well, get a light, and show us upstairs." Clip thought the house far from pleasant. He had just started to go upstairs, when a little girl ran crying through the door of the adjoining room. "I want to go home," she cried. "I want to go to my papa." She was followed by a tall, gaunt woman, who seized the child in her bony grasp. "You're a very naughty girl," she said. "Your papa sent you to stay with me." "No, he didn't. My papa doesn't know you." "If you talk like that I'll give you a whipping. I am your aunt--your father's sister." "No, you're not. I wouldn't have such an ugly aunt." "Of all the perverse imps, this 'ere one is the most cantankerous I ever see," said the woman. "I should think you'd ought to be able to manage a little girl," said Joe, roughly. "So I be. There's only one way of managin' one like her. I've got a strap in the other room, and she'll feel of it if she keeps on." Clip followed Minton up the steep, narrow staircase, and the two paused before the door of the chamber occupied by Bob Burton. "He is in here," said Minton, briefly. He opened the door, and by the faint light of the lantern, Clip recognized the figure of a boy stretched out on a pallet in the corner. Bob looked up, and when he saw Clip, he sprang to his feet. "You here, Clip?" he asked. "Yes, Massa Bob. Which of you legs is broke?" "My legs broke! Neither." "The man told me you broke you leg," said Clip, bewildered. He turned to appeal to Minton for a confirmation of his words, but the door was shut, and his conductor was already on the way downstairs. CHAPTER XXXII. THE BOYS IMPRISONED. "Now sit down and tell me all about it, Clip," said Bob. "So you were told my leg was broke. Who told you?" "De two men." "I think I know the two men. One of them brought you here. Where is the other?" "He stayed on board the boat till we come back." "Was there anything said about our going back?" asked Bob, in surprise. "Yes, Massa Bob. Dey said you leg was broke, and you wanted me to come for you. De man said we would take you back with us." "Clip," said Bob, sadly, "these men deceived you. We are in a trap." "What's dat?" "They have made us prisoners, and I don't dare to think what they will do next." "Dey won't 'sassinate us?" asked Clip, who had picked up the word somewhere. "No; but I'll tell you what I think they will do. They will take the boat down the river, and sell the grain in St. Louis, and run off with the money." This was the conclusion to which Bob was led by Clip's story. "We won't let 'em, Massa Bob," said Clip, in excitement. "How shall we help it, Clip?" "We must get out, and run away." "I wish I knew how," said Bob. "If we can get out, we'll take a boat to the city, and git there ahead of 'em." Somehow Clip's words seemed to reassure Bob. Misery loves company, and the presence of his trusty friend and servant perceptibly lightened Bob's spirits. "You are right, Clip," he said. "To-morrow we will see what we can do. We can't do anything to-night." "Who is de little girl, Massa Bob?" asked Clip, suddenly. "What little girl?" "Haven't you seen her? De little girl downstairs." "I haven't seen her. Tell me about her." Clip described her as well as he could, and succeeded in conveying to Bob a general idea of her appearance, and that of the woman who had charge of her. Bob listened, thoughtfully. "You don't think the little girl was any relation to the woman, Clip?" he said. "No, Massa Bob; no more'n you is relation to me. De girl was a little lady, and de woman was awful ugly." "Did the little girl say anything in your hearing?" "She asked to be taken back to her fader." Suddenly there came into Bob's mind the story about a little girl abducted from St. Louis. "Clip," he said, "I think the little girl has been stolen from her home. I think it is the same one we heard about the other day." "I pity de poor girl. De ol' woman shook her, and treated her bad." "If we could only run away from this place and take the little girl with us, it would be a capital idea. I would like to get her away from these wretches." "I'm wid you, Massa Bob," said Clip, enthusiastically. "Hush!" said Bob, suddenly raising his finger. A little girl's voice was heard, and it was easy to judge that she was ascending the stairs. Bob put his ear to the keyhole. "Take me home to my papa!" said the poor child. "I don't want to stay here." "I'll whip you," said a harsh voice, "if you are not good. It's time little girls were a-bed. I'm going to put you to bed, and you can sleep till morning." "I don't want to go to bed." There was a little scream, for the woman had slapped her. "I'd like to get at that woman, Clip," said Bob, indignantly. They heard the door open--the door of the room adjoining. The partition was very thin, and it was easy to hear what was going on. Not only this, but Clip discovered an auger hole about eighteen inches above the floor, of sufficient size to enable him to look through it. "Who was that black boy?" he heard the little girl say. "He's a funny-looking boy." "He's come to stay here with the other boy," answered the woman, glad to find something of interest to take the place of the complaints. "Where are they?" asked the girl. "They are sleeping in the next room, so you need not be afraid if I go down and leave you." "May I play with them to-morrow?" "Yes, if you will be a good girl," said the woman, willing to promise anything. Then there was a little pause, spent in undressing the child. "Now, get into bed, and go to sleep as soon as you can." "Will you take me to my papa to-morrow?" "No," answered the woman, shortly. "Your papa wants you to stay with me." "Won't I never see my papa again?" asked the child, almost ready to cry. "Yes; perhaps he'll come to see you next week," answered the woman, fearing that the child might sob and compel her to remain upstairs. "Clip," said Bob, who had taken Clip's place at the hole in the partition, "there's no doubt of it. The girl has been stolen. I wish I could go into the room, and asked her about her father and her home." He went to the door and tried it, but it was firmly locked, and it was quite useless to try to get out. Meanwhile, Joe and his wife were conversing downstairs. "Joe," said the woman, "I hope I'll get rid of that brat soon. She's a heap of trouble." "We shall be well paid," said Joe. "Who's to pay us?" asked the woman. "Brown. He's the man that's got charge of the job. She's got a rich father, who'll shell out liberal to get her back." "Did he pay you anything in advance?" "I squeezed five dollars out of him." "Where is it, Joe?" "Don't you wish you knew, old woman?" said Joe, with a grin. "I can take care of it." "Half of it belongs to me." "How do you make that out?" "Haven't I the care of the child? It don't trouble you." "It's all right, old lady. You won't be forgotten." "How much more is Brown to pay you?" asked the woman, appearing dissatisfied. "Forty-five dollars." The woman's eyes sparkled. To her this seemed a vast sum of money. "And how much am I to have?" "What do you want money for?" demanded Joe, impatiently. "I do want it, and that's enough." "Well, I can't say yet, old lady, but maybe you'll get ten dollars." "Altogether?" "Of course. Ain't that enough?" "No, it isn't. We ought to divide even." "Pooh, you're a woman. You don't need money." An unpleasant look came over the woman's face, but she said nothing. "Come, old woman, I've got something that'll put you into good humor. See here!" Joe produced from an out-of-the-way corner a suspicious-looking jug. "Do you know what's in this?" "What is it?" asked the woman, looking interested. "Whisky. Get some boiling water, and I'll make you some punch. We'll make a night of it." His wife brightened up. Evidently she did not belong to the Temperance Society, any more than her husband. She moved about the room with alacrity, and, assisted by her husband, brewed a punch which was of considerable strength. Then they put it on the table, and set about enjoying themselves. "Here's your health, ol' woman!" said Joe, and he tried to sing a stave of an old drinking-song. Together they caroused till a late hour, and then fell into a drunken sleep, which lasted till a late hour in the morning. About seven o'clock the little girl woke up, and, as is usual with children, wished to be dressed at once. "Aunt," Bob heard her say, "I want to be dressed." But no one came at her call. After a little waiting, she got out of bed and went downstairs, but returned in a minute or two, crying. Bob called through the partition. "What's the matter, little girl?" "There's nobody to dress me. Are you the boy that came yesterday?" "Yes. Where is the woman that put you to bed?" "She's downstairs--she and the man. They're lying on the floor. I can't wake them up." An idea came to Bob. "Come to our door, little girl, and see if you can draw back the bolt. We are fastened in." "Will you take me to my papa?" "Yes; I will try to." The child came to the door, and, following Bob's directions, with some difficulty slipped back the bolt. "Clip," said Bob, in a tone of triumph, "We're free. Now do as I tell you, and we'll get away, and reach St. Louis ahead of the boat." CHAPTER XXXIII. A LUCKY ESCAPE. "Now," said Bob to the little girl, as they descended the steep and narrow staircase, "will you do as I tell you?" "Yes," answered the child, placing her hand confidingly in his. "Then make as little noise as possible. We don't want them to wake up. If they do they will prevent your going away." "Will you take me back to my papa, certain sure?" "Yes." "Oh, I am so glad." "Clip," said Bob, warningly, "mind you remain perfectly quiet. We must go through the room where the man and woman are sleeping. Any little noise might wake them up." "Don't be afeared for me, Massa Bob," said Clip. The staircase led into the main room below, so that, as Bob said, it was necessary to pass through it. Entering the room on tip-toe, they witnessed a reassuring, but disgusting spectacle. Joe Springer was stretched out on the floor on his back, breathing heavily; while his wife, seated in a chair, rested her head on the kitchen table. She, too, seemed to be in a drunken stupor. The little girl regarded the woman nervously, remembering the harsh treatment she had received from her. There was one more ordeal, and one more danger to run. The outer door was locked, but the key was in the lock. There was a creaking sound as Bob turned it. But he opened the door successfully, and once more they breathed freely in the clear air of morning. As the door opened they heard a muttered sound from Joe Springer. It sounded like "more whisky!" He was probably dreaming of his potations of the previous night. Bob hurried along his two companions till they had reached a point some half a mile distant from the place of their imprisonment. Then he thought it best to question the little girl. [Illustration: LITTLE MAUD'S ESCAPE FROM HER ABDUCTORS.] "What is your name?" he asked, gently. "Don't you know my name?" asked the child, in surprise. "My name is Maud." "What is your other name?" "Pearson--my name is Maud Lilian Pearson." "Just as I thought, Clip," said Bob, triumphantly. "This is the little girl that was stolen from her parents in St. Louis." "Yes; my papa lives in St. Louis. Will you take me to him?" "Yes, Maud. Only be a good little girl, and do as I tell you." "And you won't let that ugly woman take me away?" "No; we will hide you away from her. Did she treat you badly?" "Yes; she shook me, and said she would whip me. She said she was my aunt; but it isn't true." "Who brought you to her?" Maud thereupon described the man whom we know as Brown, the abler one of the confederates who had stolen the ferry-boat. "I wonder whether our boat is gone?" said Bob. "Mebbe we can see from the hill," suggested Clip. There was a small elevation near by. Bob ascended it, and looked towards the point where his boat had been tied up. There was no sign of it. It had disappeared. Though still early, Brown and Minton, fearing interference, had cut loose about four o'clock, and were, by this time, several miles on their way to the great city. "It's gone, Clip," said Bob, sadly. "Never mind, Massa Bob, we'll catch 'em," answered Clip, energetically. "Yes, if there is any boat starts down the river to-day." This, however, was something which he was not sure of. Moreover, he felt that the sooner he got away from Joe Springer and his estimable wife, the better. But where could he take refuge? Not at the hotel, for Springer would find him out and reclaim the little girl. While he was considering, in his perplexity, what course to pursue, he fell in with two boys, who appeared to be about fifteen years of age. They regarded Bob and his party with curiosity. Bob eyed the boys closely, and decided that they could be depended upon. They seemed to be just the friends he was in search of. He introduced himself, and learned that their names were John Sheehan and Edward Bovee. "Can you tell me, boys, when the next steamer will start for St. Louis?" "Yes," answered John; "there is one at seven o'clock to-morrow morning." "That is the earliest?" "Yes," said John. "Do you know of any private house where we can stay till that time? I am willing to pay a fair price." "You can come to our house," said Edward Bovee. "I am sure my mother will take you in. But you won't get as good meals as at the hotel." "I don't mind that. I shall be glad to stay at your house. Could we go there to breakfast?" "Yes; follow me, and I will lead the way." Edward Bovee led the way to a neat cottage, where his mother, a pleasant-looking lady, welcomed them, and readily undertook to keep them till the boat started for St. Louis. Bob, feeling the necessity of concealment, took Mrs. Bovee into his confidence, and readily secured the co-operation of the good lady, who took a motherly interest in little Maud. Now that the children have found a safe retreat, we will return to Joe Springer and his interesting wife. About half an hour after their young prisoners had escaped, Mrs. Springer raised her head from the table, and looked about her in a bewildered way. The bright sunshine entering at the window revealed to her that she had spent the night in a drunken stupor, even if Joe's prostrate form had not been a visible reminder. She went to her husband, and shook him roughly. "Get up, Joe!" she said. "It's morning." He opened his eyes, and looked around him with stupefaction. "What's up, old woman?" he asked. "I am, and you ought to be," she answered, sharply. "Where's the whisky?" "You've had enough. Now get up and hustle round, if you want some breakfast. I'll go up and dress the little girl." Mrs. Springer went upstairs, but came down again two steps at a time, in a state of high excitement. "Joe," said she, quickly, "the little gal's gone!" "_What?_" "The little gal's gone! Run out and see if you can't catch her. If we lose her, we lose fifty dollars!" "Are the boys all right?" "Yes; the door is bolted. They couldn't get out." This was true. Bob had taken the precaution to lock the door, after leaving the room. For this reason, it was half an hour later before Joe discovered that all his prisoners had escaped. Then, as might have been expected, there was a wild scene of recrimination, ending in a fight, in which Mrs. Springer did her part, for she was by no means a weak or delicate lady, but a woman without fear, who believed in the right of self-defense. The worthy pair instituted a search throughout the village, but failed to discover any trace of the lost children. The next morning, however, Joe Springer got up unusually early, for him, and strolled to the steamboat-landing. The boat was already out in the stream, when on the deck he discovered Maud and the two boys. "Stop the boat!" screamed Joe, in excitement. "What's the matter?" asked the man beside him. "Those three children. They have run away!" "From you?" "Yes; from my house." "Why, man, you must be drunk. You have no children." "I had charge of 'em, particularly the little gal! Stop the boat, I say!" "Has that man any claim on you?" asked the captain, who chanced to be standing near Bob. "Not the slightest," answered Bob. "Or the little girl?" "No; her father lives in St. Louis, and I am taking her to him." "Stop the boat!" screamed Joe, frantically. "He's drunk!" said Joe's neighbor. "He doesn't know what he's talking about." This settled the matter so far as the captain was concerned. Bob paid the full passage-money for the party, and they were enrolled as regular passengers. Towards the middle of the afternoon a surprise awaited them. They saw, not far ahead, their own boat, which was drifting down the river, with Brown at the helm. "Do you see that, Clip?" asked Bob. "Yes, Massa Bob." "Quick, hide! Don't let them see us. I have no objection to their working their passage down to the city. When they get there, we will be on hand to take possession." "Dat's a good joke! Won't they be s'prised, dough?" said Clip, showing his white teeth. So the steamboat swept by, carrying the three children past the two conspirators, who fancied them safely housed in Joe Springer's house up the river. CHAPTER XXXIV. MR. WOLVERTON'S LETTER. While the boys are meeting with adventures, on their way down the river, we will return to the town of Carver, in which, as it will be remembered, the Burton ranch was located. There was no one more interested in the progress of the expedition than Aaron Wolverton. It was against his wishes and his interest that Bob should succeed in carrying out his plans. He wanted to get possession of the Burton ranch, and force Mrs. Burton to take him for her second husband. Most of all, perhaps, he wanted to humble the pride of "the Burton boy," as he styled Bob, for he cordially hated him, and was well aware that Bob disliked and despised him. If he could only bring about the failure of Bob's trip, and the loss of his cargo, he would have both Bob and his mother in his power. Wolverton had been anxiously awaiting intelligence from his agents, and the postmaster was somewhat surprised at his numerous visits to the office for letters. At length, one morning, Aaron Wolverton's patience was rewarded. A letter was handed him, directed in an almost illegible scrawl to MR. A. WOLVERTON, ESQ. It was written by Brown, who was by no means an accomplished scholar. Wolverton opened it eagerly, and read the following lines: MR. WOLVERTON: I write you these few lines from Rocky Creek. I am pleased to say we have got the bote, and are jest starting for St. Louis with the cargo onbord. If you want to know about the boys, bob burton and the little nigger are locked up in a house in the village belonging to one of my friends, and they won't be let out till it is perfecly saif. We got hold of them by a nise trick. I haven't time to tell you about it now, but when we meat, you shall kno all. Send that fifty dollars to Mr. J. Brown, St. Louis Post Office. Don't forget! This is important. Yours to command, J. BROWN. This letter, ill-spelled as it was, seemed to give Aaron Wolverton unbounded satisfaction. A gratified smile overspread his face, and he said to himself: "That will bring down the Burton pride. That young whipper-snapper will come home with a few less airs than when he set out. The chances are that he'll have to walk home or buy a passage." Wolverton chuckled at this agreeable thought. He would be revenged upon poor Bob for all the mortifications to which the boy had subjected him: and, to a man of Wolverton's temperament, revenge was sweet. "You have received good news, Mr. Wolverton," said the postmaster, observing the land agent's evident glee. "What makes you think so?" asked Wolverton, cautiously. "I judged from your smiling face." "It wasn't the letter. I was thinking of something." "That is only a blind," thought the postmaster. "I saw his face light up when he read the letter. Let me see; it was mailed from Rocky Creek. I will bear that in mind, and some day I may discover the secret." As Wolverton picked his way through the mud from the post-office to his office, he fell in with Mrs. Burton, who had come to the village on business. He smiled to himself, and prepared to accost her. "I hope I see you well, Mrs. Burton," he said, with gravity. "Very well, thank you, Mr. Wolverton," answered the widow, coldly. "What do you hear from your son?" "I received a letter yesterday. All was going well with him." "I am really glad to hear it," said Wolverton, with a queer smile. "Still you must remember that 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'" "What do you mean, Mr. Wolverton?" asked Mrs. Burton, quickly. "What should I mean?" said Wolverton, in apparent surprise. "Have you heard any bad news of Robert?" "Oh, dear, no! I am sorry to say that your son is prejudiced against me, and would hardly favor me with any letter." Mrs. Burton looked relieved. "I was only warning you on general principles. 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,' as the Scriptures have it." "Thank you for the caution," said Mrs. Burton, dryly. "By the way, have you heard anything of your nephew, Sam?" Wolverton's face darkened. "No," he answered. "I did think, I confess, that he might have run away with Bob, but I don't think so now." "If he did, I know nothing of it." This was true. For obvious reasons, Bob had not taken his mother into his confidence on this subject. "The boy has shown base ingratitude to me," continued Wolverton, bitterly. "I cared for him and kept him from starving, and how has he rewarded me?" "If his home was so agreeable as you represent, it is certainly surprising that he should have left you. Good-morning, Mr. Wolverton." "What did she mean?" Wolverton asked himself. "Some of her sarcasm, I suppose. When she becomes Mrs. Wolverton, I will get even with her." As nothing had been said of Sam in the letter of his confidential agent, Wolverton no longer suspected that he had gone down the river with Bob Burton. On the whole, as he had Sam's property in his possession, he did not care whether the boy ever returned, except that he would have liked to give him a good flogging. CHAPTER XXXV. BOB'S ARRIVAL IN ST. LOUIS. Meanwhile Bob and Clip were steaming rapidly down the river. Now that he was pretty sure of recovering his boat and cargo, Bob gave himself up to the enjoyment of the trip, and was fain to confess that he enjoyed it better than working his passage on the ferry-boat. As for Maud, she seemed to feel as much confidence in our hero as if she had known him all her life. She seemed also to appreciate Clip, but in a different way. "You're a funny boy!" she said. "Yah, yah, little missy!" laughed Clip. "Where's your mother?" "Dunno, missy! I expect she dead." "My mamma's dead, too. She's in heaven. Is your mamma there too?" "S'pect so, little missy." Bob questioned the little girl as to the manner of her abduction. He learned that she had been carried off from the street in which she lived by Brown, who secured her consent by a promise of candy. Then she was put into a carriage, and given something to drink. When she woke up she was on a river steamer, being landed at length at the place where Bob found her. "Did my papa send you for me?" she asked. "No, Maud," answered Bob, "but I heard you had been stolen, and I determined to carry you back, if I could." "On what street does your father live?" asked Bob, later. "On Laclede Avenue." "Can you tell me the number?" This also Maud was able to tell. At the first stopping-place, after he had obtained this information, Bob, appreciating the anxiety of Maud's friends, telegraphed her father as follows: I have discovered your little daughter, and am on my way to the city with her. She was taken to Rocky Creek, and confined there. Our steamer--the Gazelle--will probably arrive at her wharf to-morrow morning. ROBERT BURTON. When this telegram was received, Mr. Pearson was suffering deep grief and anxiety; but the message comforted him not a little. When the steamer reached the pier, a middle-aged man of medium size and dark complexion was waiting on the wharf. "That's my papa!" exclaimed Maud, clapping her hands; and the little girl danced on the deck in her joy. In a moment she was in the arms of her father. "My darling Maud?" he exclaimed, caressing her fondly. "Thank Heaven I have you back again! Where is Mr. Burton?" "My name is Robert Burton," said Bob, modestly. "What, a boy!" exclaimed Mr. Pearson, in amazement. "I supposed the person who telegraphed me was a man." "He's a nice boy," said Maud, putting her hand confidingly in Bob's. "I am sure of it," said Mr. Pearson, cordially, grasping the hand of our hero. "And _he's_ a funny boy," continued Maud, pointing out Clip. "Yah, yah!" laughed Clip, with a broad grin on his shining face. "Clip is a companion of mine," explained Bob, "and we came down the river together." "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Clip," said Mr. Pearson, smiling, and taking Clip by the hand. "Yah, yah!" laughed the delighted Clip. "Now, boys," said Mr. Pearson, as they passed over the gang-plank and set foot upon the wharf, "I shall take you both home with me. I have not yet had an opportunity of asking questions about how you came to find my dear child, and rescue her from her terrible captivity. There stands my carriage. Get in, both of you, and we will go to my home at once." It was a strange sensation to Clip to find himself riding in a hansom carriage, the favored guest of the wealthy proprietor. He was not sure whether he were awake or dreaming. They drove rapidly for perhaps a couple of miles, and then stopped in front of an elegant mansion in the upper part of Laclede Avenue. The two boys never expected to enter St. Louis in such grand style. CHAPTER XXXVI. A THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD. A little awed by the splendid appointments of the merchant's house, Bob and Clip entered, following Mr. Pearson. A stout, pleasant-looking woman of middle age--the housekeeper--appeared at the door of a side room. She darted forward, and clasped Maud in a fond embrace. "My darling Maud, how glad I am to see you back!" she said. "I thought we had lost you." "This is the young man who rescued Maud, Margaret," said Mr. Pearson, pointing to Bob. "And _he_ so young! I must kiss him, too!" said Margaret; and, considerably to our hero's embarrassment, Margaret gave him a resounding kiss. "This boy also assisted," said Mr. Pearson, indicating Clip, with a smile. Margaret hesitated a moment--she was not quite prepared to kiss a colored boy--but compromised by shaking his hand cordially. "You look like a nice boy, Clip," she said. "So I is, missus; yah, yah!" responded Clip, laughing. "Now, Margaret, can you give us something to eat?" said Mr. Pearson. "It's all ready, sir. I thought you and Miss Maud would be hungry." "I suspect we are all hungry," said Mr. Pearson, leading the way into a handsome dining-room. "Now, boys, take your seats," he said. Clip felt a little awkward, for he was not used to being a guest at a rich man's table, but he did not allow his bashfulness to interfere with the gratification of an excellent appetite. When the meal was over, Mr. Pearson invited the boys into his library, and seated himself at a desk. He drew a check-book from a drawer and wrote for a minute. Then he tore off a check, and handed it to Bob. "This is the reward I offered for the return of my dear daughter," he said. "I have made the check payable to your order." Bob took it and read as follows: "FIRST NATIONAL BANK, "Pay to the order of Robert Burton, One Thousand Dollars. "$1000. JOHN PEARSON." "I don't like to take this large sum, Mr. Pearson," said Bob. "I did not rescue your daughter for money." "I am quite aware of that, my dear boy, but it is a pleasure for me to give you this proof of my gratitude. I am sure you will spend it creditably." "I shall find it very useful, sir; and I thank you sincerely. May I ask if you do not deal in wheat?" "That is a part of my business." "I shall have about fourteen hundred bushels to dispose of if I recover my boat." "I will give you two dollars and a quarter a bushel, if it is in good condition." "I accept, sir," answered Bob, promptly. "Now, may I ask your advice as to how to proceed to regain possession of the boat?" "When do you expect it to arrive?" asked the merchant. "Probably not till to-morrow, but I can't guess at what part of the day. It depends on how well the thieves succeed in managing the boat." "I will order my carriage and drive round with you to the Central Police Office. The police will take proper measures to recover the boat and arrest the rascals who robbed you of it." "Won't it be too much trouble, sir?" "I shall not count it a trouble, for I shall at the same time be punishing the men who abducted my dear Maud. They will be tried for both offenses, and will probably get a long term of imprisonment." In an hour information had been lodged at the Central Police Office, and orders had been given to watch the river, and to keep a good lookout for the boat, of which Bob furnished a description. That night Bob and Clip slept at Mr. Pearson's house, being treated as honored guests. CHAPTER XXXVII. BROWN AND MINTON WALK INTO A TRAP. Little suspecting the reception awaiting them in St. Louis, Minton and Brown were laboriously guiding their stolen craft down the river. Not being accustomed to labor of any sort, they found the confinement irksome, but the prize for which they were striving was so large that they took it very good-humoredly. They whiled away the time by indulging in visions of future ease and prosperity, and in exchanging witticisms at the expense of Bob, the youthful owner of the boat. "I wonder how the young captain is enjoying himself," said Minton, as he lay back, with one of the bins for a support, while puffing at a choice cigar. "He is ready to tear his hair out, I presume," said Brown. "He's a conceited young popinjay, and deserves to have his pride taken down." "You're right there, Brown. We shall make a tidy sum out of our venture." "Yes; we can afford to retire for a time. Of course I shall want more than half." "I don't see that," said Minton, quickly. "Why, man, I've done all the headwork. What have you done to compare with me?" "We are equal partners," said Minton, doggedly. "That is where you are mistaken. I don't mind, though, giving you half of what we get for the girl." "How shall we arrange to get anything? It is rather a ticklish business--" "That's where the headwork comes in. I shall wait upon old Pearson, and tell him that I have a clew, and suspect I know who abducted the child. Then I'll work him up to a point where he'll shell out liberally." "Won't there be risk?" "How can there be? Leave the thing to me and I'll arrange it. The fact is, Minton, you are a man of no ideas. If I depended on you, you wouldn't make a cent out of one of the neatest jobs I've ever been concerned in." Minton was conscious that there was some truth in this, and it helped to reconcile him to the evident determination of his companion to appropriate the lion's share of the fruits of their questionable enterprises. "I suppose Joe's all right?" he said, after a pause. "Of course he is. What would he make by proving false to us?" "Nothing, that I can see. Still, if he should do so, it might upset our plans. The boy could afford to pay him well for releasing him." "That is true," returned Brown, thoughtfully. "On all accounts it will be necessary for us to expedite matters. I sha'n't waste any time once we are in St. Louis." "You mean in disposing of the cargo?" "Precisely. I am in no position to haggle about prices. I'll offer it at a bargain to some large dealer. He will naturally think I'm a country gentleman, and clinch the bargain at once. Do you see?" "Yes, Brown. You've got the right idea." "Of course I have," said Brown, complacently. "It takes a long head to outwit me. Got another cigar, Minton?" Minton drew out one and handed to his confederate, and presently took his turn at the rudder. So time passed, the boat making good progress, and about three o'clock in the afternoon the boat reached an obscure pier in the lower part of St. Louis. There were some interested persons watching its arrival. Among them were Bob and his friend Clip, and a small squad of policemen. Not suspecting anything, Brown and Minton busied themselves in bringing the boat to anchor. Meanwhile Bob, without being observed, stepped aboard. "Good afternoon, Mr. Brown! I hope you had a pleasant trip," he said, quietly. Brown felt as if he had been struck by lightning. Wheeling around suddenly, he saw Bob's eyes fixed upon him. He was absolutely speechless with amazement and consternation. "Who are you?" he finally ejaculated, quickly resolving to brazen it out, and deny Bob's claim to ownership. "I think you know me, Mr. Brown!" replied Bob. "I have only to thank you for taking charge of my boat and bringing it safe to St. Louis." "Look here, young feller!" said Brown, roughly, "you must be crazy. I never saw you before in my life, and here you come on board my boat and claim it as your own. If you don't clear out I'll have you arrested." "There will be no difficulty about that, Mr. Brown. Here are policemen close at hand." Mr. Brown's face grew pale as he saw three stalwart policemen marching on board the boat. "I guess it's all up, Minton!" he said, and made a dash for liberty; but he was not quick enough. He and Minton were quickly secured and marched off, with handcuffs on their wrists. As we are now to bid these gentlemen farewell, it may be said briefly that they pleaded guilty in hopes of a lighter sentence, and were sent to prison for seven years. Thus far the community has been able to spare them without inconvenience. Bob and Clip resumed charge of the boat, and during the next day disposed of the cargo to Mr. Pearson at the price agreed upon. CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHAT BOB BROUGHT HOME. After disposing of his cargo, Bob was puzzled to know what to do with the ferry-boat. Finally he had an offer of one hundred dollars, from a speculative Yankee who had drifted out to St. Louis, and gladly accepted it. This sum paid all expenses, including his and Clip's return fare, and left him with a handsome sum to his credit, viz.: 1,400 bushels wheat, at $2.25, $3,150 Reward, 1,000 ------ $4,150 This sum, with the exception of one hundred and fifty dollars, by advice of Mr. Pearson, he deposited in a St. Louis bank, and then started for home. He could not make the whole passage by steamer, but went part way by railroad, and then engaged a carriage to a point four miles from home. Thence he and Clip walked. He wanted to surprise not only his mother, but Wolverton. He knew now that Brown and Minton had only been agents of his more crafty enemy, Brown having made a written confession, not so much out of friendship to Bob as out of spite against Wolverton, whom he held responsible for getting him into this scrape. With soiled shoes and clothes covered with dust, Bob and Clip entered the village, and purposely walked by Wolverton's office. The latter, spying them through the window, smiled maliciously, and hurried out to meet them. "Aha, my young friends," he said, with a pleased glance at their soiled clothes, "so you have returned?" "Yes, sir," answered Bob, soberly. "And what luck did you have, may I ask?" "We had good luck at first, but at Rocky Creek two rascals entrapped us, and stole our boat and cargo." Wolverton laughed outright. So it was true, after all. "Excuse my smiling," he said; "but you seem to have come out at the little end of the horn." "It does seem so, sir." "You remember what I told you before you started?" "What was that?" "That you were too young for such an expedition. It would have been much better for you to accept my offer." "It seems so," answered Bob again. "Seems so! Of course it would have been. But the trouble was, you were so puffed up by your own self-conceit that you thought you knew best." "I plead guilty to that, sir; I did think so," answered Bob, candidly. "I am glad you admit it. So you had to walk back?" "You can judge for yourself, Mr. Wolverton." "Well, you certainly do look like two tramps. The next time you may feel like following my advice." "I may," answered Bob. It did occur to Mr. Wolverton that Bob's answers were rather unusual, and his manner rather queer; quite unlike his usual tone and manner. But this he readily accounted for. The boy's pride had been humbled. He knew now that he was in Wolverton's power, and he had the sense to be humble, in the hope of making better terms. "But it won't do," said the agent to himself. "He will find that I will have what is mine, and he cannot soften my heart by any appeal to my pity." "It appears to me you are in rather a scrape," he said, after a pause. "How is that." "Why, a part of your mortgage comes due in a short time. I hope you don't expect me to wait." "No doubt you will be considerate, Mr. Wolverton, remembering what luck we have had." "No, I won't!" snarled Wolverton. "Don't flatter yourself so far. I am not responsible for your misfortune, or folly, as I call it." "Still, Mr. Wolverton--" "Oh, it's no use to talk!" continued the agent, raising his hand impatiently. "You have been a fool, and you must suffer the penalty of your folly." "Has Sam got back, Mr. Wolverton?" asked Bob, changing the subject, rather to Mr. Wolverton's surprise. "No; have you seen him?" asked the agent, eagerly. "Yes, sir." "Where?" asked Wolverton, quickly. "The fact is, we discovered him on our boat soon after we started." "You did!" ejaculated the agent, his eyes almost starting out of his head. "Why didn't you send him back?" "Because he said you didn't treat him well, and begged to stay." "Young man, do you know I could have you arrested for abducting my nephew?" demanded Wolverton, angrily. "Was it my fault that he hid himself on my boat?" "Where is he now?" asked Wolverton, abruptly. "He left the boat at a point on the way." "Where was it?" "You must excuse my answering that question. Sam wouldn't like it." "What difference does that make?" "Sam is my friend. I think, however, you will soon know, as he means to come back." Wolverton smiled triumphantly. "I shall be glad to see him," he said, significantly. Bob knew what that meant. "You must excuse me now, Mr. Wolverton," said Bob. "I must hurry home, as mother will be anxious to see me." "Tell her I shall call very soon--on business." "I will." When they were out of hearing the boys laughed in amusement. They had a surprise in store for Wolverton. CHAPTER XXXIX. CONCLUSION. There was another arrival at Burton's Ranch the next day. Sam Wolverton came in charge of his new-found relative, Robert Granger. They took a carriage, and reached the ranch without attracting the attention of Aaron Wolverton. Mrs. Burton welcomed her visitors, and expressed great pleasure at the discovery that Sam's fortunes were likely to be improved. Mr. Granger proposed to make a call upon the faithless guardian, but was saved the necessity, as Mr. Wolverton called early in the afternoon of the same day. He was in a hurry to show his power, and foreclose the mortgage. It was arranged that Sam and Mr. Granger should remain out of sight at first. Robert answered the knock at the door. "Is your mother at home?" asked Wolverton. "Yes, sir; will you walk in?" "I believe I will." He entered the sitting-room, and Mrs. Burton soon made her appearance. "I see your son has returned, widder," remarked the agent. "Yes; it seems pleasant to have him back. I missed him greatly." "Humph! I s'pose so. It's a pity he went at all." "I don't know that." "Why, it stands to reason," said Wolverton, impatiently. "He went on a fool's errand." "What makes you say that?" "He might have known a boy like him couldn't succeed in such an enterprise. If he had taken up with my offer, he would have been all right." "He said you offered him much less than the market price." "And so he started off to do better, and lost his whole cargo," sneered Wolverton, smiling unpleasantly. Mrs. Burton was silent. "I came to tell you that I should require not only the interest, but a payment of half the mortgage, according to the conditions. It is due next Saturday." "Won't you wait, under the circumstances, Mr. Wolverton?" "No; I will not." "Do you think that is kind?" asked Mrs. Burton. "Kindness is kindness, and business is business, Mrs. Burton. Still, I am willing to spare you on one condition." "What is that?" "That you become Mrs. Wolverton." Mrs. Burton made a gesture of repulsion. "That is entirely out of the question," she said. "Then I shall show no mercy." Mrs. Burton went to the door and called "Robert." Bob entered. "Mr. Wolverton demands his interest and the payment of half the mortgage, according to the terms." "It is not due yet." "It will be, next Saturday," said the agent, triumphantly. "And I won't listen to any palaver or any entreaties to put off the payment. As you have made your bed you can lie upon it." "What do you propose to do if we don't pay?" asked Bob. "Foreclose the mortgage!" exclaimed the agent, bringing down his fist upon the table before him. "In that case, I think, mother, we will pay," said Bob, quietly. "You can't pay!" snarled Wolverton. "That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Wolverton. I will not only pay what you ask, but I am ready to take up the whole mortgage." "Is the boy crazy?" ejaculated Wolverton. "Not that I am aware of," answered Bob, smiling. "You haven't got the money." "Mistaken again, Mr. Wolverton." "When did you get it?" gasped Wolverton. "Wasn't your cargo stolen?" "Yes, by emissaries of yours!" was Bob's unexpected reply; "but I recovered it, and sold the grain for two dollars and a quarter a bushel." "You recovered it?" said Wolverton, turning pale. "Yes; and the men that stole it are now in jail. I have a letter from one of them, declaring that he was employed by you." "It's a lie!" hastily exclaimed the agent; but he looked frightened. "I have reason to believe it is true. Mr. Wolverton, your base conspiracy failed." "I guess I'll go," said Wolverton, rising. He wanted time to think. "Not just yet! Here are two persons who wish to see you"; and, to Wolverton's surprise, Sam and Robert Granger entered the room. "You didn't expect to see me, Aaron Wolverton," said Captain Granger. "I have come here with your nephew to demand restitution of the property which you have appropriated to your own use, giving him to understand that he was living on charity." Wolverton looked like a man in a state of collapse. He didn't dare to deny what he knew Captain Granger would have no difficulty in proving. He glared at Sam as if he would like to have him in his power for a short time. "Are you coming back with me?" he asked. "I will answer for him," said Captain Granger. "Sam is of an age when the law authorizes him to select his own guardian. I have accepted the trust, and I demand the transfer of his property to me." If there had been any chance of success, Wolverton would have contested the matter, and, as it was, he interposed all the obstacles in his power. Finally, Sam got his own, however, much to Wolverton's disappointment. ---- Five years have passed. The mortgage on Burton's Ranch has long since been paid, and Bob is making a handsome profit every year for his mother and himself. Clip is still a member of the family, and, though he cannot be called a model of industry, he is a favorite through his good nature and love of fun. He is thoroughly loyal to the Burtons, and hates Wolverton as much as it is in his nature to hate anybody. Wolverton is getting worse in temper as he grows older, and his ill-gotten gains do not bring him happiness. The sight of Bob's prosperity is gall and wormwood to him; but for this Bob cares little. Sam is employed in a store under his new guardian's charge, but every summer he comes to Burton's Ranch and stays a month, where he, Bob, and Clip have fine times. Mrs. Burton is happy in her prosperity, and is thankful to God for having given her so good a son. Bob has made more than one trip down the river, but none so eventful as the one described in this story. THE END. THE FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. [Illustration: Specimen Cover of the Gunboat Series.] No author of the present day has become a greater favorite with boys than "Harry Castlemon;" every book by him is sure to meet with hearty reception by young readers generally. His naturalness and vivacity lead his readers from page to page with breathless interest, and when one volume is finished the fascinated reader, like Oliver Twist, asks "for more." Any volume sold separately. +GUNBOAT SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 6 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $7 50 +Frank, the Young Naturalist+ 1 25 +Frank in the Woods+ 1 25 +Frank on the Prairie+ 1 25 +Frank on a Gunboat+ 1 25 +Frank before Vicksburg+ 1 25 +Frank on the Lower Mississippi+ 1 25 +GO AHEAD SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $3 75 +Go Ahead+; or, The Fisher Boy's Motto 1 25 +No Moss+; or, The Career of a Rolling Stone 1 25 +Tom Newcombe+; or, The Boy of Bad Habits 1 25 +ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $3 75 +Frank at Don Carlos' Rancho+ 1 25 +Frank among the Rancheros+ 1 25 +Frank in the Mountains+ 1 25 +SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $3 75 +The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle+ 1 25 +The Sportsman's Club Afloat+ 1 25 +The Sportsman's Club among the Trappers+ 1 25 +FRANK NELSON SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $3 75 +Snowed Up+; or, The Sportsman's Club in the Mts. 1 25 +Frank Nelson in the Forecastle+; or, The Sportsman's Club among the Whalers 1 25 +The Boy Traders+; or, The Sportsman's Club among the Boers 1 25 +BOY TRAPPER SERIES.+ By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed in colors. In box $3 75 +The Buried Treasure+; or, Old Jordan's "Haunt" 1 25 +The Boy Trapper+; or, How Dave Filled the Order 1 25 +The Mail Carrier+ 1 25 
48020	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page mages generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/aurorafloyd02bradgoog Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work. Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48021 Volume III: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48022 AURORA FLOYD. by M. E. BRADDON, Author of "Lady Audley's Secret." In Three Volumes. VOL. I. Fifth Edition. London: Tinsley Brothers, 18 Catherine Steeet, Strand. 1863. Dedicated TO ADMIRAL AND MRS. BASDEN, WITH THE AFFECTIONATE REGARDS OF THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. HOW A RICH BANKER MARRIED AN ACTRESS II. AURORA III. WHAT BECAME OF THE DIAMOND BRACELET IV. AFTER THE BALL V. JOHN MELLISH VI. REJECTED AND ACCEPTED VII. AURORA'S STRANGE PENSIONER VIII. POOR JOHN MELLISH COMES BACK AGAIN IX. HOW TALBOT BULSTRODE SPENT HIS CHRISTMAS X. FIGHTING THE BATTLE XI. AT THE CHÂTEAU D'ARQUES XII. STEEVE HARGRAVES, THE "SOFTY" XIII. THE SPRING MEETING AURORA FLOYD CHAPTER I. HOW A RICH BANKER MARRIED AN ACTRESS. Faint streaks of crimson glimmer here and there amidst the rich darkness of the Kentish woods. Autumn's red finger has been lightly laid upon the foliage--sparingly, as the artist puts the brighter tints into his picture: but the grandeur of an August sunset blazes upon the peaceful landscape, and lights all into glory. The encircling woods and wide lawn-like meadows, the still ponds of limpid water, the trim hedges, and the smooth winding roads; undulating hill-tops, melting into the purple distance; labouring men's cottages gleaming white from the surrounding foliage; solitary roadside inns with brown thatched roofs and moss-grown stacks of lop-sided chimneys; noble mansions hiding behind ancestral oaks; tiny Gothic edifices; Swiss and rustic lodges; pillared gates surmounted by escutcheons hewn in stone, and festooned with green wreaths of clustering ivy; village churches and prim school-houses: every object in the fair English prospect is steeped in a luminous haze, as the twilight shadows steal slowly upward from the dim recesses of shady woodland and winding lane, and every outline of the landscape darkens against the deepening crimson of the sky. Upon the broad _façade_ of a mighty red-brick mansion, built in the favourite style of the early Georgian era, the sinking sun lingers long, making gorgeous illumination. The long rows of narrow windows are all a-flame with the red light, and an honest homeward-tramping villager pauses once or twice in the roadway to glance across the smooth width of dewy lawn and tranquil lake, half fearful that there must be something more than natural in the glitter of those windows, and that maybe Maister Floyd's house is a-fire. The stately red-brick mansion belongs to Maister Floyd, as he is called in the honest _patois_ of the Kentish rustics; to Archibald Martin Floyd, of the great banking-house of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, Lombard Street, City. The Kentish rustics know very little of this City banking-house, for Archibald Martin, the senior partner, has long retired from any active share in the business, which is carried on entirely by his nephews, Andrew and Alexander Floyd, both steady, middle-aged men, with families and country houses; both owing their fortune to the rich uncle, who had found places in his counting-house for them some thirty years before, when they were tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired, red-complexioned Scottish youths, fresh from some unpronounceable village north of Aberdeen. The young gentlemen signed their names McFloyd when they first entered their uncle's counting-house; but they very soon followed that wise relative's example, and dropped the formidable prefix. "We've nae need to tell these sootherran bodies that we're Scotche," Alick remarked to his brother, as he wrote his name for the first time A. Floyd, all short. The Scottish banking-house had thriven wonderfully in the hospitable English capital. Unprecedented success had waited upon every enterprise undertaken by the old-established and respected firm of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd. It had been Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd for upwards of a century; for as one member of the house dropped off some greener branch shot out from the old tree; and there had never yet been any need to alter the treble repetition of the well-known name upon the brass plates that adorned the swinging mahogany doors of the banking-house. To this brass plate Archibald Martin Floyd pointed when, some thirty years before the August evening of which I write, he took his raw-boned nephews for the first time across the threshold of his house of business. "See there, boys," he said; "look at the three names upon that brass plate. Your uncle George is over fifty, and a bachelor,--that's the first name; our first cousin, Stephen Floyd, of Calcutta, is going to sell out of the business before long,--that's the second name; the third is mine, and I'm thirty-seven years of age, remember, boys, and not likely to make a fool of myself by marrying. Your names will be wanted by-and-by to fill the blanks; see that you keep them bright in the mean time; for let so much as one speck rest upon them, and they'll never be fit for that brass plate." Perhaps the rugged Scottish youths took this lesson to heart, or perhaps honesty was a natural and inborn virtue in the house of Floyd. Be it as it might, neither Alick nor Andrew disgraced their ancestry; and when Stephen Floyd, the East-Indian merchant, sold out, and Uncle George grew tired of business and took to building, as an elderly, bachelor-like hobby, the young men stepped into their relatives' shoes, and took the conduct of the business upon their broad northern shoulders. Upon one point only Archibald Martin Floyd had misled his nephews, and that point regarded himself. Ten years after his address to the young men, at the sober age of seven-and-forty, the banker not only made a fool of himself by marrying, but, if indeed such things are foolish, sank still further from the proud elevation of worldly wisdom, by falling desperately in love with a beautiful but penniless woman, whom he brought home with him after a business-tour through the manufacturing districts, and with but little ceremony introduced to his relations and the county families round his Kentish estate as his newly-wedded wife. The whole affair was so sudden, that these very county families had scarcely recovered from their surprise at reading a certain paragraph in the left-hand column of the 'Times,' announcing the marriage of "Archibald Martin Floyd, banker, of Lombard Street and Felden Woods, to Eliza, only surviving daughter of Captain Prodder," when the bridegroom's travelling carriage dashed past the Gothic lodge at his gates, along the avenue and under the great stone portico at the side of the house, and Eliza Floyd entered the banker's mansion, nodding good-naturedly to the bewildered servants, marshalled into the hall to receive their new mistress. The banker's wife was a tall young woman, of about thirty, with a dark complexion, and great flashing black eyes that lit up a face, which might otherwise have been unnoticeable, into the splendour of absolute beauty. Let the reader recall one of those faces, whose sole loveliness lies in the glorious light of a pair of magnificent eyes, and remember how far they surpass all others in their power of fascination. The same amount of beauty frittered away upon a well-shaped nose, rosy pouting lips, symmetrical forehead, and delicate complexion, would make an ordinarily lovely woman; but concentrated in one nucleus, in the wondrous lustre of the eyes, it makes a divinity, a Circe. You may meet the first any day of your life; the second, once in a lifetime. Mr. Floyd introduced his wife to the neighbouring gentry at a dinner-party which he gave soon after the lady's arrival at Felden Woods, as his country seat was called; and this ceremony very briefly despatched, he said no more about his choice either to his neighbours or his relations, who would have been very glad to hear how this unlooked-for marriage had come about, and who hinted the same to the happy bridegroom, but without effect. Of course this very reticence on the part of Archibald Floyd himself only set the thousand tongues of rumour more busily to work. Round Beckenham and West Wickham, near which villages Felden Woods was situated, there was scarcely any one debased and degraded station of life from which Mrs. Floyd was not reported to have sprung. She had been a factory-girl, and the silly old banker had seen her in the streets of Manchester, with a coloured handkerchief on her head, a coral necklace round her throat, and shoeless and stockingless feet tramping in the mud: he had seen her thus, and had fallen incontinently in love with her, and offered to marry her there and then. She was an actress, and he had seen her on the Manchester stage; nay, lower still, she was some poor performer, decked in dirty white muslin, red-cotton velvet, and spangles, who acted in a canvas booth, with a pitiful set of wandering vagabonds and a learned pig. Sometimes they said she was an equestrian, and it was at Astley's, and not in the manufacturing districts, that the banker had first seen her; nay, some there were, ready to swear that they themselves had beheld her leaping through gilded hoops, and dancing the cachuca upon six bare-backed steeds, in that sawdust-strewn arena. There were whispered rumours that were more cruel than these; rumours which I dare not even set down here, for the busy tongues that dealt so mercilessly with the name and fame of Eliza Floyd were not unbarbed by malice. It may be that some of the ladies had personal reasons for their spite against the bride, and that many a waning beauty, in those pleasant Kentish mansions, had speculated upon the banker's income, and the advantages attendant upon a union with the owner of Felden Woods. The daring, disreputable creature, with not even beauty to recommend her,--for the Kentish damsels scrupulously ignored Eliza's wonderful eyes, and were sternly critical with her low forehead, doubtful nose, and rather wide mouth,--the artful, designing minx, at the mature age of nine-and-twenty, with her hair growing nearly down to her eye-brows, had contrived to secure to herself the hand and fortune of the richest man in Kent--the man who had been hitherto so impregnable to every assault from bright eyes and rosy lips, that the most indefatigable of manoeuvring mothers had given him up in despair, and ceased to make visionary and Alnaschar-like arrangements of the furniture in Mr. Floyd's great red-brick palace. The female portion of the community wondered indignantly at the supineness of the two Scotch nephews, and the old bachelor brother, George Floyd. Why did not these people show a little spirit--institute a commission of lunacy, and shut their crazy relative in a madhouse? He deserved it. The ruined _noblesse_ of the Faubourg St.-Germain could not have abused a wealthy Bonapartist with more vigorous rancour than these people employed in their ceaseless babble about the banker's wife. Whatever she did was a new subject for criticism; even at that first dinner-party, though Eliza had no more ventured to interfere with the arrangements of the man-cook and housekeeper than if she had been a visitor at Buckingham Palace, the angry guests found that everything had degenerated since "that woman" had entered the house. They hated the successful adventuress,--hated her for her beautiful eyes and her gorgeous jewels, the extravagant gifts of an adoring husband,--hated her for her stately figure and graceful movements, which never betrayed the rumoured obscurity of her origin,--hated her, above all, for her insolence in not appearing in the least afraid of the lofty members of that new circle in which she found herself. If she had meekly eaten the ample dish of humble-pie which these county families were prepared to set before her,--if she had licked the dust from their aristocratic shoes, courted their patronage, and submitted to be "taken up" by them,--they might perhaps in time have forgiven her. But she did none of this. If they called upon her, well and good; she was frankly and cheerfully glad to see them. They might find her in her gardening-gloves, with rumpled hair and a watering-pot in her hands, busy amongst her conservatories; and she would receive them as serenely as if she had been born in a palace, and accustomed to homage from her very babyhood. Let them be as frigidly polite as they pleased, she was always easy, candid, gay, and good-natured. She would rattle away about her "dear old Archy," as she presumed to call her benefactor and husband; or she would show her guests some new picture he had bought, and would dare--the impudent, ignorant, pretentious creature!--to talk about Art, as if all the high-sounding jargon with which they tried to crush her was as familiar to her as to a Royal Academician. When etiquette demanded her returning these stately visits, she would drive boldly up to her neighbours' doors in a tiny basket-carriage, drawn by one rough pony; for it was a whim of this designing woman to affect simplicity in her tastes, and to abjure all display. She would take all the grandeur she met with as a thing of course, and chatter and laugh, with her flaunting theatrical animation, much to the admiration of misguided young men, who could not see the high-bred charms of her detractors, but who were never tired of talking of Mrs. Floyd's jolly manner and glorious eyes. I wonder whether poor Eliza Floyd knew all or half the cruel things that were said of her! I shrewdly suspect that she contrived somehow or other to hear them all, and that she rather enjoyed the fun. She had been used to a life of excitement, and Felden Woods might have seemed dull to her but for these ever fresh scandals. She took a malicious delight in the discomfiture of her enemies. "How badly they must have wanted you for a husband, Archy," she said, "when they hate me so ferociously! Poor portionless old maids, to think that I should snatch their prey from them! I know they think it a hard thing that they can't have me hanged, for marrying a rich man." But the banker was so deeply wounded when his adored wife repeated to him the gossip which she had heard from her maid, who was a stanch adherent to a kind, easy mistress, that Eliza ever afterwards withheld these reports from him. They amused her; but they stung him to the quick. Proud and sensitive, like almost all very honest and conscientious men, he could not endure that any creature should dare to befoul the name of the woman he loved so tenderly. What was the obscurity from which he had taken her to him? Is a star less bright because it shines on a gutter as well as upon the purple bosom of the midnight sea? Is a virtuous and generous-hearted woman less worthy because you find her making a scanty living out of the only industry she can exercise; and acting Juliet to an audience of factory-hands, who give threepence apiece for the privilege of admiring and applauding her? Yes, the murder must out; the malicious were not altogether wrong in their conjectures: Eliza Prodder was an actress; and it was on the dirty boards of a second-rate theatre in Lancashire that the wealthy banker had first beheld her. Archibald Floyd nourished a traditional, passive, but sincere admiration for the British Drama. Yes, the _British_ Drama; for he had lived in a day when the drama was British, and when 'George Barnwell' and 'Jane Shore' were amongst the favourite works of art of a play-going public. How sad that we should have degenerated since those classic days, and that the graceful story of Milwood and her apprentice-admirer is now so rarely set before us! Imbued, therefore, with this admiration for the drama, Mr. Floyd, stopping for a night at this second-rate Lancashire town, dropped into the dusty boxes of the theatre to witness the performance of 'Romeo and Juliet;' the heiress of the Capulets being represented by Miss Eliza Percival, alias Prodder. I do not believe that Miss Percival was a good actress, or that she would ever have become distinguished in her profession; but she had a deep melodious voice, which rolled out the words of her author in a certain rich though rather monotonous music, pleasant to hear; and upon the stage she was very beautiful to look at, for her face lighted up the little theatre better than all the gas that the manager grudged to his scanty audiences. It was not the fashion in those days to make "sensation" dramas of Shakespeare's plays. There was no 'Hamlet' with the celebrated water-scene, and the Danish prince taking a "header" to save poor weak-witted Ophelia. In the little Lancashire theatre it would have been thought a terrible sin against all canons of dramatic art, had Othello or his Ancient attempted to sit down during any part of the solemn performance. The hope of Denmark was no long-robed Norseman with flowing flaxen hair, but an individual who wore a short rusty black, cotton-velvet garment, shaped like a child's frock, and trimmed with bugles, which dropped off and were trodden upon at intervals throughout the performance. The simple actors held, that tragedy, to be tragedy, must be utterly unlike anything that had ever happened beneath the sun. And Eliza Prodder patiently trod the old and beaten track, far too good-natured, light-hearted, and easy-going a creature to attempt any foolish interference with the crookedness of the times, which she was not born to set right. What can I say, then, about her performance of the impassioned Italian girl? She wore white satin and spangles, the spangles sewn upon the dirty hem of her dress, in the firm belief, common to all provincial actresses, that spangles are an antidote to dirt. She was laughing and talking in the white-washed little green-room the very minute before she ran on to the stage to wail for her murdered kinsman and her banished lover. They tell us that Macready began to be Richelieu at three o'clock in the afternoon, and that it was dangerous to approach or to speak to him between that hour and the close of the performance. So dangerous, indeed, that surely none but the daring and misguided gentleman who once met the great tragedian in a dark passage, and gave him "Good morrow, 'Mac,'" would have had the temerity to attempt it. But Miss Percival did not take her profession very deeply to heart; the Lancashire salaries barely paid for the physical wear and tear of early rehearsals and long performances; how then, for that mental exhaustion of the true artist who lives in the character he represents? The easy-going comedians with whom Eliza acted made friendly remarks to each other on their private affairs in the intervals of the most vengeful discourse; speculated upon the amount of money in the house in audible undertones during the pauses of the scene; and when Hamlet wanted Horatio down at the footlights to ask him if he "marked that," it was likely enough that the prince's confidant was up the stage telling Polonius of the shameful way in which his landlady stole the tea and sugar. It was not, therefore, Miss Percival's acting that fascinated the banker. Archibald Floyd knew that she was as bad an actress as ever played the leading tragedy and comedy for five-and-twenty shillings a week. He had seen Miss O'Neil in that very character, and it moved him to a pitying smile as the factory-hands applauded poor Eliza's poison scene. But for all this he fell in love with her. It was a repetition of the old story. It was Arthur Pendennis at the little Chatteris theatre bewitched and bewildered by Miss Fotheringay all over again. Only that instead of a fickle, impressionable boy, it was a sober, steady-going business-man of seven-and-forty, who had never felt one thrill of emotion in looking on a woman's face until that night,--until that night,--and from that night the world only held for him one being, and life only had one object. He went the next evening, and the next; and then contrived to scrape acquaintance with some of the actors at a tavern next the theatre. They sponged upon him cruelly, these seedy comedians, and allowed him to pay for unlimited glasses of brandy-and-water, and flattered and cajoled him, and plucked out the heart of his mystery; and then went back to Eliza Percival, and told her that she had dropped into a good thing, for that an old chap with no end of money had fallen over head and ears in love with her, and that if she played her cards well, he would marry her to-morrow. They pointed him out to her through a hole in the green curtain, sitting almost alone in the shabby boxes, waiting for the play to begin, and for her black eyes to shine upon him once more. Eliza laughed at her conquest; it was only one amongst many such, which had all ended alike,--leading to nothing better than the purchase of a box on her benefit night, or a bouquet left for her at the stage-door. She did not know the power of first love upon a man of seven-and-forty. Before the week was out, Archibald Floyd had made her a solemn offer of marriage. He had heard a great deal about her from her fellow-performers, and had heard nothing but good. Temptations resisted; insidious proffers of jewels and gewgaws indignantly declined; graceful acts of gentle womanly charity done in secret; independence preserved through all poverty and trial;--they told him a hundred stories of her goodness, that brought the blood to his face with proud and generous emotion. And she herself told him the simple history of her life: told him that she was the daughter of a merchant-captain called Prodder; that she was born at Liverpool; that she remembered little of her father, who was almost always at sea--nor of a brother, three years older than herself, who quarrelled with his father, the merchant-captain, and ran away, and was never heard of again--nor of her mother, who died when she, Eliza, was four years old. The rest was told in a few words. She was taken into the family of an aunt who kept a grocer's shop in Miss Prodder's native town. She learnt artificial flower-making, and did not take to the business. She went often to the Liverpool theatres, and thought she would like to go upon the stage. Being a daring and energetic young person, she left her aunt's house one day, walked straight to the stage-manager of one of the minor theatres, and asked him to let her appear as Lady Macbeth. The man laughed at her, but told her that, in consideration of her fine figure and black eyes, he would give her fifteen shillings a week to "walk on," as he technically called the business of the ladies who wander on to the stage, sometimes dressed as villagers, sometimes in court costume of calico trimmed with gold, and stare vaguely at whatever may be taking place in the scene. From "walking on," Eliza came to play minor parts, indignantly refused by her superiors; from these she plunged ambitiously into the tragic lead,--and thus for nine years pursued the even tenour of her way; until, close upon her nine-and-twentieth birthday, Fate threw the wealthy banker across her pathway, and in the parish church of a small town in the Potteries the black-eyed actress exchanged the name of Prodder for that of Floyd. She had accepted the rich man partly because, moved by a sentiment of gratitude for the generous ardour of his affection, she was inclined to like him better than any one else she knew; and partly in accordance with the advice of her theatrical friends, who told her, with more candour than elegance, that she would be a jolly fool to let such a chance escape her; but at the time she gave her hand to Archibald Martin Floyd, she had no idea whatever of the magnitude of the fortune he had invited her to share. He told her that he was a banker, and her active mind immediately evoked the image of the only banker's wife she had ever known: a portly lady, who wore silk gowns, lived in a square stuccoed house with green blinds, kept a cook and housemaid, and took three box-tickets for Miss Percival's benefit. When, therefore, the doting husband loaded his handsome bride with diamond bracelets and necklaces, and with silks and brocades that were stiff and unmanageable from their very richness,--when he carried her straight from the Potteries to the Isle of Wight, and lodged her in spacious apartments at the best hotel in Ryde, and flung his money here and there, as if he had carried the lamp of Aladdin in his coat-pocket,--Eliza remonstrated with her new master, fearing that his love had driven him mad, and that this alarming extravagance was the first outburst of insanity. It seemed a repetition of the dear old Burleigh story when Archibald Floyd took his wife into the long picture-gallery at Felden Woods. She clasped her hands for frank womanly joy as she looked at the magnificence about her. She compared herself to the humble bride of the earl, and fell on her knees and did theatrical homage to her lord. "O Archy," she said, "it is all too good for me! I am afraid I shall die of my grandeur, as the poor girl pined away at Burleigh House." In the full maturity of womanly loveliness, rich in health, freshness, and high spirits, how little could Eliza dream that she would hold even a briefer lease of these costly splendours than the Bride of Burleigh had done before her! Now the reader, being acquainted with Eliza's antecedents, may perhaps find in them some clue to the insolent ease and well-bred audacity with which Mrs. Floyd treated the second-rate county families, who were bent upon putting her to confusion. She was an actress: for nine years she had lived in that ideal world in which dukes and marquises are as common as butchers and bakers in work-a-day life; in which, indeed, a nobleman is generally a poor mean-spirited individual, who gets the worst of it on every hand, and is contemptuously entreated by the audience on account of his rank. How should she be abashed on entering the drawing-rooms of these Kentish mansions, when for nine years she had walked nightly on to a stage to be the focus of every eye, and to entertain her guests the evening through? Was it likely she was to be over-awed by the Lenfields, who were coachbuilders in Park Lane, or the Miss Manderlys, whose father had made his money by a patent for starch,--she, who had received King Duncan at the gates of her castle, and had sat on a rickety throne dispensing condescending hospitality to the obsequious Thanes at Dunsinane? So, do what they would, they were unable to subdue this base intruder; while, to add to their mortification, it every day became more obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Floyd made one of the happiest couples who had ever worn the bonds of matrimony, and changed them into garlands of roses. If this were a very romantic story, it would be perhaps only proper for Eliza Floyd to pine in her gilded bower, and misapply her energies in weeping for some abandoned lover, deserted in an evil hour of ambitious madness. But as my story is a true one,--not only true in a general sense, but strictly true as to the leading facts which I am about to relate,--and as I could point out, in a certain county, far northward of the lovely Kentish woods, the very house in which the events I shall describe took place, I am bound also to be truthful here, and to set down as a fact that the love which Eliza Floyd bore for her husband was as pure and sincere an affection as ever man need hope to win from the generous heart of a good woman. What share gratitude may have had in that love, I cannot tell. If she lived in a handsome house, and was waited on by attentive and deferential servants; if she ate of delicate dishes, and drank costly wines; if she wore rich dresses and splendid jewels, and lolled on the downy cushions of a carriage, drawn by high-mettled horses, and driven by a coachman with powdered hair; if, wherever she went, all outward semblance of homage was paid to her; if she had but to utter a wish, and, swift as the stroke of some enchanter's wand, that wish was gratified,--she knew that she owed all to her husband, Archibald Floyd; and it may be that she grew not unnaturally to associate him with every advantage she enjoyed, and to love him for the sake of these things. Such a love as this may appear a low and despicable affection when compared to the noble sentiment entertained by the Nancys of modern romance for the Bill Sykeses of their choice; and no doubt Eliza Floyd ought to have felt a sovereign contempt for the man who watched her every whim, who gratified her every caprice, and who loved and honoured her as much, _ci-devant_ provincial actress though she was, as he could have done had she descended the steps of the loftiest throne in Christendom to give him her hand. She was grateful to him, she loved him, and she made him perfectly happy; so happy that the strong-hearted Scotchman was sometimes almost panic-stricken at the contemplation of his own prosperity, and would fall down on his knees and pray that this blessing might not be taken from him; that, if it pleased Providence to afflict him, he might be stripped of every shilling of his wealth, and left penniless, to begin the world anew,--but with her. Alas, it was this blessing, of all others, that he was to lose! For a year Eliza and her husband lived this happy life at Felden Woods. He wished to take her on the Continent, or to London for the season; but she could not bear to leave her lovely Kentish home. She was happier than the day was long amongst her gardens, and pineries, and graperies, her dogs and horses, and her poor. To these last she seemed an angel, descended from the skies to comfort them. There were cottages from which the prim daughters of the second-rate county families fled, tract in hand, discomfited and abashed by the black looks of the half-starved inmates; but upon whose doorways the shadow of Mrs. Floyd was as the shadow of a priest in a Catholic country--always sacred, yet ever welcome and familiar. She had the trick of making these people like her before she set to work to reform their evil habits. At an early stage of her acquaintance with them, she was as blind to the dirt and disorder of their cottages as she would have been to a shabby carpet in the drawing-room of a poor duchess; but by-and-by she would artfully hint at this and that little improvement in the _ménages_ of her pensioners, until in less than a month, without having either lectured or offended, she had worked an entire transformation. Mrs. Floyd was frightfully artful in her dealings with these erring peasants. Instead of telling them at once in a candid and Christian-like manner that they were all dirty, degraded, ungrateful, and irreligious, she diplomatized and finessed with them as if she had been canvassing the county. She made the girls regular in their attendance at church by means of new bonnets and smartly bound prayer-books; she kept married men out of the public-houses by bribes of tobacco to smoke at home, and once (oh, horror!) by the gift of a bottle of gin for moderate and social consumption in the family circle. She cured a dirty chimney-piece by the present of a gaudy china vase to its proprietress, and a slovenly hearth by means of a brass fender. She repaired a shrewish temper with a new gown, and patched up a family breach of long standing with a chintz waistcoat. But one brief year after her marriage,--while busy landscape-gardeners were working at the improvements she had planned; while the steady process of reformation was slowly but surely progressing amongst the grateful recipients of her bounty; while the eager tongues of her detractors were still waging war upon her fair fame; while Archibald Floyd rejoiced as he held a baby-daughter in his arms,--without one forewarning symptom to break the force of the blow, the light slowly faded out of those glorious eyes, never to shine again on this side of eternity, and Archibald Martin Floyd was a widower. CHAPTER II. AURORA. The child which Eliza Floyd left behind her, when she was so suddenly taken away from all earthly prosperity and happiness, was christened Aurora. The romantic-sounding name had been a fancy of poor Eliza's; and there was no caprice of hers, however trifling, that had not always been sacred with her adoring husband, and that was not doubly sacred now. The actual intensity of the widower's grief was known to no creature in this lower world. His nephews and his nephews' wives paid him pertinacious visits of condolence; nay, one of these nieces by marriage, a good motherly creature, devoted to her husband, insisted on seeing and comforting the stricken man. Heaven knows whether her tenderness did convey any comfort to that shipwrecked soul! She found him like a man who had suffered from a stroke of paralysis, torpid, almost imbecile. Perhaps she took the wisest course that could possibly have been taken. She said little to him upon the subject of his affliction; but visited him frequently, patiently sitting opposite to him for hours at a time, he and she talking of all manner of easy conventional topics,--the state of the country, the weather, a change in the ministry, and such subjects as were so far remote from the grief of his life, that a less careful hand than Mrs. Alexander Floyd's could have scarcely touched upon the broken chords of that ruined instrument, the widower's heart. It was not until six months after Eliza's death that Mrs. Alexander ventured to utter her name; but when she did speak of her, it was with no solemn hesitation, but tenderly and familiarly, as if she had been accustomed to talk of the dead. She saw at once that she had done right. The time had come for the widower to feel relief in speaking of the lost one; and from that hour Mrs. Alexander became a favourite with her uncle. Years after, he told her that, even in the sullen torpor of his grief, he had had a dim consciousness that she pitied him, and that she was "a good woman." This good woman came that very evening into the big room, where the banker sat by his lonely hearth, with a baby in her arms,--a pale-faced child, with great wondering black eyes, which stared at the rich man in sombre astonishment; a solemn-faced, ugly baby, which was to grow by-and-by into Aurora Floyd, the heroine of my story. That pale, black-eyed baby became henceforth the idol of Archibald Martin Floyd, the one object in all this wide universe for which it seemed worth his while to endure life. From the day of his wife's death he had abandoned all active share in the Lombard-Street business, and he had now neither occupation nor delight, save in waiting upon the prattlings and humouring the caprices of this infant daughter. His love for her was a weakness, almost verging upon a madness. Had his nephews been very designing men, they might perhaps have entertained some vague ideas of that commission of lunacy for which the outraged neighbours were so anxious. He grudged the hired nurses their offices of love about the person of his child. He watched them furtively, fearful lest they should be harsh with her. All the ponderous doors in the great house at Felden Woods could not drown the feeblest murmur of that infant voice to those ever-anxious, loving ears. He watched her growth as a child watches an acorn it hopes to rear to an oak. He repeated her broken baby-syllables till people grew weary of his babble about the child. Of course the end of all this was, that, in the common acceptation of the term, Aurora was spoiled. We do not say a flower is spoiled because it is reared in a hot-house where no breath of heaven can visit it too roughly; but then, certainly, the bright exotic is trimmed and pruned by the gardener's merciless hand, while Aurora shot whither she would, and there was none to lop the wandering branches of that luxuriant nature. She said what she pleased; thought, spoke, acted as she pleased; learned what she pleased; and she grew into a bright impetuous being, affectionate and generous-hearted as her mother, but with some touch of native fire blended in her mould that stamped her as original. It is the common habit of ugly babies to grow into handsome women, and so it was with Aurora Floyd. At seventeen she was twice as beautiful as her mother had been at nine-and-twenty, but with much the same irregular features, lighted up by a pair of eyes that were like the stars of heaven, and by two rows of peerlessly white teeth. You rarely, in looking at her face, could get beyond these eyes and teeth; for they so dazzled and blinded you that they defied you to criticise the doubtful little nose, or the width of the smiling mouth. What if those masses of blue-black hair were brushed away from a forehead too low for the common standard of beauty? A phrenologist would have told you that the head was a noble one; and a sculptor would have added that it was set upon the throat of a Cleopatra. Miss Floyd knew very little of her poor mother's history. There was a picture in crayons hanging in the banker's sanctum sanctorum which represented Eliza in the full flush of her beauty and prosperity; but the portrait told nothing of the history of its original, and Aurora had never heard of the merchant-captain, the poor Liverpool lodging, the grim aunt who kept a chandler's shop, the artificial flower-making, and the provincial stage. She had never been told that her maternal grandfather's name was Prodder, and that her mother had played Juliet to an audience of factory hands, for the moderate and sometimes uncertain stipend of four-and-twopence a night. The county families accepted and made much of the rich banker's heiress; but they were not slow to say that Aurora was her mother's own daughter, and had the taint of the play-acting and horse-riding, the spangles and the sawdust, strong in her nature. The truth of the matter is, that before Miss Floyd emerged from the nursery she evinced a very decided tendency to become what is called "fast." At six years of age she rejected a doll, and asked for a rocking-horse. At ten she could converse fluently upon the subject of pointers, setters, fox-hounds, harriers, and beagles, though she drove her governess to the verge of despair by persistently forgetting under what Roman emperor Jerusalem was destroyed, and who was legate from the Pope at the time of Catherine of Arragon's divorce. At eleven she talked unreservedly of the horses in the Lenfield stables as a pack of screws; at twelve she contributed her half-crown to a Derby sweepstakes amongst her father's servants, and triumphantly drew the winning horse; and at thirteen she rode across country with her cousin Andrew, who was a member of the Croydon hunt. It was not without grief that the banker watched his daughter's progress in these doubtful accomplishments; but she was so beautiful, so frank and fearless, so generous, affectionate, and true, that he could not bring himself to tell her that she was not all he could desire her to be. If he could have governed or directed that impetuous nature, he would have had her the most refined and elegant, the most perfect and accomplished of her sex; but he could not do this, and he was fain to thank God for her as she was, and to indulge her every whim. Alexander Floyd's eldest daughter, Lucy, first cousin, once removed, to Aurora, was that young lady's friend and confidante, and came now and then from her father's villa at Fulham to spend a month at Felden Woods. But Lucy Floyd had half a dozen brothers and sisters, and was brought up in a very different manner to the heiress. She was a fair-faced, blue-eyed, rosy-lipped, golden-haired little girl, who thought Felden Woods a paradise upon earth, and Aurora more fortunate than the Princess Royal of England, or Titania, Queen of the Fairies. She was direfully afraid of her cousin's ponies and Newfoundland dogs, and had a firm conviction that sudden death held his throne within a certain radius of a horse's heels; but she loved and admired Aurora, after the manner common to these weaker natures, and accepted Miss Floyd's superb patronage and protection as a thing of course. The day came when some dark but undefined cloud hovered about the narrow home-circle at Felden Woods. There was a coolness between the banker and his beloved child. The young lady spent half her time on horseback, scouring the shady lanes round Beckenham, attended only by her groom--a dashing young fellow, chosen by Mr. Floyd on account of his good looks for Aurora's especial service. She dined in her own room after these long, lonely rides, leaving her father to eat his solitary meal in the vast dining-room, which seemed to be fully occupied when she sat in it, and desolately empty without her. The household at Felden Woods long remembered one particular June evening on which the storm burst forth between the father and daughter. Aurora had been absent from two o'clock in the afternoon until sunset, and the banker paced the long stone terrace with his watch in his hand, the figures on the dial-plate barely distinguishable in the twilight, waiting for his daughter's coming home. He had sent his dinner away untouched; his newspapers lay uncut upon the table, and the household spies, we call servants, told each other how his hand had shaken so violently that he had spilled half a decanter of wine over the polished mahogany in attempting to fill his glass. The housekeeper and her satellites crept into the hall, and looked through the half-glass doors at the anxious watcher on the terrace. The men in the stables talked of "the row," as they called this terrible breach between father and child; and when at last horses' hoofs were heard in the long avenue, and Miss Floyd reined in her thorough-bred chestnut at the foot of the terrace-steps, there was a lurking audience hidden here and there in the evening shadow, eager to hear and see. But there was very little to gratify these prying eyes and ears. Aurora sprang lightly to the ground before the groom could dismount to assist her, and the chestnut, with heaving and foam-flecked sides, was led off to the stable. Mr. Floyd watched the groom and the two horses as they disappeared through the great gates leading to the stable-yard, and then said very quietly, "You don't use that animal well, Aurora. A six hours' ride is neither good for her nor for you. Your groom should have known better than to allow it." He led the way into his study, telling his daughter to follow him, and they were closeted together for upwards of an hour. Early the next morning Miss Floyd's governess departed from Felden Woods, and between breakfast and luncheon the banker paid a visit to the stables, and examined his daughter's favourite chestnut mare, a beautiful filly all bone and muscle, that had been trained for a racer. The animal had strained a sinew, and walked lame. Mr. Floyd sent for his daughter's groom, and paid and dismissed him on the spot. The young fellow made no remonstrance, but went quietly to his quarters, took off his livery, packed a carpet-bag, and walked away from the house without bidding good-bye to his fellow-servants, who resented the affront, and pronounced him a surly brute who had always been too high for this business. Three days after this, upon the 14th of June, 1856, Mr. Floyd and his daughter left Felden Woods for Paris, where Aurora was placed at a very expensive and exclusive Protestant finishing school, kept by the Demoiselles Lespard, in a stately mansion _entre cour et jardin_ in the Rue Saint-Dominique, there to complete her very imperfect education. For a year and two months Miss Floyd has been away at this Parisian finishing school; it is late in the August of 1857, and again the banker walks upon the long stone terrace in front of the narrow windows of his red-brick mansion, this time waiting for Aurora's arrival from Paris. The servants have expressed considerable wonder at his not crossing the Channel to fetch his daughter, and they think the dignity of the house somewhat lowered by Miss Floyd travelling unattended. "A poor dear young thing, that knows no more of this wicked world than a blessed baby," said the housekeeper, "all alone amongst a pack of moustachioed Frenchmen!" Archibald Martin Floyd had grown an old man in one day--that terrible and unexpected day of his wife's death; but even the grief of that bereavement had scarcely seemed to affect him so strongly as the loss of his daughter Aurora during the fourteen months of her absence from Felden Woods. Perhaps it was that at sixty-five years of age he was less able to bear even a lesser grief; but those who watched him closely, declared that he seemed as much dejected by his daughter's absence as he could well have been by her death. Even now, that he paces up and down the broad terrace, with the landscape stretching wide before him, and melting vaguely away under that veil of crimson glory shed upon all things by the sinking sun; even now that he hourly, nay, almost momentarily, expects to clasp his only child in his arms, Archibald Floyd seems rather nervously anxious than joyfully expectant. He looks again and again at his watch, and pauses in his walk to listen to Beckenham church clock striking eight; his ears are preternaturally alert to every sound, and give him instant warning of carriage-wheels far off upon the wide high-road. All the agitation and anxiety he has felt for the last week has been less than the concentrated fever of this moment. Will it pass on, that carriage, or stop at the lodge-gates? Surely his heart could never beat so loud save by some wondrous magnetism of fatherly love and hope. The carriage stops. He hears the clanking of the gates; the crimson-tinted landscape grows dim and blurred before his eyes, and he knows no more till a pair of impetuous arms are twined about his neck, and Aurora's face is hidden on his shoulder. It was a paltry hired carriage which Miss Floyd arrived in, and it drove away as soon as she had alighted, and the small amount of luggage she brought had been handed to the eager servants. The banker led his child into the study, where they had held that long conference fourteen months before. A lamp burned upon the library table, and it was to this light that Archibald Floyd led his daughter. A year had changed the girl to a woman--a woman with great hollow black eyes, and pale haggard cheeks. The course of study at the Parisian finishing school had evidently been too hard for the spoiled heiress. "Aurora, Aurora," the old man cried piteously, "how ill you look! how altered! how----" She laid her hand lightly yet imperiously upon his lips. "Don't speak of me," she said, "I shall recover; but you--you, father--you too are changed." She was as tall as her father, and, resting her hands upon his shoulders, she looked at him long and earnestly. As she looked, the tears welled slowly up to her eyes which had been dry before, and poured silently down her haggard cheeks. "My father, my devoted father," she said in a broken voice, "if my heart was made of adamant, I think it might break when I see the change in this beloved face." The old man checked her with a nervous gesture, a gesture almost of terror. "Not one word, not one word, Aurora," he said hurriedly; "at least, only one. That person--he is dead?" "He is." CHAPTER III. WHAT BECAME OF THE DIAMOND BRACELET. Aurora's relatives were not slow to exclaim upon the change for the worse which a twelvemonth in Paris had made in their young kinswoman. I fear that the Demoiselles Lespard suffered considerably in reputation amongst the circle round Felden Woods from Miss Floyd's impaired good looks. She was out of spirits too, had no appetite, slept badly, was nervous and hysterical, no longer took any interest in her dogs and horses, and was altogether an altered creature. Mrs. Alexander Floyd declared it was perfectly clear that these cruel Frenchwomen had worked poor Aurora to a shadow: the girl was not used to study, she said; she had been accustomed to exercise and open air, and no doubt had pined sadly in the close atmosphere of a schoolroom. But Aurora's was one of those impressionable natures which quickly recover from any depressing influence. Early in September Lucy Floyd came to Felden Woods, and found her handsome cousin almost entirely recovered from the drudgery of the Parisian _pension_, but still very loth to talk much of that seminary. She answered Lucy's eager questions very curtly; said that she hated the Demoiselles Lespard and the Rue Saint-Dominique, and that the very memory of Paris was disagreeable to her. Like most young ladies with black eyes and blue-black hair, Miss Floyd was a good hater; so Lucy forbore to ask for more information upon what was so evidently an unpleasant subject to her cousin. Poor Lucy had been mercilessly well educated; she spoke half a dozen languages, knew all about the natural sciences, had read Gibbon, Niebuhr, and Arnold, from the title-page to the printer's name, and looked upon the heiress as a big brilliant dunce; so she quietly set down Aurora's dislike to Paris to that young lady's distaste for tuition, and thought little more about it. Any other reasons for Miss Floyd's almost shuddering horror of her Parisian associations lay far beyond Lucy's simple power of penetration. The fifteenth of September was Aurora's birthday, and Archibald Floyd determined upon this, the nineteenth anniversary of his daughter's first appearance on this mortal scene, to give an entertainment, whereat his county neighbours and town acquaintance might alike behold and admire the beautiful heiress. Mrs. Alexander came to Felden Woods to superintend the preparations for this birthday ball. She drove Aurora and Lucy into town to order the supper and the band, and to choose dresses and wreaths for the young ladies. The banker's heiress was sadly out of place in a milliner's showroom; but she had that rapid judgment as to colour, and that perfect taste in form, which bespeak the soul of an artist; and while poor mild Lucy was giving endless trouble, and tumbling innumerable boxes of flowers, before she could find any head-dress in harmony with her rosy cheeks and golden hair, Aurora, after one brief glance at the bright _parterres_ of painted cambric, pounced upon a crown-shaped garland of vivid scarlet berries, with drooping and tangled leaves of dark shining green, that looked as if they had been just plucked from a running streamlet. She watched Lucy's perplexities with a half-compassionate, half-contemptuous smile. "Look at that poor bewildered child," she said; "I know that she would like to put pink and yellow against her golden hair. Why, you silly Lucy, don't you know that yours is the beauty which really does _not_ want adornment? A few pearls or forget-me-not blossoms, or a crown of water-lilies and a cloud of white areophane, would make you look a sylphide; but I dare say you would like to wear amber satin and cabbage-roses." From the milliner's they drove to Mr. Gunter's in Berkeley Square, at which world-renowned establishment Mrs. Alexander commanded those preparations of turkeys preserved in jelly, hams cunningly embalmed in rich wines and broths, and other specimens of that sublime art of confectionery which hovers midway between sleight-of-hand and cookery, and in which the Berkeley Square professor is without a rival. When poor Thomas Babington Macaulay's New-Zealander shall come to ponder over the ruins of St. Paul's, perhaps he will visit the remains of this humbler temple in Berkeley Square, and wonder at the ice-pails and jelly-moulds, the refrigerators and stewpans, the hot plates long cold and unheeded, and all the mysterious paraphernalia of the dead art. From the West End Mrs. Alexander drove to Charing Cross; she had a commission to execute at Dent's,--the purchase of a watch for one of her boys, who was just off to Eton. Aurora threw herself wearily back in the carriage while Mrs. Alexander and Lucy stopped at the watchmaker's. It was to be observed that, although Miss Floyd had recovered much of her old brilliancy and gaiety of temper, a certain gloomy shade would sometimes steal over her countenance when she was left to herself for a few minutes; a darkly reflective expression quite foreign to her face. This shadow fell upon her beauty now as she looked out of the open window, moodily watching the passers-by. Mrs. Alexander was a long time making her purchase; and Aurora had sat nearly a quarter of an hour blankly staring at the shifting figures in the crowd, when a man hurrying by was attracted by her face at the carriage window, and started, as if at some great surprise. He passed on, however, and walked rapidly towards the Horse Guards; but before he turned the corner, came to a dead stop, stood still for two or three minutes scratching the back of his head reflectively with his big, bare hand, and then walked slowly back towards Mr. Dent's emporium. He was a broad-shouldered, bull-necked, sandy-whiskered fellow, wearing a cut-away coat and a gaudy neckerchief, and smoking a huge cigar, the rank fumes of which struggled with a very powerful odour of rum-and-water recently imbibed. This gentleman's standing in society was betrayed by the smooth head of a bull-terrier, whose round eyes peeped out of the pocket of his cut-away coat, and by a Blenheim spaniel carried under his arm. He was the very last person, amongst all the souls between Cockspur Street and the statue of King Charles, who seemed likely to have anything to say to Miss Aurora Floyd; nevertheless he walked deliberately up to the carriage, and, planting his elbows upon the door, nodded to her with friendly familiarity. "Well," he said, without inconveniencing himself by the removal of the rank cigar, "how do?" After which brief salutation he relapsed into silence, and rolled his great brown eyes slowly here and there, in contemplative examination of Miss Floyd and the vehicle in which she sat; even carrying his powers of observation so far as to take particular notice of a plethoric morocco-bag lying on the back seat, and to inquire casually whether there was "anythink wallable in the old party's redicule?" But Aurora did not allow him long for this leisurely employment; for looking at him with her eyes flashing forked lightnings of womanly fury, and her face crimson with indignation, she asked him in a sharp spasmodic tone whether he had anything to say to her. He had a great deal to say to her; but as he put his head in at the carriage window and made his communication, whatever it might be, in a rum-and-watery whisper, it reached no ears but those of Aurora herself. When he had done whispering, he took a greasy leather-covered account-book, and a short stump of lead-pencil, considerably the worse for chewing, from his breast pocket, and wrote two or three lines upon a leaf, which he tore out and handed to Aurora. "This is the address," he said; "you won't forget to send?" She shook her head, and looked away from him--looked away with an irrepressible gesture of disgust and loathing. "You wouldn't like to buy a spannel dawg," said the man, holding the sleek, curly, black-and-tan animal up to the carriage window; "or a French poodle what'll balance a bit of bread on his nose while you count ten? Hay? You should have 'em a bargain--say fifteen pound the two." "No!" At this moment Mrs. Alexander emerged from the watchmaker's, just in time to catch a glimpse of the man's broad shoulders as he moved sulkily away from the carriage. "Has that person been begging of you, Aurora?" she asked, as they drove off. "No. I once bought a dog of him, and he recognized me." "And wanted you to buy one to-day?" "Yes." Miss Floyd sat gloomily silent during the whole of the homeward drive, looking out of the carriage window, and not deigning to take any notice whatever of her aunt and cousin. I do not know whether it was in submission to that palpable superiority of force and vitality in Aurora's nature which seemed to set her above her fellows, or simply in that inherent spirit of toadyism common to the best of us; but Mrs. Alexander and her fair-haired daughter always paid mute reverence to the banker's heiress, and were silent when it pleased her, or conversed at her royal will. I verily believe that it was Aurora's eyes rather than Archibald Martin Floyd's thousands which over-awed all her kinsfolk; and that if she had been a street-sweeper dressed in rags, and begging for halfpence, people would have feared her and made way for her, and bated their breath when she was angry. The trees in the long avenue of Felden Woods were hung with sparkling coloured lamps, to light the guests who came to Aurora's birthday festival. The long range of windows on the ground-floor was ablaze with light; the crash of the band burst every now and then above the perpetual roll of carriage wheels and the shouted repetition of visitors' names, and pealed across the silent woods: through the long vista of half a dozen rooms opening one into another, the waters of a fountain, sparkling with a hundred hues in the light, glittered amid the dark floral wealth of a conservatory filled with exotics. Great clusters of tropical plants were grouped in the spacious hall; festoons of flowers hung about the vapoury curtains in the arched doorways. Light and splendour were everywhere around; and amid all, and more splendid than all, in the dark grandeur of her beauty, Aurora Floyd, crowned with scarlet, and robed in white, stood by her father's side. Amongst the guests who arrive latest at Mr. Floyd's ball are two officers from Windsor, who have driven across country in a mail-phaeton. The elder of these two, and the driver of the vehicle, has been very discontented and disagreeable throughout the journey. "If I'd had the remotest idea of the distance, Maldon," he said, "I'd have seen you and your Kentish banker very considerably inconvenienced before I would have consented to victimize my horses for the sake of this snobbish party." "But it won't be a snobbish party," answered the young man impetuously. "Archibald Floyd is the best fellow in Christendom, and as for his daughter----" "Oh, of course, a divinity, with fifty thousand pounds for her fortune; all of which will no doubt be very tightly settled upon herself if she is ever allowed to marry a penniless scapegrace like Francis Lewis Maldon, of Her Majesty's 11th Hussars. However, I don't want to stand in your way, my boy. Go in and win, and my blessing be upon your virtuous endeavours. I can imagine the young Scotchwoman--red hair (of course you'll call it auburn), large feet, and freckles!" "Aurora Floyd--red hair and freckles!" The young officer laughed aloud at the stupendous joke. "You'll see her in a quarter of an hour, Bulstrode," he said. Talbot Bulstrode, Captain of her Majesty's 11th Hussars, had consented to drive his brother-officer from Windsor to Beckenham, and to array himself in his uniform, in order to adorn therewith the festival at Felden Woods, chiefly because, having at two-and-thirty years of age run through all the wealth of life's excitements and amusements, and finding himself a penniless spendthrift in this species of coin, though well enough off for mere sordid riches, he was too tired of himself and the world to care much whither his friends and comrades led him. He was the eldest son of a wealthy Cornish baronet, whose ancestor had received his title straight from the hands of Scottish King James, when baronetcies first came into fashion; the same fortunate ancestor being near akin to a certain noble, erratic, unfortunate, and injured gentleman called Walter Raleigh, and by no means too well used by the same Scottish James. Now of all the pride which ever swelled the breasts of mankind, the pride of Cornishmen is perhaps the strongest; and the Bulstrode family was one of the proudest in Cornwall. Talbot was no alien son of this haughty house; from his very babyhood he had been the proudest of mankind. This pride had been the saving power that had presided over his prosperous career. Other men might have made a downhill road of that smooth pathway which wealth and grandeur made so pleasant; but not Talbot Bulstrode. The vices and follies of the common herd were perhaps retrievable, but vice or folly in a Bulstrode would have left a blot upon a hitherto unblemished escutcheon never to be erased by time or tears. That pride of birth, which was utterly unallied to pride of wealth or station, had a certain noble and chivalrous side, and Talbot Bulstrode was beloved by many a parvenu whom meaner men would have insulted. In the ordinary affairs of life he was as humble as a woman or a child; it was only when Honour was in question that the sleeping dragon of pride which had guarded the golden apples of his youth, purity, probity, and truth, awoke and bade defiance to the enemy. At two-and-thirty he was still a bachelor, not because he had never loved, but because he had never met with a woman whose stainless purity of soul fitted her in his eyes to become the mother of a noble race, and to rear sons who should do honour to the name of Bulstrode. He looked for more than ordinary every-day virtue in the woman of his choice; he demanded those grand and queenly qualities which are rarest in womankind. Fearless truth, a sense of honour keen as his own, loyalty of purpose, unselfishness, a soul untainted by the petty basenesses of daily life,--all these he sought in the being he loved; and at the first warning thrill of emotion caused by a pair of beautiful eyes, he grew critical and captious about their owner, and began to look for infinitesimal stains upon the shining robe of her virginity. He would have married a beggar's daughter if she had reached his almost impossible standard; he would have rejected the descendant of a race of kings if she had fallen one decimal part of an inch below it. Women feared Talbot Bulstrode; manoeuvring mothers shrank abashed from the cold light of those watchful gray eyes; daughters to marry blushed and trembled, and felt their pretty affectations, their ball-room properties, drop away from them under the quiet gaze of the young officer; till from fearing him, the lovely flutterers grew to shun and dislike him, and to leave Bulstrode Castle and the Bulstrode fortune unangled for in the great matrimonial fisheries. So at two-and-thirty Talbot walked serenely safe amid the meshes and pit-falls of Belgravia, secure in the popular belief, that Captain Bulstrode of the 11th Hussars was not a marrying man. This belief was perhaps strengthened by the fact that the Cornishman was by no means the elegant ignoramus whose sole accomplishments consist in parting his hair, waxing his moustaches, and smoking a meerschaum that has been coloured by his valet, and who has become the accepted type of the military man in time of peace. Talbot Bulstrode was fond of scientific pursuits; he neither smoked, drank, nor gambled. He had only been to the Derby once in his life, and on that one occasion had walked quietly away from the Stand while the great race was being run, and the white faces were turned towards the fatal Corner, and men were sick with terror and anxiety, and frenzied with the madness of suspense. He never hunted, though he rode as well as Mr. Assheton Smith. He was a perfect swordsman, and one of Mr. Angelo's pet pupils; but he had never handled a billiard-cue in his life, nor had he touched a card since the days of his boyhood, when he took a hand at long whist with his father and mother and the parson of the parish, in the south drawing-room at Bulstrode Castle. He had a peculiar aversion to all games of chance and skill, contending that it was beneath a gentleman to employ, even for amusement, the implements of the sharper's pitiful trade. His rooms were as neatly kept as those of a woman. Cases of mathematical instruments took the place of cigar-boxes; proof impressions of Raphael adorned the walls ordinarily covered with French prints and water-coloured sporting-sketches from Ackermann's emporium. He was familiar with every turn of expression in Descartes and Condillac, but would have been sorely puzzled to translate the argotic locutions of Monsieur de Kock, _père_. Those who spoke of him summed him up by saying that he wasn't a bit like an officer; but there was a certain cavalry regiment, which he had commanded when a memorable and most desperate charge was made against a bristling wall of Russian cannon, whose ranks told another story of Captain Bulstrode. He had made an exchange into the 11th Hussars on his return from the Crimea, whence, among other distinctions, he had brought a stiff leg, which for a time disqualified him from dancing. It was from pure benevolence, therefore, or from that indifference to all things which is easily mistaken for unselfishness, that Talbot Bulstrode had consented to accept an invitation to the ball at Felden Woods. The banker's guests were not of that charmed circle familiar to the captain of Hussars; so Talbot, after a brief introduction to his host, fell back among the crowd assembled in one of the doorways, and quietly watched the dancers; not unobserved himself, however, for he was just one of those people who will not pass in a crowd. Tall and broad-chested, with a pale whiskerless face, aquiline nose, clear, cold, gray eyes, thick moustache, and black hair, worn as closely cropped as if he had lately emerged from Coldbath Fields or Millbank prison, he formed a striking contrast to the yellow-whiskered young cornet who had accompanied him. Even that stiff leg, which in others might have seemed a blemish, added to the distinction of his appearance, and, coupled with the glittering orders on the breast of his uniform, told of deeds of prowess lately done. He took very little delight in the gay assembly revolving before him to one of Charles d'Albert's waltzes. He had heard the same music before, executed by the same band; the faces, though unfamiliar to him, were not new: dark beauties in pink, fair beauties in blue; tall dashing beauties in silks, and laces, and jewels, and splendour; modestly downcast beauties in white crape and rose-buds. They had all been spread for him, those familiar nets of gauze and areophane, and he had escaped them all; and the name of Bulstrode might drop out of the history of Cornish gentry to find no record save upon gravestones, but it would never be tarnished by an unworthy race, or dragged through the mire of a divorce court by a guilty woman. While he lounged against the pillar of a doorway, leaning on his cane, and resting his lame leg, and wondering lazily whether there was anything upon earth that repaid a man for the trouble of living, Cornet Maldon approached him with a woman's gloved hand lying lightly on his arm, and a divinity walking by his side. A divinity! imperiously beautiful in white and scarlet, painfully dazzling to look upon, intoxicatingly brilliant to behold. Captain Bulstrode had served in India, and had once tasted a horrible spirit called _bang_, which made the men who drank it half mad; and he could not help fancying that the beauty of this woman was like the strength of that alcoholic preparation; barbarous, intoxicating, dangerous, and maddening. His brother-officer presented him to this wonderful creature, and he found that her earthly name was Aurora Floyd, and that she was the heiress of Felden Woods. Talbot Bulstrode recovered himself in a moment. This imperious creature, this Cleopatra in crinoline, had a low forehead, a nose that deviated from the line of beauty, and a wide mouth. What was she but another trap set in white muslin, and baited with artificial flowers, like the rest? She was to have fifty thousand pounds for her portion, so she didn't want a rich husband; but she was a nobody, so of course she wanted position, and had no doubt read up the Raleigh Bulstrodes in the sublime pages of Burke. The clear gray eyes grew cold as ever, therefore, as Talbot bowed to the heiress. Mr. Maldon found his partner a chair close to the pillar against which Captain Bulstrode had taken his stand, and Mrs. Alexander Floyd swooping down upon the cornet at this very moment, with the dire intent of carrying him off to dance with a lady who executed more of her steps upon the toes of her partner than on the floor of the ball-room, Aurora and Talbot were left to themselves. Captain Bulstrode glanced downward at the banker's daughter. His gaze lingered upon the graceful head, with its coronal of shining scarlet berries, encircling smooth masses of blue-black hair. He expected to see the modest drooping of the eyelids peculiar to young ladies with long lashes, but he was disappointed; for Aurora Floyd was looking straight before her, neither at him, nor at the lights, nor the flowers, nor the dancers, but far away into vacancy. She was so young, prosperous, admired, and beloved, that it was difficult to account for the dim shadow of trouble that clouded her glorious eyes. While he was wondering what he should say to her, she lifted her eyes to his face, and asked him the strangest question he had ever heard from girlish lips. "Do you know if Thunderbolt won the Leger?" she asked. He was too much confounded to answer for a moment, and she continued rather impatiently, "They must have heard by six o'clock this evening in London; but I have asked half a dozen people here to-night, and no one seems to know anything about it." Talbot's close-cropped hair seemed lifted from his head as he listened to this terrible address. Good heavens! what a horrible woman! The hussar's vivid imagination pictured the heir of all the Raleigh Bulstrodes receiving his infantine impressions from such a mother. She would teach him to read out of the 'Racing Calendar;' she would invent a royal alphabet of the turf, and tell him that "D stands for Derby, old England's great race," and "E stands for Epsom, a crack meeting-place," &c. He told Miss Floyd that he had never been to Doncaster in his life, that he had never read a sporting-paper, and that he knew no more of Thunderbolt than of King Cheops. She looked at him rather contemptuously. "Cheops wasn't much," she said: "he won the Liverpool Autumn Cup in Blink Bonny's year; but most people said it was a fluke." Talbot Bulstrode shuddered afresh; but a feeling of pity mingled with his horror. "If I had a sister," he thought, "I would get her to talk to this miserable girl, and bring her to a sense of her iniquity." Aurora said no more to the captain of Hussars, but relapsed into the old far-away gaze into vacancy, and sat twisting a bracelet round and round upon her finely modelled wrist. It was a diamond bracelet, worth a couple of hundred pounds, which had been given her that day by her father. He would have invested all his fortune in Messrs. Hunt and Roskell's cunning handiwork, if Aurora had sighed for gems and gewgaws. Miss Floyd's glance fell upon the glittering ornament, and she looked at it long and earnestly, rather as if she were calculating the value of the stones than admiring the taste of the workmanship. While Talbot was watching her, full of wondering pity and horror, a young man hurried up to the spot where she was seated, and reminded her of an engagement for the quadrille that was forming. She looked at her tablets of ivory, gold, and turquoise, and with a certain disdainful weariness rose and took his arm. Talbot followed her receding form. Taller than most among the throng, her queenly head was not soon lost sight of. "A Cleopatra with a snub nose two sizes too small for her face, and a taste for horseflesh!" said Talbot Bulstrode, ruminating upon the departed divinity. "She ought to carry a betting-book instead of those ivory tablets. How _distrait_ she was all the time she sat here! I dare say she has made a book for the Leger, and was calculating how much she stands to lose. What will this poor old banker do with her? put her into a madhouse, or get her elected a member of the Jockey Club? With her black eyes and fifty thousand pounds, she might lead the sporting world. There has been a female Pope, why should there not be a female 'Napoleon of the Turf'?" Later, when the rustling leaves of the trees in Beckenham Woods were shivering in that cold gray hour which precedes the advent of the dawn, Talbot Bulstrode drove his friend away from the banker's lighted mansion. He talked of Aurora Floyd during the whole of that long cross-country drive. He was merciless to her follies; he ridiculed, he abused, he sneered at and condemned her questionable tastes. He bade Francis Lewis Maldon marry her at his peril, and wished him joy of _such_ a wife. He declared that if he had such a woman for his sister he would shoot her, unless she reformed and burnt her betting-book. He worked himself up into a savage humour about the young lady's delinquencies, and talked of her as if she had done him an unpardonable injury by entertaining a taste for the Turf; till at last the poor meek young cornet plucked up a spirit, and told his superior officer that Aurora Floyd was a very jolly girl, and a good girl, and a perfect lady, and that, if she did want to know who won the Leger, it was no business of Captain Bulstrode's, and that he, Bulstrode, needn't make such a howling about it. While the two men are getting to high words about her, Aurora is seated in her dressing-room, listening to Lucy Floyd's babble about the ball. "There was never such a delightful party," that young lady said; "and did Aurora see So-and-so, and So-and-so, and So-and-so? and above all, did she observe Captain Bulstrode, who had served all through the Crimean war, and who walked lame, and was the son of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bulstrode, of Bulstrode Castle, near Camelford?" Aurora shook her head with a weary gesture. No, she hadn't noticed any of these people. Poor Lucy's childish talk was stopped in a moment. "You are tired, Aurora dear," she said: "how cruel I am to worry you!" Aurora threw her arms about her cousin's neck, and hid her face upon Lucy's white shoulder. "I am tired," she said, "very, very tired." She spoke with such an utterly despairing weariness in her tone, that her gentle cousin was alarmed by her words. "You are not unhappy, dear Aurora?" she asked anxiously. "No, no--only tired. There, go, Lucy. Good night, good night." She gently pushed her cousin from the room, rejected the services of her maid, and dismissed her also. Then, tired as she was, she removed the candle from the dressing-table to a desk on the other side of the room, and seating herself at this desk, unlocked it, and took from one of its inmost recesses the soiled pencil-scrawl which had been given her a week before by the man who tried to sell her a dog in Cockspur Street. The diamond bracelet, Archibald Floyd's birthday gift to his daughter, lay in its nest of satin and velvet upon Aurora's dressing-table. She took the morocco-case in her hand, looked for a few moments at the jewel, and then shut the lid of the little casket with a sharp metallic snap. "The tears were in my father's eyes when he clasped the bracelet on my arm," she said, as she reseated herself at the desk. "If he could see me now!" She wrapped the morocco case in a sheet of foolscap, secured the parcel in several places with red wax and a plain seal, and directed it thus:-- "J. C., Care of Mr. Joseph Green, Bell Inn, Doncaster." Early the next morning Miss Floyd drove her aunt and cousin into Croydon, and, leaving them at a Berlin-wool shop, went alone to the post-office, where she registered and posted this valuable parcel. CHAPTER IV. AFTER THE BALL. Two days after Aurora's birthnight festival, Talbot Bulstrode's phaeton dashed once more into the avenue at Felden Woods. Again the captain made a sacrifice on the shrine of friendship, and drove Francis Maldon from Windsor to Beckenham, in order that the young cornet might make those anxious inquiries about the health of the ladies of Mr. Floyd's household, which, by a pleasant social fiction, are supposed to be necessary after an evening of intermittent waltzes and quadrilles. The junior officer was very grateful for this kindness; for Talbot, though the best of fellows, was not much given to putting himself out of the way for the pleasure of other people. It would have been far pleasanter to the captain to dawdle away the day in his own rooms, lolling over those erudite works which his brother-officers described by the generic title of "heavy reading," or, according to the popular belief of those hare-brained young men, employed in squaring the circle in the solitude of his chamber. Talbot Bulstrode was altogether an inscrutable personage to his comrades of the 11th Hussars. His black-letter folios, his polished mahogany cases of mathematical instruments, his proof-before-letters engravings, were the fopperies of a young Oxonian rather than an officer who had fought and bled at Inkermann. The young men who breakfasted with him in his rooms trembled as they read the titles of the big books on the shelves, and stared helplessly at the grim saints and angular angels in the pre-Raphaelite prints upon the walls. They dared not even propose to smoke in those sacred chambers, and were ashamed of the wet impressions of the rims of the Moselle bottles which they left upon the mahogany cases. It seemed natural to people to be afraid of Talbot Bulstrode, just as little boys are frightened of a beadle, a policeman, and a schoolmaster, even before they have been told the attributes of these terrible beings. The colonel of the 11th Hussars, a portly gentleman, who rode fifteen stone, and wrote his name high in the Peerage, was frightened of Talbot. That cold gray eye struck a silent awe into the hearts of men and women with its straight penetrating gaze that always seemed to be telling them they were found out. The colonel was afraid to tell his best stories when Talbot was at the mess-table, for he had a dim consciousness that the captain was aware of the discrepancies in those brilliant anecdotes, though that officer had never implied a doubt by either look or gesture. The Irish adjutant forgot to brag about his conquests amongst the fair sex: the younger men dropped their voices when they talked to each other of the side-scenes at Her Majesty's Theatre; and the corks flew faster, and the laughter grew louder, when Talbot left the room. The captain knew that he was more respected than beloved, and like all proud men who repel the warm feelings of others in utter despite of themselves, he was grieved and wounded because his comrades did not become attached to him. "Will anybody, out of all the millions upon this wide earth, ever love me?" he thought. "No one ever has as yet. Not even my father and mother. They have been proud of me; but they never loved me. How many a young profligate has brought his parents' gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, and has been beloved with the last heart-beat of those he destroyed, as I have never been in my life! Perhaps my mother would have loved me better, if I had given her more trouble; if I had scattered the name of Bulstrode all over London upon post-obits and dishonoured acceptances; if I had been drummed out of my regiment, and had walked down to Cornwall without shoes or stockings, to fall at her feet, and sob out my sins and sorrows in her lap, and ask her to mortgage her jointure for the payment of my debts. But I have never asked anything of her, dear soul, except her love, and that she has been unable to give me. I suppose it is because I do not know how to ask. How often I have sat by her side at Bulstrode, talking of all sorts of indifferent subjects, yet with a vague yearning at my heart to throw myself upon her breast and implore of her to love and bless her son; but held aloof by some icy barrier that I have been powerless all my life to break down! What woman has ever loved me? Not one. They have tried to marry me, because I shall be Sir Talbot Bulstrode of Bulstrode Castle; but how soon they have left off angling for the prize, and shrunk away from me chilled and disheartened! I shudder when I remember that I shall be three-and-thirty next March, and that I have never been beloved. I shall sell out, now the fighting is over, for I am no use amongst the fellows here; and, if any good little thing would fall in love with me, I would marry her and take her down to Bulstrode, to my mother and father, and turn country gentleman." Talbot Bulstrode made this declaration in all sincerity. He wished that some good and pure creature would fall in love with him, in order that he might marry her. He wanted some spontaneous exhibition of innocent feeling which might justify him in saying, "I am beloved!" He felt little capacity for loving, on his own side; but he thought that he would be grateful to any good woman who would regard him with disinterested affection, and that he would devote his life to making her happy. "It would be something to feel that if I were smashed in a railway accident, or dropped out of a balloon, some one creature in this world would think it a lonelier place for lack of me. I wonder whether my children would love me? I dare say not. I should freeze their young affections with the Latin grammar; and they would tremble as they passed the door of my study, and hush their voices into a frightened whisper when papa was within hearing." Talbot Bulstrode's ideal of woman was some gentle and feminine creature crowned with an aureole of pale auburn hair; some timid soul with downcast eyes, fringed with golden-tinted lashes; some shrinking being, as pale and prim as the mediæval saints in his pre-Raphaelite engravings, spotless as her own white robes, excelling in all womanly graces and accomplishments, but only exhibiting them in the narrow circle of a home. Perhaps Talbot thought that he had met with his ideal when he entered the long drawing-room at Felden Woods with Cornet Maldon on the seventeenth of September, 1857. Lucy Floyd was standing by an open piano, with her white dress and pale golden hair bathed in a flood of autumn sunlight. That sunlit figure came back to Talbot's memory long afterwards, after a stormy interval, in which it had been blotted away and forgotten, and the long drawing-room stretched itself out like a picture before his eyes. Yes, this was his ideal. This graceful girl, with the shimmering light for ever playing upon her hair, and the modest droop in her white eyelids. But undemonstrative as usual, Captain Bulstrode seated himself near the piano, after the brief ceremony of greeting, and contemplated Lucy with grave eyes that betrayed no especial admiration. He had not taken much notice of Lucy Floyd on the night of the ball; indeed, Lucy was scarcely a candle-light beauty; her hair wanted the sunshine gleaming through it to light up the golden halo about her face, and the delicate pink of her cheeks waxed pale in the glare of the great chandeliers. While Captain Bulstrode was watching Lucy with that grave contemplative gaze, trying to find out whether she was in any way different from other girls he had known, and whether the purity of her delicate beauty was more than skin deep, the window opposite to him was darkened, and Aurora Floyd stood between him and the sunshine. The banker's daughter paused on the threshold of the open window, holding the collar of an immense mastiff in both her hands, and looking irresolutely into the room. Miss Floyd hated morning callers, and she was debating within herself whether she had been seen, or whether it might be possible to steal away unperceived. But the dog set up a big bark, and settled the question. "Quiet, Bow-wow," she said; "quiet, quiet, boy." Yes, the dog was called Bow-wow. He was twelve years old, and Aurora had so christened him in her seventh year, when he was a blundering, big-headed puppy, that sprawled upon the table during the little girl's lessons, upset ink-bottles over her copy-books, and ate whole chapters of Pinnock's abridged histories. The gentlemen rose at the sound of her voice, and Miss Floyd came into the room and sat down at a little distance from the captain and her cousin, twirling a straw hat in her hand and staring at her dog, who seated himself resolutely by her chair, knocking double-knocks of good temper upon the carpet with his big tail. Though she said very little, and seated herself in a careless attitude that bespoke complete indifference to her visitors, Aurora's beauty extinguished poor Lucy, as the rising sun extinguishes the stars. The thick plaits of her black hair made a great diadem upon her low forehead, and crowned her an Eastern empress; an empress with a doubtful nose, it is true, but an empress who reigned by right divine of her eyes and hair. For do not these wonderful black eyes, which perhaps shine upon us only once in a lifetime, in themselves constitute a royalty? Talbot Bulstrode turned away from his ideal to look at this dark-haired goddess, with a coarse straw hat in her hand and a big mastiff's head lying on her lap. Again he perceived that abstraction in her manner which had puzzled him upon the night of the ball. She listened to her visitors politely, and she answered them when they spoke to her; but it seemed to Talbot as if she constrained herself to attend to them by an effort. "She wishes me away, I dare say," he thought; "and no doubt considers me a 'slow party,' because I don't talk to her of horses and dogs." The captain resumed his conversation with Lucy. He found that she talked exactly as he had heard other young ladies talk; that she knew all they knew, and had been to the places they had visited. The ground they went over was very old indeed, but Lucy traversed it with charming propriety. "She is a good little thing," Talbot thought; "and would make an admirable wife for a country gentleman. I wish she would fall in love with me." Lucy told him of some excursion in Switzerland, where she had been during the preceding autumn with her father and mother. "And your cousin," he asked, "was she with you?" "No; Aurora was at school in Paris, with the Demoiselles Lespard." "Lespard, Lespard!" he repeated; "a Protestant pension in the Faubourg Saint-Dominique. Why, a cousin of mine is being educated there, a Miss Trevyllian. She has been there for three or four years. Do you remember Constance Trevyllian at the Demoiselles Lespard, Miss Floyd?" said Talbot, addressing himself to Aurora. "Constance Trevyllian! Yes, I remember her," answered the banker's daughter. She said nothing more, and for a few moments there was rather an awkward pause. "Miss Trevyllian is my cousin," said the captain. "Indeed!" "I hope that you were very good friends." "Oh, yes." She bent over her dog, caressing his big head, and not even looking up as she spoke of Miss Trevyllian. It seemed as if the subject was utterly indifferent to her, and she disdained even to affect an interest in it. Talbot Bulstrode bit his lip with offended pride. "I suppose this purse-proud heiress looks down upon the Trevyllians of Tredethlin," he thought, "because they can boast of nothing better than a few hundred acres of barren moorland, some exhausted tin-mines, and a pedigree that dates from the days of King Arthur." Archibald Floyd came into the drawing-room while the officers were seated there, and bade them welcome to Felden Woods. "A long drive, gentlemen," he said; "your horses will want a rest. Of course you will dine with us. We shall have a full moon to-night, and you'll have it as light as day for your drive back." Talbot looked at Francis Lewis Maldon, who was sitting staring at Aurora with vacant, open-mouthed admiration. The young officer knew that the heiress and her fifty thousand pounds were not for him; but it was scarcely the less pleasant to look at her, and wish that like Captain Bulstrode he had been the eldest son of a rich baronet. The invitation was accepted by Mr. Maldon as cordially as it had been given, and with less than his usual stiffness of manner on the part of Talbot Bulstrode. The luncheon-bell rang while they were talking, and the little party adjourned to the dining-room, where they found Mrs. Alexander Floyd sitting at the bottom of the table. Talbot sat next to Lucy, with Mr. Maldon opposite to them, while Aurora took her place beside her father. The old man was attentive to his guests, but the shallowest observer could have scarcely failed to notice his watchfulness of Aurora. It was ever present in his careworn face, that tender, anxious glance which turned to her at every pause in the conversation, and could scarcely withdraw itself from her for the common courtesies of life. If she spoke, he listened,--listened as if every careless, half-disdainful word concealed a deeper meaning which it was his task to discern and unravel. If she was silent, he watched her still more closely, seeking perhaps to penetrate that gloomy veil which sometimes spread itself over her handsome face. Talbot Bulstrode was not so absorbed by his conversation with Lucy and Mrs. Alexander as to overlook this peculiarity in the father's manner towards his only child. He saw too that when Aurora addressed the banker, it was no longer with that listless indifference, half weariness, half disdain, which seemed natural to her on other occasions. The eager watchfulness of Archibald Floyd was in some measure reflected in his daughter; by fits and starts, it is true, for she generally sank back into that moody abstraction which Captain Bulstrode had observed on the night of the ball; but still it was there, the same feeling as her father's, though less constant and intense. A watchful, anxious, half-sorrowful affection, which could scarcely exist except under abnormal circumstances. Talbot Bulstrode was vexed to find himself wondering about this, and growing every moment less and less attentive to Lucy's simple talk. "What does it mean?" he thought; "has she fallen in love with some man whom her father has forbidden her to marry, and is the old man trying to atone for his severity? That's scarcely likely. A woman with a head and throat like hers could scarcely fail to be ambitious--ambitious and revengeful, rather than over-susceptible of any tender passion. Did she lose half her fortune upon that race she talked to me about? I'll ask her presently. Perhaps they have taken away her betting-book, or lamed her favourite horse, or shot some pet dog, to cure him of distemper. She is a spoiled child, of course, this heiress, and I dare say her father would try to get a copy of the moon made for her, if she cried for that planet." After luncheon, the banker took his guests into the gardens that stretched far away upon two sides of the house; the gardens which poor Eliza Floyd had helped to plan nineteen years before. Talbot Bulstrode walked rather stiffly from his Crimean wound, but Mrs. Alexander and her daughter suited their pace to his, while Aurora walked before them with her father and Mr. Maldon, and with the mastiff close at her side. "Your cousin is rather proud, is she not?" Talbot asked Lucy, after they had been talking of Aurora. "Aurora proud! oh, no, indeed: perhaps, if she has any fault at all (for she is the dearest girl that ever lived), it is that she has not sufficient pride; I mean with regard to servants, and that sort of people. She would as soon talk to one of those gardeners as to you or me; and you would see no difference in her manner, except that perhaps it would be a little more cordial to them than to us. The poor people round Felden idolize her." "Aurora takes after her mother," said Mrs. Alexander; "she is the living image of poor Eliza Floyd." "Was Mrs. Floyd a countrywoman of her husband's?" Talbot asked. He was wondering how Aurora came to have those great, brilliant, black eyes, and so much of the south in her beauty. "No; my uncle's wife belonged to a Lancashire family." A Lancashire family! If Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode could have known that the family name was Prodder; that one member of the haughty house had passed his youth in the pleasing occupations of a cabin-boy, making thick coffee and toasting greasy herrings for the matutinal meal of a surly captain, and receiving more corporal correction from the sturdy toe of his master's boot than sterling copper coin of the realm! If he could have known that the great aunt of this disdainful creature, walking before him in all the majesty of her beauty, had once kept a chandler's shop in an obscure street in Liverpool, and for aught any one but the banker knew, kept it still! But this was a knowledge which had wisely been kept even from Aurora herself, who knew little except that, despite of having been born with that allegorical silver spoon in her mouth, she was poorer than other girls, inasmuch as she was motherless. Mrs. Alexander, Lucy, and the captain overtook the others upon a rustic bridge, where Talbot stopped to rest. Aurora was leaning over the rough wooden balustrade, looking lazily at the water. "Did your favourite win the race, Miss Floyd?" he asked, as he watched the effect of her profile against the sunlight; not a very beautiful profile certainly, but for the long black eyelashes, and the radiance under them, which their darkest shadows could never hide. "Which favourite?" she said. "The horse you spoke to me about the other night,--Thunderbolt; did he win?" "No." "I am very sorry to hear it." Aurora looked up at him, reddening angrily. "Why so?" she asked. "Because I thought you were interested in his success." As Talbot said this, he observed, for the first time, that Archibald Floyd was near enough to overhear their conversation, and, furthermore that he was regarding his daughter with even more than his usual watchfulness. "Do not talk to me of racing; it annoys papa," Aurora said to the captain, dropping her voice. Talbot bowed. "I was right, then," he thought; "the turf is the skeleton. I dare say Miss Floyd has been doing her best to drag her father's name into the 'Gazette,' and yet he evidently loves her to distraction; while I----" There was something so very pharisaical in the speech, that Captain Bulstrode would not even finish it mentally. He was thinking, "This girl, who, perhaps, has been the cause of nights of sleepless anxiety and days of devouring care, is tenderly beloved by her father; while I, who am a model to all the elder sons of England, have never been loved in my life." At half-past six the great bell at Felden Woods rang a clamorous peal that went shivering above the trees, to tell the country-side that the family were going to dress for dinner; and another peal at seven, to tell the villagers round Beckenham and West Wickham that Maister Floyd and his household were going to dine; but not altogether an empty or discordant peal, for it told the hungry poor of broken victuals and rich and delicate meats to be had almost for asking in the servants' offices;--shreds of fricandeaux and patches of dainty preparations, quarters of chickens and carcasses of pheasants, which would have gone to fatten the pigs for Christmas, but for Archibald Floyd's strict commands that all should be given to those who chose to come for it. Mr. Floyd and his visitors did not leave the gardens till after the ladies had retired to dress. The dinner-party was very animated, for Alexander Floyd drove down from the City to join his wife and daughter, bringing with him the noisy boy who was just going to Eton, and who was passionately attached to his cousin Aurora; and whether it was owing to the influence of this young gentleman, or to that fitfulness which seemed a part of her nature, Talbot Bulstrode could not discover, but certain it was that the dark cloud melted away from Miss Floyd's face, and she abandoned herself to the joyousness of the hour with a radiant grace, that reminded her father of the night when Eliza Percival played Lady Teazle for the last time, and took her farewell of the stage in the little Lancashire theatre. It needed but this change in his daughter to make Archibald Floyd thoroughly happy. Aurora's smiles seemed to shed a revivifying influence upon the whole circle. The ice melted away, for the sun had broken out, and the winter was gone at last. Talbot Bulstrode bewildered his brain by trying to discover why it was that this woman was such a peerless and fascinating creature. Why it was that, argue as he would against the fact, he was nevertheless allowing himself to be bewitched by this black-eyed siren; freely drinking of that cup of _bang_ which she presented to him, and rapidly becoming intoxicated. "I could almost fall in love with my fair-haired ideal," he thought, "but I cannot help admiring this extraordinary girl. She is like Mrs. Nisbett in her zenith of fame and beauty; she is like Cleopatra sailing down the Cydnus; she is like Nell Gwynne selling oranges; she is like Lola Montes giving battle to the Bavarian students; she is like Charlotte Corday with the knife in her hand, standing behind the friend of the people in his bath; she is like everything that is beautiful, and strange, and wicked and unwomanly, and bewitching; and she is just the sort of creature that many a fool would fall in love with." He put the length of the room between himself and the enchantress, and took his seat by the grand piano, at which Lucy Floyd was playing slow harmonious symphonies of Beethoven. The drawing-room at Felden Woods was so long, that, seated by this piano, Captain Bulstrode seemed to look back at the merry group about the heiress as he might have looked at a scene on the stage from the back of the boxes. He almost wished for an opera-glass as he watched Aurora's graceful gestures and the play of her sparkling eyes; and then turning to the piano, he listened to the drowsy music, and contemplated Lucy's face, marvellously fair in the light of that full moon of which Archibald Floyd had spoken, the glory of which, streaming in from an open window, put out the dim wax-candles on the piano. All that Aurora's beauty most lacked was richly possessed by Lucy. Delicacy of outline, perfection of feature, purity of tint, all were there; but while one face dazzled you by its shining splendour, the other impressed you only with a feeble sense of its charms, slow to come and quick to pass away. There are so many Lucys but so few Auroras; and while you never could be critical with the one, you were merciless in your scrutiny of the other. Talbot Bulstrode was attracted to Lucy by a vague notion that she was just the good and timid creature who was destined to make him happy; but he looked at her as calmly as if she had been a statue, and was as fully aware of her defects as a sculptor who criticises the work of a rival. But she was exactly the sort of woman to make a good wife. She had been educated to that end by a careful mother. Purity and goodness had watched over her and hemmed her in from her cradle. She had never seen unseemly sights, or heard unseemly sounds. She was as ignorant as a baby of all the vices and horrors of this big world. She was lady-like, accomplished, well informed; and if there were a great many others of precisely the same type of graceful womanhood, it was certainly the highest type, and the holiest, and the best. Later in the evening, when Captain Bulstrode's phaeton was brought round to the flight of steps in front of the great doors, the little party assembled on the terrace to see the two officers depart, and the banker told his guests how he hoped this visit to Felden would be the beginning of a lasting acquaintance. "I am going to take Aurora and my niece to Brighton for a month or so," he said, as he shook hands with the captain; "but on our return you must let us see you as often as possible." Talbot bowed, and stammered his thanks for the banker's cordiality. Aurora and her cousin Percy Floyd, the young Etonian, had gone down the steps, and were admiring Captain Bulstrode's thorough-bred bays, and the captain was not a little distracted by the picture the group made in the moonlight. He never forgot that picture. Aurora, with her coronet of plaits dead black against the purple air, and her silk dress shimmering in the uncertain light, the delicate head of the bay horse visible above her shoulder, and her ringed white hands caressing the animal's slender ears, while the purblind old mastiff, vaguely jealous, whined complainingly at her side. How marvellous is the sympathy which exists between some people and the brute creation! I think that horses and dogs understood every word that Aurora said to them,--that they worshipped her from the dim depths of their inarticulate souls, and would have willingly gone to death to do her service. Talbot observed all this with an uneasy sense of bewilderment. "I wonder whether these creatures are wiser than we?" he thought; "do they recognize some higher attributes in this girl than we can perceive, and worship their sublime presence? If this terrible woman, with her unfeminine tastes and mysterious propensities, were mean, or cowardly, or false, or impure, I do not think that mastiff would love her as he does; I do not think my thorough-breds would let her hands meddle with their bridles: the dog would snarl, and the horses would bite, as such animals used to do in those remote old days when they recognized witchcraft and evil spirits, and were convulsed by the presence of the uncanny. I dare say this Miss Floyd is a good, generous-hearted creature,--the sort of person fast men would call a glorious girl,--but as well read in the 'Racing Calendar' and 'Ruff's Guide' as other ladies in Miss Yonge's novels. I'm really sorry for her." CHAPTER V. JOHN MELLISH. The house which the banker hired at Brighton for the month of October was perched high up on the East Cliff, towering loftily above the wind-driven waves; the purple coast of Shoreham was dimly visible from the upper windows in the clear autumn mornings, and the Chain Pier looked like a strip of ribbon below the cliff. A pleasanter situation to my mind than those level terraces towards the west, from the windows of which the sea appears of small extent, and the horizon within half a mile or so of the Parade. Before Mr. Floyd took his daughter and her cousin to Brighton, he entered into an arrangement which he thought, no doubt, a very great evidence of his wisdom; this was the engagement of a lady, who was to be a compound governess, companion, and chaperon to Aurora, who, as Mrs. Alexander said, was sadly in need of some accomplished and watchful person, whose care it would be to train and prune those exuberant branches of her nature which had been suffered to grow as they would from her infancy. The beautiful shrub was no longer to trail its wild stems along the ground, or shoot upward to the blue skies at its own sweet will; it was to be trimmed and clipped and fastened primly to the stony wall of society with cruel nails and galling strips of cloth. In other words, an advertisement was inserted in the 'Times' newspaper, setting forth that a lady, by birth and education, was required as finishing governess and companion in the household of a gentleman, to whom salary was no object, provided the aforesaid lady was perfect mistress of all the accomplishments under the sun, and was altogether such an exceptional and extraordinary being as could only exist in the advertising columns of a popular journal. But if the world had been filled with exceptional beings, Mr. Floyd could scarcely have received more answers to his advertisement than came pelting in upon the unhappy little postmaster at Beckenham. The man had serious thoughts of hiring a cart, in which to convey the letters to Felden. If the banker had advertised for a wife, and had stated the amount of his income, he could scarcely have had more answers. It seemed as if the female population of London, with one accord, was seized with the desire to improve the mind and form the manners of the daughter of the gentleman to whom terms were no object. Officers' widows, clergymen's widows, lawyers' and merchants' widows, daughters of gentlemen of high family but reduced means, orphan daughters of all sorts of noble and distinguished people,--declared themselves each and every one to be the person who, out of all living creatures upon this earth, was best adapted for the post. Mrs. Alexander Floyd selected six letters, threw the rest into the waste-paper basket, ordered the banker's carriage, and drove into town to see the six writers thereof. She was a practical and energetic woman, and she put the six applicants through their facings so severely, that when she returned to Mr. Floyd it was to announce that only one of them was good for anything, and that she was coming down to Felden Woods the next day. The chosen lady was the widow of an ensign who had died within six months of his marriage, and about an hour and a half before he would have succeeded to some enormous property, the particulars of which were never rightly understood by the friends of his unfortunate relict. But vague as the story might be, it was quite clear enough to establish Mrs. Walter Powell in life as a disappointed woman. She was a woman with straight light hair, and a lady-like droop of the head. A woman who had left school to marry, and after six months' wedded life had gone back to the same school as instructress of the junior pupils. A woman whose whole existence had been spent in teaching and being taught; who had exercised in her earlier years a species of hand-to-mouth tuition, teaching in the morning that which she learnt over-night; who had never lost an opportunity of improving herself; who had grown mechanically proficient as a musician and an artist, who had a certain parrot-like skill in foreign languages, who had read all the books incumbent upon her to read, and who knew all the things imperative for her to know, and who, beyond all this, and outside the boundary of the schoolroom wall, was ignorant and soulless and low-minded and vulgar. Aurora swallowed the bitter pill as best she might, and accepted Mrs. Powell as the person chartered for her improvement:--a kind of ballast to be flung into the wandering bark, to steady its erratic course and keep it off rocks and quicksands. "I must put up with her, Lucy, I suppose," she said; "and I must consent to be improved and formed by the poor faded creature. I wonder whether she will be like Miss Drummond, who used to let me off from my lessons, and read novels while I ran wild in the gardens and stables. I can put up with her, Lucy, as long as I have you with me; but I think I should go mad, if I were to be chained up alone with that grim, pale-faced watch-dog." Mr. Floyd and his family drove from Felden to Brighton in the banker's roomy travelling-carriage, with Aurora's maid in the rumble, a pile of imperials upon the roof, and Mrs. Powell, with her young charges, in the interior of the vehicle. Mrs. Alexander had gone back to Fulham, having done her duty, as she considered, in securing a protectress for Aurora; but Lucy was to stay with her cousin at Brighton, and to ride with her on the downs. The saddle-horses had gone down the day before with Aurora's groom, a gray-haired and rather surly old fellow who had served Archibald Floyd for thirty years; and the mastiff called Bow-wow travelled in the carriage with his mistress. About a week after the arrival at Brighton, Aurora and her cousin were walking together on the West Cliff, when a gentleman with a stiff leg rose from a bench upon which he had been seated listening to the band, and slowly advanced to them. Lucy dropped her eyelids with a faint blush; but Aurora held out her hand in answer to Captain Bulstrode's salute. "I thought I should be sure to meet you down here, Miss Floyd," he said. "I only came this morning, and I was going to call at Folthorpe's for your papa's address. Is he quite well?" "Quite--yes, that is--pretty well." A shadow stole over her face as she spoke. It was a wonderful face for fitful lights and shades. "But we did not expect to see you at Brighton, Captain Bulstrode; we thought your regiment was still quartered at Windsor." "Yes, my regiment--that is, the Eleventh is still at Windsor; but I have sold out." "Sold out!" Both Aurora and her cousin opened their eyes at this intelligence. "Yes; I was tired of the army. It's dull work now the fighting is all over. I might have exchanged and gone to India, certainly," he added, as if in answer to some argument of his own; "but I'm getting middle-aged, and I am tired of roaming about the world." "I should like to go to India," said Aurora, looking seaward as she spoke. "You, Aurora! but why?" exclaimed Lucy. "Because I hate England." "I thought it was France you disliked." "I hate them both. What is the use of this big world, if we are to stop for ever in one place, chained to one set of ideas, fettered to one narrow circle of people, seeing and hearing of the persons we hate for ever and ever, and unable to get away from the odious sound of their names? I should like to turn female missionary, and go to the centre of Africa with Dr. Livingstone and his family; and I would go if it wasn't for papa." Poor Lucy stared at her cousin in helpless amazement. Talbot Bulstrode found himself falling back into that state of bewilderment in which this girl always threw him. What did she mean, this heiress of nineteen years of age, by her fits of despondency and outbursts of bitterness? Was it not perhaps, after all, only an affectation of singularity? Aurora looked at him with her brightest smile while he was asking himself this question. "You will come and see papa?" she said. Captain Bulstrode declared that he desired no greater happiness than to pay his respects to Mr. Floyd, in token whereof he walked with the young ladies towards the East Cliff. From that morning, the officer became a constant visitor at the banker's. He played chess with Lucy, accompanied her on the piano when she sang, assisted her with valuable hints when she painted in water-colours, put in lights here and glimpses of sky there, deepened autumnal browns, and intensified horizon purples, and made himself altogether useful to the young lady, who was, as we know, accomplished in all lady-like arts. Mrs. Powell, seated in one of the windows of the pleasant drawing-room, shed the benignant light of her faded countenance and pale-blue eyes upon the two young people, and represented all the proprieties in her own person; Aurora, when the weather prevented her riding, occupied herself more restlessly than profitably by taking up books and tossing them down, pulling Bow-wow's ears, staring out of the windows, drawing caricatures of the promenaders on the cliff, and dragging out a wonderful little watch, with a bunch of dangling inexplicable golden absurdities, to see what o'clock it was. Talbot Bulstrode, while leaning over Lucy's piano or drawing-board, or pondering about the next move of his queen, had ample leisure to watch the movements of Miss Floyd, and to be shocked at the purposeless manner in which that young lady spent the rainy mornings. Sometimes he saw her poring over 'Bell's Life,' much to the horror of Mrs. Walter Powell, who had a vague idea of the iniquitous proceedings recited in that terrible journal, but who was afraid to stretch her authority so far as to forbid its perusal. Mrs. Powell looked with silent approbation upon the growing familiarity between gentle Lucy Floyd and the captain. She had feared at first that Talbot was an admirer of Aurora's; but the manner of the two soon dispelled her alarm. Nothing could be more cordial than Miss Floyd's treatment of the officer; but she displayed the same indifference to him that she did to everything else, except her dog and her father. Was it possible that well-nigh perfect face and those haughty graces had no charm for the banker's daughter? Could it be that she could spend hour after hour in the society of the handsomest and most aristocratic man she had ever met, and yet be as heart-whole as when the acquaintance began? There was one person in the little party who was for ever asking that question, and never able to answer it to her own satisfaction, and that person was Lucy Floyd. Poor Lucy Floyd, who was engaged, night and day, in mentally playing that old German game which Faust and Margaret played together with the full-blown rose in the garden,--"He loves me--loves me not!" Mrs. Walter Powell's shallow-sighted blue eyes might behold in Lucy Captain Bulstrode's attraction to the East Cliff; but Lucy herself knew better--bitterly, cruelly better. "Captain Bulstrode's attentions to Miss Lucy Floyd were most evident," Mrs. Powell said one day when the captain left, after a long morning's music and singing and chess. How Lucy hated the prim phrase! None knew so well as she the value of those "attentions." They had been at Brighton six weeks, and for the last five the captain had been with them nearly every morning. He had ridden with them on the downs, and driven with them to the Dyke, and lounged beside them listening to the band, and stood behind them in their box at the pretty little theatre, and crushed with them into the Pavilion to hear Grisi and Mario, and Alboni and poor Bosio. He had attended them through the whole round of Brighton amusements, and had never seemed weary of their companionship. But for all this, Lucy knew what the last leaf upon the rose would tell her, when the many petals should be plucked away, and the poor stem be left bare. She knew how often he forgot to turn over the leaf in the Beethoven sonatas; how often he put streaks of green into an horizon that should have been purple, and touched up the trees in her foreground with rose-pink, and suffered himself to be ignominiously checkmated from sheer inattention, and gave her wandering, random answers when she spoke to him. She knew how restless he was when Aurora read 'Bell's Life,' and how the very crackle of the newspaper made him wince with nervous pain. She knew how tender he was of the purblind mastiff, how eager to be friends with him, how almost sycophantic in his attentions to the big stately animal. Lucy knew, in short, that which Talbot as yet did not know himself: she knew that he was fast falling over head and ears in love with her cousin, and she had at the same time a vague idea that he would much rather have fallen in love with herself, and that he was blindly struggling with the growing passion. It was so; he was falling in love with Aurora. The more he protested against her, the more determinedly he exaggerated her follies, and argued with himself upon the folly of loving her, so much the more surely did he love her. The very battle he was fighting kept her for ever in his mind, until he grew the veriest slave of the lovely vision, which he only evoked in order to endeavour to exorcise. "How could he take her down to Bulstrode, and introduce her to his father and mother?" he thought; and at the thought she appeared to him illuminating the old Cornish mansion by the radiance of her beauty, fascinating his father, bewitching his mother, riding across the moorland on her thorough-bred mare, and driving all the parish mad with admiration of her. He felt that his visits to Mr. Floyd's house were fast compromising him in the eyes of its inmates. Sometimes he felt himself bound in honour to make Lucy an offer of his hand; sometimes he argued that no one had any right to consider his attentions more particular to one than to the other of the young ladies. If he had known of that weary game which Lucy was for ever mentally playing with the imaginary rose, I am sure he would not have lost an hour in proposing to her; but Mrs. Alexander's daughter had been far too well educated to betray one emotion of her heart, and she bore her girlish agonies, and concealed her hourly tortures, with the quiet patience common to these simple womanly martyrs. She knew that the last leaf must soon be plucked, and the sweet pain of uncertainty be for ever ended. Heaven knows how long Talbot Bulstrode might have done battle with his growing passion, had it not been for an event which put an end to his indecision and made him desperate. This event was the appearance of a rival. He was walking with Aurora and Lucy upon the West Cliff one afternoon in November, when a mail-phaeton and pair suddenly drew up against the railings that separated them from the road, and a big man, with huge masses of Scotch plaid twisted about his waist and shoulders, sprang out of the vehicle, splashing the mud upon his legs, and rushed up to Talbot, taking off his hat as he approached, and bowing apologetically to the ladies. "Why, Bulstrode," he said, "who on earth would have thought of seeing you here? I heard you were in India, man; but what have you done to your leg?" He was so breathless with hurry and excitement, that he was utterly indifferent to punctuation; and it seemed as much as he could do to keep silence while Talbot introduced him to the ladies as Mr. Mellish, an old friend and school-fellow. The stranger stared with such open-mouthed admiration at Miss Floyd's black eyes, that the captain turned round upon him almost savagely, as he asked what had brought _him_ to Brighton. "The hunting season, my boy. Tired of Yorkshire; know every field, ditch, hedge, pond, sunk fence, and scrap of timber in the three Ridings. I'm staying at the Bedford; I've got my stud with me--give you a mount to-morrow morning if you like. Harriers meet at eleven--Dyke Road. I've a gray that'll suit you to a nicety--carry my weight, and as easy to sit as your arm-chair." Talbot hated his friend for talking of horses; he felt a jealous terror of him. This, perhaps, was the sort of man whose society would be agreeable to Aurora,--this big, empty-headed Yorkshireman, with his babble about his stud and hunting appointments. But turning sharply round to scrutinize Miss Floyd, he was gratified to find that young lady looking vacantly at the gathering mists upon the sea, and apparently unconscious of the existence of Mr. John Mellish, of Mellish Park, Yorkshire. This John Mellish was, I have said, a big man, looking even bigger than he was by reason of about eight yards' length of thick shepherd's plaid twisted scientifically about his shoulders. He was a man of thirty years of age at least, but having withal such a boyish exuberance in his manner, such a youthful and innocent joyousness in his face, that he might have been a youngster of eighteen just let loose from some public academy of the muscular Christianity school. I think the Rev. Charles Kingsley would have delighted in this big, hearty, broad-chested young Englishman, with brown hair brushed away from an open forehead, and a thick auburn moustache bordering a mouth for ever ready to expand into a laugh. Such a laugh, too! such a hearty and sonorous peal, that the people on the Parade turned round to look at the owner of those sturdy lungs, and smiled good-naturedly for very sympathy with his honest merriment. Talbot Bulstrode would have given a hundred pounds to get rid of the noisy Yorkshireman. What business had he at Brighton? Wasn't the biggest county in England big enough to hold him, that he must needs bring his north-country bluster to Sussex, for the annoyance of Talbot's friends? Captain Bulstrode was not any better pleased when, strolling a little further on, the party met with Archibald Floyd, who had come out to look for his daughter. The old man begged to be introduced to Mr. Mellish, and invited the honest Yorkshireman to dine at the East Cliff that very evening, much to the aggravation of Talbot, who fell sulkily back, and allowed John to make the acquaintance of the ladies. The familiar brute ingratiated himself into their good graces in about ten minutes; and by the time they reached the banker's house was more at his ease with Aurora than was the heir of Bulstrode after two months' acquaintance. He accompanied them to the door-step, shook hands with the ladies and Mr. Floyd, patted the mastiff Bow-wow, gave Talbot a playful sledge-hammer-like slap upon the shoulder, and ran back to the Bedford to dress for dinner. His spirits were so high that he knocked over little boys and tumbled against fashionable young men, who drew themselves up in stiff amazement as the big fellow dashed past them. He sang a scrap of a hunting-song as he ran up the great staircase to his eyrie at the Bedford, and chattered to his valet as he dressed. He seemed a creature especially created to be prosperous; to be the owner and dispenser of wealth, the distributor of good things. People who were strangers to him ran after and served him on speculation, knowing instinctively that they would get ample reward for their trouble. Waiters in a coffee-room deserted other tables to attend upon that at which he was seated. Box-keepers would leave parties of six shivering in the dreary corridors while they found a seat for John Mellish. Mendicants picked him out from the crowd in a busy thoroughfare, and hung about him, and would not be driven away without a dole from the pocket of his roomy waistcoat. He was always spending his money for the convenience of other people. He had an army of old servants at Mellish Park, who adored him and tyrannized over him after the manner of their kind. His stables were crowded with horses that were lame, or wall-eyed, or otherwise disqualified for service, but that lived on his bounty like a set of jolly equine paupers, and consumed as much corn as would have supplied a racing stud. He was perpetually paying for things he neither ordered nor had, and was for ever being cheated by the dear honest creatures about him, who, for all they did their best to ruin him, would have gone through typical fire and water to serve him, and would have clung to him, and worked for him, and supported him out of those very savings for which they had robbed him, when the ruin came. If "Muster John" had a headache, every creature in that disorderly household was unhappy and uneasy till the ailment was cured; every lad in the stables, every servant-maid in the house, was eager that his or her remedy should be tried for his restoration. If you had said at Mellish Park that John's fair face and broad shoulders were not the highest forms of manly beauty and grace, you would have been set down as a creature devoid of all taste or judgment. To the mind of that household, John Mellish in "pink" and pipe-clayed tops was more beautiful than the Apollo Belvidere, whose bronze image in little adorned a niche in the hall. If you had told them that fourteen-stone weight was not indispensable to manly perfection, or that it was possible there were more lofty accomplishments than driving unicorn or shooting forty-seven head of game in a morning, or pulling the bay mare's shoulder into joint that time she got a sprain in the hunting-field, or vanquishing Joe Millings, the East Riding smasher, without so much as losing breath,--those simple-hearted Yorkshire servants would have fairly laughed in your face. Talbot Bulstrode complained that everybody respected him, and nobody loved him. John Mellish might have uttered the reverse of this complaint, had he been so minded. Who could help loving the honest, generous squire, whose house and purse were open to all the country-side? Who could feel any chilling amount of respect for the friendly and familiar master who sat upon the table in the big kitchen at Mellish Park, with his dogs and servants round him, and gave them the history of the day's adventures in the hunting-field, till the old blind fox-hound at his feet lifted his big head and set up a feeble music? No; John Mellish was well content to be beloved, and never questioned the quality of the affection bestowed upon him. To him it was all the purest virgin gold; and you might have talked to him for twelve hours at a sitting without convincing him that men and women were vile and mercenary creatures, and that if his servants, and his tenantry, and the poor about his estate, loved him, it was for the sake of the temporal benefits they received of him. He was as unsuspicious as a child, who believes that the fairies in a pantomime are fairies for ever and ever, and that the harlequin is born in patches and a mask. He was as open to flattery as a school-girl who distributes the contents of her hamper among a circle of toadies. When people told him he was a fine fellow, he believed them, and agreed with them, and thought that the world was altogether a hearty, honest place, and that everybody was a fine fellow. Never having an _arrière pensée_ himself, he looked for none in the words of other people, but thought that every one blurted out their real opinions, and offended or pleased their fellows, as frankly and blunderingly as himself. If he had been a vicious young man, he would no doubt have gone altogether to the bad, and fallen among thieves. But being blest with a nature that was inherently pure and innocent, his greatest follies were no worse than those of a big school-boy who errs from very exuberance of spirit. He had lost his mother in the first year of his infancy, and his father had died some time before his majority; so there had been none to restrain his actions, and it was something at thirty years of age to be able to look back upon a stainless boyhood and youth, which might have been befouled with the slime of the gutters, and infected with the odour of villanous haunts. Had he not reason to be proud of this? Is there anything, after all, so grand as a pure and unsullied life--a fair picture, with no ugly shadows lurking in the background--a smooth poem, with no crooked, halting line to mar the verse--a noble book, with no unholy page--a simple story, such as our children may read? Can any greatness be greater? can any nobility be more truly noble? When a whole nation mourned with one voice but a few months since; when we drew down our blinds and shut out the dull light of the December day, and listened sadly to the far booming of the guns; when the poorest put aside their work-a-day troubles to weep for a widowed Queen and orphaned children in a desolate palace; when rough omnibus-drivers forgot to blaspheme at each other, and tied decent scraps of crape upon their whips, and went sorrowfully about their common business, thinking of that great sorrow at Windsor,--the words that rose simultaneously to every lip dwelt most upon the spotless character of him who was lost; the tender husband, the watchful father, the kindly master, the liberal patron, the temperate adviser, the stainless gentleman. It is many years since England mourned for another royal personage who was called a "gentleman." A gentleman who played practical jokes, and held infamous orgies, and persecuted a wretched foreign woman, whose chief sin and misfortune it was to be his wife; a gentleman who cut out his own nether garments, and left the companion of his gayest revels, the genius whose brightness had flung a spurious lustre upon the dreary saturnalia of vice, to die destitute and despairing. Surely there is some hope that we have changed for the better within the last thirty years, inasmuch as we attach a new meaning to-day to this simple title of "gentleman." I take some pride, therefore, in the two young men of whom I write, for the simple reason that I have no dark patches to gloss over in the history of either of them. I may fail in making you like them; but I can promise that you shall have no cause to be ashamed of them. Talbot Bulstrode may offend you with his sulky pride; John Mellish may simply impress you as a blundering countrified ignoramus; but neither of them shall ever shock you by an ugly word or an unholy thought. CHAPTER VI. REJECTED AND ACCEPTED. The dinner-party at Mr. Floyd's was a very merry one; and when John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode left the East Cliff to walk westward, at eleven o'clock at night, the Yorkshireman told his friend that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life. This declaration must, however, be taken with some reserve; for it was one which John was in the habit of making about three times a week: but he really had been very happy in the society of the banker's family; and, what was more, he was ready to adore Aurora Floyd without any further preparation whatever. A few bright smiles and sparkling glances, a little animated conversation about the hunting-field and the race-course, combined with half a dozen glasses of those effervescent wines which Archibald Floyd imported from the fair Moselle country, had been quite enough to turn the head of John Mellish, and to cause him to hold wildly forth in the moonlight upon the merits of the beautiful heiress. "I verily believe I shall die a bachelor, Talbot," he said, "unless I can get that girl to marry me. I've only known her half a dozen hours, and I'm head-over-heels in love with her already. What is it that has knocked me over like this, Bulstrode? I've seen other girls with black eyes and hair, and she knows no more of horses than half the women in Yorkshire; so it isn't that. What is it, then, hey?" He came to a full stop against a lamp-post, and stared fiercely at his friend as he asked this question. Talbot gnashed his teeth in silence. It was no use battling with his fate, then, he thought; the fascination of this woman had the same effect upon others as upon himself; and while he was arguing with, and protesting against, his passion, some brainless fellow, like this Mellish, would step in and win the prize. He wished his friend good night upon the steps of the Old Ship Hotel, and walked straight to his room, where he sat with his window open to the mild November night, staring out at the moon-lit sea. He determined to propose to Aurora Floyd before twelve o'clock the next day. Why should he hesitate? He had asked himself that question a hundred times before, and had always been unable to answer it; and yet he had hesitated. He could not dispossess himself of a vague idea that there was some mystery in this girl's life; some secret known only to herself and her father; some one spot upon the history of the past which cast a shadow on the present. And yet, how could that be? How could that be, he asked himself, when her whole life only amounted to nineteen years, and he had heard the history of those years over and over again? How often he had artfully led Lucy to tell him the simple story of her cousin's girlhood! The governesses and masters that had come and gone at Felden Woods. The ponies and dogs, and puppies and kittens, and petted foals; the little scarlet riding-habit that had been made for the heiress, when she rode after the hounds with her cousin Andrew Floyd. The worst blots that the officer could discover in those early years were a few broken china vases, and a great deal of ink spilt over badly-written French exercises. And after being educated at home until she was nearly eighteen, Aurora had been transferred to a Parisian finishing-school; and that was all. Her life had been the every-day life of other girls of her own position, and she differed from them only in being a great deal more fascinating, and a little more wilful, than the majority. Talbot laughed at himself for his doubts and hesitations. "What a suspicious brute I must be," he said, "when I imagine I have fallen upon the clue to some mystery simply because there is a mournful tenderness in the old man's voice when he speaks to his only child! If I were sixty-seven years of age, and had such a daughter as Aurora, would there not always be a shuddering terror mingled with my love,--a horrible dread that something would happen to take her away from me? I will propose to Miss Floyd to-morrow." Had Talbot been thoroughly candid with himself, he would perhaps have added, "Or John Mellish will make her an offer the day after." Captain Bulstrode presented himself at the house on the East Cliff some time before noon on the next day; but he found Mr. Mellish on the door-step, talking to Miss Floyd's groom and inspecting the horses, which were waiting for the young ladies; for the young ladies were going to ride, and John Mellish was going to ride with them. "But if you'll join us, Bulstrode," the Yorkshireman said, good-naturedly, "you can ride the gray I spoke of yesterday. Saunders shall go back and fetch him." Talbot rejected this offer rather sulkily. "I've my own horses here, thank you," he answered. "But if you'll let your groom ride down to the stables and tell my man to bring them up, I shall be obliged to you." After which condescending request Captain Bulstrode turned his back upon his friend, crossed the road, and folding his arms upon the railings, stared resolutely at the sea. But in five minutes more the ladies appeared upon the door-step, and Talbot, turning at the sound of their voices, was fain to cross the road once more for the chance of taking Aurora's foot in his hand as she sprang into her saddle; but John Mellish was before him again, and Miss Floyd's mare was curveting under the touch of her light hand before the captain could interfere. He allowed the groom to attend to Lucy, and, mounting as quickly as his stiff leg would allow him, he prepared to take his place by Aurora's side. Again he was too late; Miss Floyd had cantered down the hill attended by Mellish, and it was impossible for Talbot to leave poor Lucy, who was a timid horsewoman. The captain never admired Lucy so little as on horseback. His pale saint with the halo of golden hair seemed to him sadly out of place in a side-saddle. He looked back at the day of his morning visit to Felden, and remembered how he had admired her, and how exactly she corresponded with his ideal, and how determined he was to be bewitched by her rather than by Aurora. "If she had fallen in love with me," he thought, "I would have snapped my fingers at the black-browed heiress, and married this fair-haired angel out of hand. I meant to do that when I sold my commission. It was not for Aurora's sake I left the army, it was not Aurora whom I followed down here. Which did I follow? What did I follow, I wonder? My destiny, I suppose, which is leading me through such a witch's dance as I never thought to tread at the sober age of three-and-thirty. If Lucy had only loved me, it might have been all different." He was so angry with himself, that he was half inclined to be angry with poor Lucy for not extricating him from the snares of Aurora. If he could have read that innocent heart, as he rode in sulky silence across the stunted turf on the wide downs! If he could have known the slow sick pain in that gentle breast, as the quiet girl by his side lifted her blue eyes every now and then to steal a glance at his hard profile and moody brow! If he could have read her secret later, when, talking of Aurora, he for the first time clearly betrayed the mystery of his own heart! If he could have known how the landscape grew dim before her eyes, and how the brown moorland reeled beneath her horse's hoofs until they seemed going down, down, down into some fathomless depth of sorrow and despair! But he knew nothing of this; and he thought Lucy Floyd a pretty, inanimate girl, who would no doubt be delighted to wear a becoming dress as bridesmaid at her cousin's wedding. There was to be a dinner-party that evening upon the East Cliff, to which both John Mellish and Talbot were invited; and the captain savagely determined to bring matters to an issue before the night was out. Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode would have been very angry with you, had you watched him too closely that evening as he fastened the golden solitaire in his narrow cravat before his looking-glass in the bow-window at the Old Ship. He was ashamed of himself for being causelessly savage with his valet, whom he dismissed abruptly before he began to dress; and had not the courage to call the man back again when his own hot hands refused to do their office. He spilt half a bottleful of perfume upon his varnished boots, and smeared his face with a scented waxy compound bought of Monsieur Eugène Rimmel, which promised to _lisser sans graisser_ his moustache. He broke one of the crystal-boxes in his dressing-case, and put the bits of broken glass in his waistcoat-pocket from sheer absence of mind. He underwent semi-strangulation with the unbending circular collar in which, as a gentleman, it was his duty to invest himself; and he could have beaten the ivory backs of his brushes upon his head in blind execration of that short, stubborn black hair, which only curled at the _other ends;_ and when at last he emerged from his room, it was with a spiteful sensation that every waiter in the place knew his secret, and had a perfect knowledge of every emotion in his breast, and that the very Newfoundland dog lying on the door-step had an inkling of the truth, as he lifted up his big head to look at the captain, and then dropped it again with a contemptuously lazy yawn. Captain Bulstrode offered a handful of broken glass to the man who drove him to the East Cliff, and then confusedly substituted about fifteen shillings worth of silver coin for that abnormal species of payment. There must have been two or three earthquakes and an eclipse or so going on in some part of the globe, he thought, for this jog-trot planet seemed all tumult and confusion to Talbot Bulstrode. The world was all Brighton, and Brighton was all blue moonlight, and steel-coloured sea, and glancing, dazzling gas-light, and hare-soup and cod and oysters, and Aurora Floyd. Yes, Aurora Floyd, who wore a white silk dress, and a thick circlet of dull gold upon her hair, who looked more like Cleopatra to-night than ever, and who suffered Mr. John Mellish to take her down to dinner. How Talbot hated the Yorkshireman's big fair face, and blue eyes, and white teeth, as he watched the two young people across a phalanx of glass and silver, and flowers and wax-candles, and pickles, and other Fortnum-and-Mason ware! Here was a golden opportunity lost, thought the discontented captain, forgetful that he could scarcely have proposed to Miss Floyd at the dinner-table, amidst the jingle of glasses and popping of corks, and with a big powdered footman charging at him with a side-dish or a sauce-tureen while he put the fatal question. The desired moment came a few hours afterwards, and Talbot had no longer any excuse for delay. The November evening was mild, and the three windows in the drawing-room were open from floor to ceiling. It was pleasant to look out from the hot gas-light upon that wide sweep of moon-lit ocean, with a white sail glimmering here and there against the purple night. Captain Bulstrode sat near one of the open windows, watching that tranquil scene, with, I fear, very little appreciation of its beauty. He was wishing that the people would drop off and leave him alone with Aurora. It was close upon eleven o'clock, and high time they went. John Mellish would of course insist upon waiting for Talbot; this was what a man had to endure on account of some old school-boy acquaintance. All Rugby might turn up against him in a day or two, and dispute with him for Aurora's smiles. But John Mellish was engaged in a very animated conversation with Archibald Floyd, having contrived with consummate artifice to ingratiate himself in the old man's favour, and the visitors having one by one dropped off, Aurora, with a listless yawn that she took little pains to conceal, strolled out on to the broad iron balcony. Lucy was sitting at a table at the other end of the room, looking at a book of beauty. Oh, my poor Lucy! how much did you see of the Honourable Miss Brownsmith's high forehead and Roman nose? Did not that young lady's handsome face stare up at you dimly through a blinding mist of tears that you were a great deal too well educated to shed? The chance had come at last. If life had been a Haymarket comedy, and the entrances and exits arranged by Mr. Buckstone himself, it could have fallen out no better than this. Talbot Bulstrode followed Aurora on to the balcony; John Mellish went on with his story about the Beverley foxhounds; and Lucy, holding her breath at the other end of the room, knew as well what was going to happen as the captain himself. Is not life altogether a long comedy, with Fate for the stage-manager, and Passion, Inclination, Love, Hate, Revenge, Ambition, and Avarice by turns in the prompter's box? A tiresome comedy sometimes, with dreary, talkee-talkee front scenes which come to nothing, but only serve to make the audience more impatient as they wait while the stage is set and the great people change their dresses; or a "sensation" comedy, with unlooked-for tableaux and unexpected _dénouements;_ but a comedy to the end of the chapter, for the sorrows which seem tragic to us are very funny when seen from the other side of the footlights; and our friends in the pit are as much amused with our trumpery griefs as the Haymarket _habitués_ when Mr. Box finds his gridiron empty, or Mr. Cox misses his rasher. What can be funnier than other people's anguish? Why do we enjoy Mr. Maddison Morton's farces, and laugh till the tears run down our cheek at the comedian who enacts them? Because there is scarcely a farce upon the British stage which is not, from the rising to the dropping of the curtain, a record of human anguish and undeserved misery. Yes, undeserved and unnecessary torture--there is the special charm of the entertainment. If the man who was weak enough to send his wife to Camberwell _had_ crushed a baby behind a chest of drawers, his sufferings wouldn't be half so delightful to an intellectual audience. If the gentleman who became embroiled with his laundress _had_ murdered the young lady in the green boots, where would be the fun of that old Adelphi farce in which poor Wright was wont to delight us? And so it is with our friends on the other side of the footlights, who enjoy our troubles all the more because we have not always deserved them, and whose sorrows we shall gloat over by-and-by, when the bell for the next piece begins, and it is their turn to go on and act. Talbot Bulstrode went out on to the balcony, and the earth stood still for ten minutes or so, and every steel-blue star in the sky glared watchfully down upon the young man in this the supreme crisis of his life. Aurora was leaning against a slender iron pilaster, looking aslant into the town and across the town to the sea. She was wrapped in an opera cloak; no stiff, embroidered, young-ladyfied garment; but a voluminous drapery of soft scarlet woollen stuff, such as Semiramide herself might have worn. "She looks like Semiramide," Talbot thought. "How did this Scotch banker and his Lancashire wife come to have an Assyrian for their daughter?" He began brilliantly, this young man, as lovers generally do. "I am afraid you must have fatigued yourself this evening, Miss Floyd," he remarked. Aurora stifled a yawn as she answered him. "I am rather tired," she said. It wasn't very encouraging. How was he to begin an eloquent speech, when she might fall asleep in the middle of it? But he did; he dashed at once into the heart of his subject, and he told her how he loved her; how he had done battle with this passion, which had been too strong for him; how he loved her as he never thought to love any creature upon this earth; and how he cast himself before her in all humility to take his sentence of life or death from her dear lips. She was silent for some moments, her profile sharply distinct to him in the moonlight, and those dear lips trembling visibly. Then, with a half-averted face, and in words that seemed to come slowly and painfully from a stifled throat, she gave him his answer. That answer was a rejection! Not a young lady's No, which means Yes to-morrow; or which means perhaps that you have not been on your knees in a passion of despair, like Lord Edward Fitz-Morkysh in Miss Oderose's last novel. Nothing of this kind; but a calm negative, carefully and tersely worded, as if she feared to mislead him by so much as one syllable that could leave a loophole through which hope might creep into his heart. He was rejected. For a moment it was quite as much as he could do to believe it. He was inclined to imagine that the signification of certain words had suddenly changed, or that he had been in the habit of mistaking them all his life, rather than that those words meant this hard fact; namely, that he, Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode, of Bulstrode Castle, and of Saxon extraction, had been rejected by the daughter of a Lombard-Street banker. He paused--for an hour and a half or so, as it seemed to him--in order to collect himself before he spoke again. "May I--venture to inquire," he said,--how horribly commonplace the phrase seemed! he could have used no worse had he been inquiring for furnished lodgings,--"may I ask if any prior attachment--to one more worthy----" "Oh, no, no, no!" The answer came upon him so suddenly, that it almost startled him as much as her rejection. "And yet your decision is irrevocable?" "Quite irrevocable." "Forgive me if I am intrusive; but--but Mr. Floyd may perhaps have formed some higher views----" He was interrupted by a stifled sob as she clasped her hands over her averted face. "Higher views!" she said; "poor dear old man! no, no, indeed." "It is scarcely strange that I bore you with these questions. It is so hard to think that, meeting you with your affections disengaged, I have yet been utterly unable to win one shadow of regard upon which I might build a hope for the future." Poor Talbot! Talbot, the splitter of metaphysical straws and chopper of logic, talking of building hopes on shadows, with a lover's delirious stupidity. "It is so hard to resign every thought of your ever coming to alter your decision of to-night, Aurora,"--he lingered on her name for a moment, first because it was so sweet to say it, and secondly, in the hope that she would speak,--"it is so hard to remember the fabric of happiness I had dared to build, and to lay it down here to-night for ever." Talbot quite forgot that, up to the time of the arrival of John Mellish, he had been perpetually arguing against his passion, and had declared to himself over and over again that he would be a consummate fool if he was ever beguiled into making Aurora his wife. He reversed the parable of the fox; for he had been inclined to make faces at the grapes while he fancied them within his reach, and now that they were removed from his grasp, he thought that such delicious fruit had never grown to tempt mankind. "If--if," he said, "my fate had been happier, I know how proud my father, poor old Sir John, would have been of his eldest son's choice." How ashamed he felt of the meanness of this speech! The artful sentence had been constructed in order to remind Aurora whom she was refusing. He was trying to bribe her with the baronetcy which was to be his in due time. But she made no answer to the pitiful appeal. Talbot was almost choked with mortification. "I see--I see," he said, "that it is hopeless. Good night, Miss Floyd." She did not even turn to look at him as he left the balcony; but with her red drapery wrapped tightly round her, stood shivering in the moonlight, with the silent tears slowly stealing down her cheeks. "Higher views!" she cried bitterly, repeating a phrase that Talbot used,--"higher views! God help him!" "I must wish you good-night and good-bye at the same time," Captain Bulstrode said, as he shook hands with Lucy. "Good-bye?" "Yes; I leave Brighton early to-morrow." "So suddenly?" "Why, not exactly suddenly. I always meant to travel this winter. Can I do anything for you--at Cairo?" He was so pale and cold and wretched-looking, that she almost pitied him--pitied him in spite of the wild joy growing up in her heart. Aurora had refused him--it was perfectly clear--refused _him!_ The soft blue eyes filled with tears at the thought that a demigod should have endured such humiliation. Talbot pressed her hand gently in his own clammy palm. He could read pity in that tender look, but possessed no lexicon by which he could translate its deeper meaning. "You will wish your uncle good-bye for me, Lucy," he said. He called her Lucy for the first time; but what did it matter now? His great affliction set him apart from his fellow-men, and gave him dismal privileges. "Good-night, Lucy; good-night and good-bye. I--I--shall hope to see you again--in a year or two." The pavement of the East Cliff seemed so much air beneath Talbot Bulstrode's boots as he strode back to the Old Ship; for it is peculiar to us, in our moments of supreme trouble or joy, to lose all consciousness of the earth we tread, and to float upon an atmosphere of sublime egotism. But the captain did not leave Brighton the next day on the first stage of his Egyptian journey. He stayed at the fashionable watering-place; but he resolutely abjured the neighbourhood of the East Cliff, and, the day being wet, took a pleasant walk to Shoreham through the rain; and Shoreham being such a pretty place, he was no doubt much enlivened by that exercise. Returning through the fog at about four o'clock, the captain met Mr. John Mellish close against the turnpike outside Cliftonville. The two men stared aghast at each other. "Why, where on earth are you going?" asked Talbot. "Back to Yorkshire by the first train that leaves Brighton." "But this isn't the way to the station!" "No; but they're putting the horses in my portmanteau, and my shirts are going by the Leeds cattle-train; and----" Talbot Bulstrode burst into a loud laugh, a harsh and bitter cachinnation, but affording wondrous relief to that gentleman's overcharged breast. "John Mellish," he said, "you have been proposing to Aurora Floyd." The Yorkshireman turned scarlet. "It--it--wasn't honourable of her to tell you," he stammered. "Miss Floyd has never breathed a word to me upon the subject. I've just come from Shoreham, and you've only lately left the East Cliff. You've proposed, and you've been rejected." "I have," roared John; "and it's deuced hard when I promised her she should keep a racing stud if she liked, and enter as many colts as she pleased for the Derby, and give her own orders to the trainer, and I'd never interfere;--and--and--Mellish Park is one of the finest places in the county; and I'd have won her a bit of blue ribbon to tie up her bonny black hair." "That old Frenchman was right," muttered Captain Bulstrode: "there _is_ a great satisfaction in the misfortune of others. If I go to my dentist, I like to find another wretch in the waiting-room; and I like to have my tooth extracted first, and to see him glare enviously at me as I come out of the torture chamber, knowing that my troubles are over, while his are to come. Good-bye, John Mellish, and God bless you. You're not such a bad fellow after all." Talbot felt almost cheerful as he walked back to the Ship, and he took a mutton cutlet and tomata sauce, and a pint of Moselle for his dinner: and the food and wine warmed him; and not having slept a wink on the previous night, he fell into a heavy indigestible slumber, with his head hanging over the sofa-cushion, and dreamt that he was at Grand Cairo (or at a place which would have been that city had it not been now and then Bulstrode Castle, and occasionally chambers in the Albany); and that Aurora Floyd was with him, clad in imperial purple, with hieroglyphics on the hem of her robe, and wearing a clown's jacket of white satin and scarlet spots, such as he had once seen foremost in a great race. Captain Bulstrode arose early the next morning, with the full intention of departing from Sussex by the 8.45 express; but suddenly remembering that he had but poorly acknowledged Archibald Floyd's cordiality, he determined on sacrificing his inclinations on the shrine of courtesy, and calling once more at the East Cliff to take leave of the banker. Having once resolved upon this line of action, the captain would fain have hurried that moment to Mr. Floyd's house; but finding that it was only half-past seven, he was compelled to restrain his impatience and await a more seasonable hour. Could he go at nine? Scarcely. At ten? Yes, surely, as he could then leave by the eleven o'clock train. He sent his breakfast away untouched, and sat looking at his watch in a mad hurry for the time to pass, yet growing hot and uncomfortable as the hour drew near. At a quarter to ten he put on his hat and left the hotel. Mr. Floyd was at home, the servant told him--upstairs in the little study, he thought. Talbot waited for no more. "You need not announce me," he said; "I know where to find your master." The study was on the same floor as the drawing-room; and close against the drawing-room door Talbot paused for a moment. The door was open; the room empty; no, not empty: Aurora Floyd was there, seated with her back towards him, and her head leaning on the cushions of her chair. He stopped for another moment to admire the back view of that small head with its crown of lustrous raven hair, then took a step or two in the direction of the banker's study; then stopped again, then turned back, went into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind him. She did not stir as he approached her, nor answer when he stammered her name. Her face was as white as the face of a dead woman, and her nerveless hands hung over the cushions of the arm-chair. A newspaper was lying at her feet. She had quietly swooned away sitting there by herself, with no one by to restore her to consciousness. Talbot flung some flowers from a vase on the table, and dashed the water over Aurora's forehead; then wheeling her chair close to the open window, he set her with her face to the wind. In two or three moments she began to shiver violently, and soon afterwards opened her eyes, and looked at him; as she did so, she put her hands to her head, as if trying to remember something. "Talbot!" she said, "Talbot!" She called him by his Christian name, she who five-and-thirty hours before had coldly forbidden him to hope. "Aurora," he cried, "Aurora, I thought I came here to wish your father good-bye; but I deceived myself. I came to ask you once more, and once for all, if your decision of the night before last was irrevocable." "Heaven knows I thought it was when I uttered it." "But it was not?" "Do you wish me to revoke it?" "Do I wish? do I----" "Because if you really do, I will revoke it; for you are a brave and honourable man, Captain Bulstrode, and I love you very dearly." Heaven knows into what rhapsodies he might have fallen, but she put up her hand, as much as to say, "Forbear to-day, if you love me," and hurried from the room. He had accepted the cup of _bang_ which the siren had offered, and had drained the very dregs thereof, and was drunken. He dropped into the chair in which Aurora had sat, and, absent-minded in his joyful intoxication, picked up the newspaper that had lain at her feet. He shuddered in spite of himself as he looked at the title of the journal; it was 'Bell's Life.' A dirty copy, crumpled, and beer-stained, and emitting rank odours of inferior tobacco. It was directed to Miss Floyd, in such sprawling penmanship as might have disgraced the potboy of a sporting public-house:-- "Miss Floid, fell dun wodes, kent." The newspaper had been redirected to Aurora by the housekeeper at Felden. Talbot ran his eye eagerly over the front page; it was almost entirely filled with advertisements (and such advertisements!), but in one column there was an account headed, "Frightful Accident in Germany: an English Jockey killed." Captain Bulstrode never knew why he read of this accident. It was in no way interesting to him, being an account of a steeple-chase in Prussia, in which a heavy English rider and a crack French horse had been killed. There was a great deal of regret expressed for the loss of the horse, and none for the man who had ridden him, who, the reporter stated, was very little known in sporting circles; but in a paragraph lower down was added this information, evidently procured at the last moment: "The jockey's name was Conyers." CHAPTER VII. AURORA'S STRANGE PENSIONER. Archibald Floyd received the news of his daughter's choice with evident pride and satisfaction. It seemed as if some heavy burden had been taken away, as if some cruel shadow had been lifted from the lives of father and daughter. The banker took his family back to Felden Woods, with Talbot Bulstrode in his train; and the chintz rooms--pretty, cheerful chambers, with bow-windows that looked across the well-kept stable-yard into long glades of oak and beech--were prepared for the ex-hussar, who was to spend his Christmas at Felden. Mrs. Alexander and her husband were established with her family in the western wing; Mr. and Mrs. Andrew were located at the eastern angle; for it was the hospitable custom of the old banker to summon his kinsfolk about him early in December, and to keep them with him till the bells of picturesque Beckenham church had heralded in the New Year. Lucy Floyd's cheeks had lost much of their delicate colour when she returned to Felden, and it was pronounced, by all who observed the change, that the air of the East Cliff, and the autumn winds drifting across the bleak downs, had been too much for the young lady's strength. Aurora seemed to have burst forth into some new and more glorious beauty since the morning upon which she had accepted the hand of Talbot Bulstrode. There was a proud defiance in her manner, which became her better than gentleness becomes far lovelier women. There was a haughty _insouciance_ about this young lady which gave new brilliancy to her great black eyes, and new music to her joyous laugh. She was like some beautiful noisy, boisterous waterfall; for ever dancing, rushing, sparkling, scintillating, and utterly defying you to do anything but admire it. Talbot Bulstrode, having once abandoned himself to the spell of the siren, made no further struggle, but fairly fell into the pit-falls of her eyes, and was entangled in the meshy network of her blue-black hair. The greater the tension of the bow-string, the stronger the rebound thereof; and Talbot Bulstrode was as weak to give way at last as he had long been powerful to resist. I must write his story in the commonest words. He could not help it! He loved her; not because he thought her better, or wiser, or lovelier, or more suited to him than many other women,--indeed he had grave doubts upon every one of these points,--but because it was his destiny, and he loved her. What is that hard word which M. Victor Hugo puts into the mouth of the priest in 'The Hunch-back of Notre Dame' as an excuse for the darkness of his sin? [Greek: ANANKE!] It was his fate! So he wrote to his mother, and told her that he had chosen a wife, who was to sit in the halls of Bulstrode, and whose name was to be interwoven with the chronicles of the house; told her, moreover, that Miss Floyd was a banker's daughter, beautiful and fascinating, with big black eyes, and fifty thousand pounds for her dowry. Lady Raleigh Bulstrode answered her son's letter upon a quarter of a quire of note-paper, filled with fearful motherly prayers and suggestions; anxious hopes that he had chosen wisely; questionings as to the opinions and religious principles of the young lady,--much indeed that Talbot would have been sorely puzzled to answer. Enclosed in this was a letter to Aurora, a womanly and tender epistle, in which pride was tempered with love, and which brought big tears welling up to Miss Floyd's eyes, until Lady Bulstrode's firm penmanship grew blotted and blurred beneath the reader's vision. And whither went poor slaughtered John Mellish? He returned to Mellish Park, carrying with him his dogs, and horses, and grooms, and phaeton, and paraphernalia; but his grief--having unluckily come upon him after the racing season--was too much for him, and he fled away from the roomy old mansion, with its pleasant surroundings of park and woodland; for Aurora Floyd was not for him, and it was all flat, stale, and unprofitable. So he went to Paris, or _Parry_, as he called that imperial city, and established himself in the biggest chambers at Meurice's, and went backwards and forwards between that establishment and Galignani's ten times a day, in quest of the English papers. He dined drearily at Véfour's, Philippe's, the Trois Frères, the Maison Dorée, and the Café de Paris. His big voice was heard at every expensive dining place in Paris, ordering "_Toos killyar de mellyour: vous savez;_" but he sent the daintiest dishes away untasted, and would sit for a quarter of an hour counting the toothpicks in the tiny blue vases, and thinking of Aurora. He rode dismally in the Bois de Boulogne, and sat shivering in _cafés chantants_, listening to songs that always seemed set to the same melody. He haunted the circuses, and was well-nigh in love with a fair _manège_ rider, who had black eyes, and reminded him of Aurora; till, upon buying the most powerful opera-glass that the Rue de Rivoli could afford, he discovered that the lady's face was an inch deep in a certain white wash called _blanc rosati_, and that the chief glory of her eyes were the rings of Indian ink which surrounded them. He could have dashed that double-barrelled truth-revealer to the ground, and trodden the lenses to powder with his heel, in his passion of despair: better to have been for ever deceived, to have gone on believing that woman to be like Aurora, and to have gone to that circus every night until his hair grew white, but not with age, and until he pined away and died. The party at Felden Woods was a very joyous one. The voices of children made the house pleasant; noisy lads from Eton and Westminster clambered about the balustrades of the staircases, and played battledore-and-shuttlecock upon the long stone terrace. These young people were all cousins to Aurora Floyd, and loved the banker's daughter with a childish worship, which mild Lucy could never inspire. It was pleasant to Talbot Bulstrode to see that wherever his future wife trod, love and admiration waited upon her footsteps. He was not singular in his passion for this glorious creature, and it could be, after all, no such terrible folly to love one who was beloved by all who knew her. So the proud Cornishman was happy, and gave himself up to his happiness without further protest. Did Aurora love him? Did she make him due return for the passionate devotion, the blind adoration? She admired and esteemed him; she was proud of him--proud of that very pride in his nature which made him so different to herself; and she was too impulsive and truthful a creature to keep this sentiment a secret from her lover. She revealed, too, a constant desire to please her betrothed husband, suppressing at least all outward token of the tastes that were so unpleasant to him. No more copies of 'Bell's Life' littered the ladies' morning-room at Felden; and when Andrew Floyd asked Aurora to ride to meet with him, his cousin refused the offer which would once have been so welcome. Instead of following the Croydon hounds, Miss Floyd was content to drive Talbot and Lucy in a basket-carriage through the frost-bespangled country-side. Lucy was always the companion and confidante of the lovers; it was hard for her to hear their happy talk of the bright future stretching far away before them--stretching down, down the shadowy aisles of Time, to an escutcheoned tomb at Bulstrode, where husband and wife would lie down, full of years and honours, in the days to come. It was hard to have to help them plan a thousand schemes of pleasure, in which--Heaven pity her!--she was to join. But she bore her cross meekly, this pale Elaine of modern days; and she never told Talbot Bulstrode that she had gone mad and loved him, and was fain to die. Talbot and Aurora were both concerned to see the pale cheeks of their gentle companion; but everybody was ready to ascribe them to a cold, or a cough, or constitutional debility, or some other bodily evil, which was to be cured by drugs and boluses; and no one for a moment imagined that anything could possibly be amiss with a young lady who lived in a luxurious house, went shopping in a carriage and pair, and had more pocket-money than she cared to spend. But the Lily Maid of Astolat lived in a lordly castle, and had doubtless ample pocket-money to buy gorgeous silks for her embroidery, and had little on earth to wish for, and nothing to do; whereby she fell sick for love of Sir Lancelot, and pined and died. Surely the secret of many sorrows lies in this. How many a grief has been bred of idleness and leisure! How many a Spartan youth has nursed a bosom-devouring fox for very lack of better employment! Do the gentlemen who write the leaders in our daily journals ever die of grief? Do the barristers whose names appear in almost every case reported in those journals go mad for love unrequited? Did the Lady with the lamp cherish any foolish passion in those days and nights of ceaseless toil, in those long watches of patient devotion far away in the East? Do the curates of over-crowded parishes, the chaplains of gaols and convict-ships, the great medical attendants in the wards of hospitals--do they make for themselves the griefs that kill? Surely not. With the busiest of us there may be some holy moments, some sacred hour snatched from the noise and confusion of the revolving wheel of Life's machinery, and offered up as a sacrifice to sorrow and care; but the interval is brief, and the great wheel rolls on, and we have no time to pine or die. So Lucy Floyd, having nothing better to do, nursed and made much of her hopeless passion. She set up an altar for the skeleton, and worshipped at the shrine of her grief; and when people told her of her pale face, and the family doctor wondered at the failure of his quinine mixture, perhaps she nourished a vague hope that before the spring-time came back again, bringing with it the wedding-day of Talbot and Aurora, she would have escaped from all this demonstrative love and happiness, and be at rest. Aurora answered Lady Raleigh Bulstrode's letter with an epistle expressive of such gratitude and humility, such earnest hope of winning the love of Talbot's mother, mingled with a dim fearfulness of never being worthy of that affection, as won the Cornish lady's regard for her future daughter. It was difficult to associate the impetuous girl with that letter, and Lady Bulstrode made an image of the writer that very much differed from the fearless and dashing original. She wrote Aurora a second letter, more affectionately worded than the first, and promised the motherless girl a daughter's welcome at Bulstrode. "Will she ever let me call her 'mother,' Talbot?" Aurora asked, as she read Lady Bulstrode's second letter, to her lover. "She is very proud, is she not?--proud of your ancient descent? My father comes from a Glasgow mercantile family, and I do not even know anything about my mother's relations." Talbot answered her with a grave smile. "She will accept you for your native worth, dearest Aurora," he said, "and will ask no foolish questions about the pedigree of such a man as Archibald Floyd; a man whom the proudest aristocrat in England might be glad to call his father-in-law. She will reverence my Aurora's transparent soul and candid nature, and will bless me for the choice I have made." "I shall love her very dearly if she will only let me. Should I have ever cared about horse-racing, and read sporting-papers, if I could have called a good woman 'mother?'" She seemed to ask this question rather of herself than of Talbot. Complete as was Archibald Floyd's satisfaction at his daughter's disposal of her heart, the old man could not calmly contemplate a separation from this idolized daughter; so Aurora told Talbot that she could never take up her abode in Cornwall during her father's lifetime; and it was finally arranged that the young couple were to spend half the year in London, and the other half at Felden Woods. What need had the lonely widower of that roomy mansion, with its long picture-gallery and snug suites of apartments, each of them large enough to accommodate a small family? What need had one solitary old man of that retinue of servants, the costly stud in the stables, the new-fangled vehicles in the coach-houses, the hot-house flowers, the pines and grapes and peaches, cultivated by three Scottish gardeners? What need had he of these things? He lived principally in the study in which he had once had a stormy interview with his only child; the study in which hung the crayon portrait of Eliza Floyd; the room which contained an old-fashioned desk he had bought for a guinea in his boyhood, and in which there were certain letters written by a hand that was dead, some tresses of purple-black hair cut from the head of a corpse, and a pasteboard ticket, printed at a little town in Lancashire, calling upon the friends and patrons of Miss Eliza Percival to come to the theatre, for her especial benefit, upon the night of August 20, 1837. It was decided, therefore, that Felden Woods was to be the country residence of Talbot and Aurora, till such time as the young man should succeed to the baronetcy and Bulstrode Castle, and be required to live upon his estate. In the mean time the ex-hussar was to go into Parliament, if the electors of a certain little borough in Cornwall, which had always sent a Bulstrode to Westminster, should be pleased to return him. The marriage was to take place early in May, and the honeymoon was to be spent in Switzerland and at Bulstrode Castle. Mrs. Walter Powell thought that her doom was sealed, and that she would have to quit those pleasant pastures after the wedding-day; but Aurora speedily set the mind of the ensign's widow at rest by telling her that as she, Miss Floyd, was utterly ignorant of housekeeping, she would be happy to retain her services after marriage as guide and adviser in such matters. The poor about Beckenham were not forgotten in Aurora Floyd's morning drives with Lucy and Talbot. Parcels of grocery and bottles of wine often lurked beneath the crimson-lined leopard-skin carriage-rug; and it was no uncommon thing for Talbot to find himself making a footstool of a huge loaf of bread. The poor were very hungry in that bright December weather, and had all manner of complaints, which, however otherwise dissimilar, were all to be benefited by one especial treatment; namely, half-sovereigns, old brown sherry, French brandy, and gunpowder tea. Whether the daughter was dying of consumption, or the father laid up with the rheumatics, or the husband in a raging fever, or the youngest boy recovering from a fall into a copper of boiling water, the above-named remedies seemed alike necessary, and were far more popular than the chicken-broths and cooling fever-drinks prepared by the Felden cook. It pleased Talbot to see his betrothed dispensing good things to the eager recipients of her bounty. It pleased him to think how even his mother must have admired this high-spirited girl, content to sit down in close cottage chambers and talk to rheumatic old women. Lucy distributed little parcels of tracts prepared by Mrs. Alexander, and flannel garments made by her own white hands; but Aurora gave the half-sovereigns and the old sherry; and I'm afraid these simple cottagers liked the heiress best; although they were wise enough and just enough to know that each lady gave according to her means. It was in returning from a round of these charitable visits that an adventure befell the little party, which was by no means pleasing to Captain Bulstrode. Aurora had driven further than usual, and it was striking four as her ponies dashed past Beckenham church and down the hill towards Felden Woods. The afternoon was cold and cheerless; light flakes of snow drifted across the hard road, and hung here and there upon the leafless hedges, and there was that inky blackness in the sky which presages a heavy fall. The woman at the lodge ran out with her apron over her head to open the gates as Miss Floyd's ponies approached, and at the same moment a man rose from a bank by the roadside, and came close up to the little carriage. He was a broad-shouldered, stout-built fellow, wearing a shabby velveteen cut-away coat, slashed about with abnormal pockets, and white and greasy at the seams and elbows. His chin was muffled in two or three yards of dirty woollen comforter, after the fashion of his kind; and the band of his low-crowned felt hat was ornamented with a short clay pipe, coloured of a respectable blackness. A dingy white dog, with a brass collar, bow legs, a short nose, blood-shot eyes, one ear, a hanging jaw, and a generally supercilious expression of countenance, rose from the bank at the same moment with his master, and growled ominously at the elegant vehicle and the mastiff Bow-wow trotting by its side. The stranger was the same individual who had accosted Miss Floyd in Cockspur Street three months before. I do not know whether Aurora recognized this person; but I know that she touched her ponies' ears with the whip, and that the spirited animals had dashed past the man, and through the gates of Felden, when he sprang forward, caught at their heads, and stopped the light basket-carriage, which rocked under the force of his strong hand. Talbot Bulstrode leapt from the vehicle, heedless of his stiff leg, and caught the man by the collar. "Let go that bridle!" he cried, lifting his cane; "how dare you stop this lady's ponies?" "Because I wanted to speak to her, that's why. Let go o' my coat, will yer?" The dog made at Talbot's legs, but the young man whirled round his cane and inflicted such chastisement upon the snub nose of that animal as sent him into temporary retirement, howling dismally. "You are an insolent scoundrel, and I've a good mind to----" "Yer'd be hinserlent, p'raps, if yer was hungry," answered the man, with a pitiful whine, which was meant to be conciliating. "Such weather as this here's all very well for young swells such as you, as has your dawgs and guns and 'untin'; but the winter's tryin' to a poor man's temper, when he's industrious and willin', and can't get a stroke of honest work to do, or a mouthful of vittals. I only want to speak to the young lady; she knows me well enough." "Which young lady?" "Miss Floyd; the heiress." They were standing a little way from the pony-carriage. Aurora had risen from her seat and flung the reins to Lucy; she was looking towards the two men, pale and breathless, doubtless terrified for the result of the encounter. Talbot released the man's collar, and went back to Miss Floyd. "Do you know this person, Aurora?" he asked. "Yes." "He is one of your old pensioners, I suppose?" "He is; do not say anything more to him, Talbot. His manner is rough, but he means no harm. Stop with Lucy while I speak to him." Rapid and impetuous in all her movements, she sprang from the carriage and joined the man beneath the bare branches of the trees before Talbot could remonstrate. The dog, which had crawled slowly back to his master's side, fawned upon her as she approached, and was driven away by a fierce growl from Bow-wow, who was little likely to brook any such vulgar rivalry. The man removed his felt hat, and tugged ceremoniously at a tuft of sandyish hair which ornamented his low forehead. "You might have spoken to a cove without all this here row, Miss Floyd," he said, in an injured tone. Aurora looked at him indignantly. "Why did you stop me here?" she said; "why couldn't you write to me?" "Because writin's never so much good as speakin', and because such young ladies as you are uncommon difficult to get at. How did I know that your pa mightn't have put his hand upon my letter, and there'd have been a pretty to do? though I dessay, as for that, if I was to go up to the house, and ask the old gent for a trifle, he wouldn't be back'ard in givin' it. I dessay he'd be good for a fi'-pun note; or a tenner, if it came to that." Aurora's eyes flashed sparks of fire as she turned upon the speaker. "If ever you dare to annoy my father you shall pay dearly for it, Matthew Harrison," she said; "not that _I_ fear anything you can say, but I will not have him annoyed; I will not have him tormented. He has borne enough, and suffered enough, Heaven knows, without that. I will not have him harassed, and his best and tenderest feelings made a market of, by such as you. I will not!" She stamped her foot upon the frosty ground as she spoke. Talbot Bulstrode saw and wondered at the gesture. He had half a mind to leave the carriage and join Aurora and her petitioner; but the ponies were restless, and he knew that it would not do to abandon the reins to poor timid Lucy. "You needn't take on so, Miss Floyd," answered the man, whom Aurora had addressed as Matthew Harrison; "I'm sure I want to make things pleasant to all parties. All I ask is that you'll act a little liberal to a cove wot's come down in the world since you see him last. Lord, wot a world it is for ups and downs! If it had been the summer season, I'd have had no needs to worrit you; but what's the good of standin' at the top of Regent Street such weather as this with tarrier-pups and such likes? Old ladies has no eye for dawgs in the winter; and even the gents as cares for rat-catching is gettin' uncommon scarce. There aint nothink doin' on the turf whereby a chap can make a honest penny; nor won't be, come the Craven Meetin'. I'd never have come anigh you, miss, if I hadn't been hard up; and I know you'll act liberal." "Act liberally!" cried Aurora. "Good heavens! if every guinea I have, or ever hope to have, could blot out the business that you trade upon, I'd open my hands and let the money run through them as freely as so much water." "It was only good-natur'd of me to send you that ere paper, though, miss, eh?" said Mr. Matthew Harrison, plucking a dry twig from the tree nearest him, and chewing it for his delectation. Aurora and the man had walked slowly onward as they spoke, and were by this time at some distance from the pony-carriage. Talbot Bulstrode was in a fever of restless impatience. "Do you know this pensioner of your cousin's, Lucy?" he asked. "No, I can't remember his face. I don't think he belongs to Beckenham." "Why, if I hadn't have sent you that ere 'Life,' you wouldn't have know'd; would you now?" said the man. "No, no, perhaps not," answered Aurora. She had taken her porte-monnaie from her pocket, and Mr. Harrison was furtively regarding the little morocco receptacle with glistening eyes. "You don't ask me about any of the particklars," he said. "No. What should I care to know of them?" "No, certently," answered the man, suppressing a chuckle; "you know enough, if it comes to that; and if you wanted to know any more, I couldn't tell you; for them few lines in the paper is all I could ever get hold of about the business. But I allus said it, and I allus will; if a man as rides up'ards of eleven stone----" It seemed as if he were in a fair way of rambling on for ever so long, if Aurora had not checked him by an impatient frown. Perhaps he stopped all the more readily as she opened her purse at the same moment, and he caught sight of the glittering sovereigns lurking between leaves of crimson silk. He had no very acute sense of colour; but I am sure that he thought gold and crimson made a pleasing contrast, as he looked at the yellow coin in Miss Floyd's porte-monnaie. She poured the sovereigns into her own gloved palm, and then dropped the golden shower into Mr. Harrison's hands, which were hollowed into a species of horny basin for the reception of her bounty. The great trunk of an oak screened them from the observation of Talbot and Lucy, as Aurora gave the man this money. "You have no claim on me," she said, stopping him abruptly, as he began a declaration of his gratitude, "and I protest against your making a market of any past events which have come under your knowledge. Remember, once and for ever, that I am not afraid of you; and that if I consent to assist you, it is because I will not have my father annoyed. Let me have the address of some place where a letter may always find you,--you can put it into an envelope and direct it to me here,--and from time to time I promise to send you a moderate remittance; sufficient to enable you to lead an honest life, if you, or any of your set, are capable of doing so; but I repeat, that if I give you this money as a bribe, it is only for my father's sake." The man uttered some expression of thanks, looking at Aurora earnestly; but there was a stern shadow upon the dark face that forbade any hope of conciliation. She was turning from him, followed by the mastiff, when the bandy-legged dog ran forward, whining and raising himself upon his hind legs to lick her hand. The expression of her face underwent an immediate change. She shrank from the dog, and he looked at her for a moment with a dim uncertainty in his blood-shot eyes; then, as conviction stole upon the brute mind, he burst into a joyous bark, frisking and capering about Miss Floyd's silk dress, and imprinting dusty impressions of his fore paws upon the rich fabric. "The pore hanimal knows yer, miss," said the man, deprecatingly; "you was never 'aughty to 'im." The mastiff Bow-wow made as if he would have torn up every inch of ground in Felden Woods at this juncture; but Aurora quieted him with a look. "Poor Boxer!" she said; "poor Boxer! so you know me, Boxer." "Lord, miss, there's no knowin' the faithfulness of them animals." "Poor Boxer! I think I should like to have you. Would you sell him, Harrison?" The man shook his head. "No, miss," he answered, "thank you kindly; there aint much in the way of dawgs as I'd refuse to make a bargain about. If you wanted a mute spannel, or a Russian setter, or a Hile of Skye, I'd get him for you and welcome, and ask nothin' for my trouble; but this here bull-tarrier's father and mother and wife and fambly to me, and there aint money enough in your pa's bank to buy him, miss." "Well, well," said Aurora, relentingly, "I know how faithful he is. Send me the address, and don't come to Felden again." She returned to the carriage, and taking the reins from Talbot's hand, gave the restless ponies their head; the vehicle dashed past Mr. Matthew Harrison, who stood hat in hand, with his dog between his legs, until the party had gone by. Miss Floyd stole a glance at her lover's face, and saw that Captain Bulstrode's countenance wore its darkest expression. The officer kept sulky silence till they reached the house, when he handed the two ladies from the carriage and followed them across the hall. Aurora was on the lowest step of the broad staircase before he spoke. "Aurora," he said, "one word before you go upstairs." She turned and looked at him a little defiantly; she was still very pale, and the fire with which her eyes had flashed upon Mr. Matthew Harrison, dog-fancier and rat-catcher, had not yet died out of the dark orbs. Talbot Bulstrode opened the door of a long chamber under the picture-gallery--half billiard-room, half library, and almost the pleasantest apartment in the house--and stood aside for Aurora to pass him. The young lady crossed the threshold as proudly as Marie Antoinette going to face her plebeian accusers. The room was empty. Miss Floyd seated herself in a low easy-chair by one of the two great fireplaces, and looked straight at the blaze. "I want to ask you about that man, Aurora," Captain Bulstrode said, leaning over a _prie-dieu_ chair, and playing nervously with the carved arabesques of the walnut-wood framework. "About which man?" This might have been prevarication in some women; from Aurora it was simply defiance, as Talbot knew. "The man who spoke to you in the avenue just now. Who is he, and what was his business with you?" Here Captain Bulstrode fairly broke down. He loved her, reader, he loved her, remember, and he was a coward. A coward under the influence of that most cowardly of all passions, LOVE!--the passion that could leave a stain upon a Nelson's name; the passion which might have made a dastard of the bravest of the three hundred at Thermopylæ, or the six hundred at Balaklava. He loved her, this unhappy young man, and he began to stammer, and hesitate, and apologize, shivering under the angry light in her wonderful eyes. "Believe me, Aurora, that I would not for the world play the spy upon your actions, or dictate to you the objects of your bounty. No, Aurora, not if my right to do so were stronger than it is, and I were twenty times your husband; but that man, that disreputable-looking fellow who spoke to you just now--I don't think he is the sort of person you ought to assist." "I dare say not," she said; "I have no doubt I assist many people who ought by rights to die in a workhouse or drop on the high-road; but, you see, if I stopped to question their deserts, they might die of starvation while I was making my inquiries; so perhaps it's better to throw away a few shillings upon some unhappy creature who is wicked enough to be hungry, and not good enough to deserve to have anything given him to eat." There was a recklessness about this speech that jarred upon Talbot, but he could not very well take objection to it; besides, it was leading away from the subject upon which he was so eager to be satisfied. "But that man, Aurora--who is he?" "A dog-fancier." Talbot shuddered. "I thought he was something horrible," he murmured; "but what, in Heaven's name, could he want of you, Aurora?" "What most of my petitioners want," she answered; "whether it's the curate of a new chapel with mediæval decorations, who wants to rival our Lady of Bons-secours upon one of the hills about Norwood; or a laundress, who has burnt a week's washing, and wants the means to make it good; or a lady of fashion, who is about to inaugurate a home for the children of indigent lucifer-match sellers; or a lecturer upon political economy, or Shelley and Byron, or upon Charles Dickens and the Modern Humorists, who is going to hold forth at Croydon: they all want the same thing; money! If I tell the curate that my principles are evangelical, and that I can't pray sincerely if there are candlesticks on the altar, he is not the less glad of my hundred pounds. If I inform the lady of fashion that I have peculiar opinions about the orphans of lucifer-match sellers, and cherish a theory of my own against the education of the masses, she will shrug her shoulders deprecatingly, but will take care to let me know that any donation Miss Floyd may be pleased to afford will be equally acceptable. If I told them that I had committed half a dozen murders, or that I had a silver statue of the winner of last year's Derby erected on an altar in my dressing-room, and did daily and nightly homage to it, they would take my money and thank me kindly for it, as that man did just now." "But one word, Aurora: does the man belong to this neighbourhood?" "No." "How, then, did you come to know him?" She looked at him for a moment; steadily, unflinchingly, with a thoughtful expression in that ever-changing countenance; looked as if she were mentally debating some point. Then rising suddenly, she gathered her shawl about her, and walked towards the door. She paused upon the threshold, and said-- "This cross-questioning is scarcely pleasant, Captain Bulstrode. If I choose to give a five-pound note to any person who may ask me for it, I expect full licence to do so; and I will not submit to be called to account for my actions--even by you." "Aurora!" The tenderly reproachful tone struck her to the heart. "You may believe, Talbot," she said,--"you must surely believe that I know too well the value of your love to imperil it by word or deed--you _must_ believe this." CHAPTER VIII. POOR JOHN MELLISH COMES BACK AGAIN. John Mellish grew weary of the great city of Paris. Better love, and contentment, and a crust in a _mansarde_, than stalled oxen or other costly food in the loftiest saloons _au premier_, with the most obsequious waiters to do us homage, repressing so much as a smile at our insular idiom. He grew heartily weary of the Rue de Rivoli, the gilded railings of the Tuileries gardens, and the leafless trees behind them. He was weary of the Place de la Concorde, and the Champs Elysées, and the rattle of the hoofs of the troop about his Imperial Highness's carriage, when Napoleon the Third, or the baby prince, took his airing. The plot was yet a-hatching which was to come so soon to a climax in the Rue Lepelletier. He was tired of the broad Boulevards, and the theatres, and the cafés, and the glove-shops--tired of staring at the jewellers' windows in the Rue de la Paix, picturing to himself the face of Aurora Floyd under the diamond and emerald tiaras displayed therein. He had serious thoughts at times of buying a stove and a basket of charcoal, and asphyxiating himself quietly in the great gilded saloon at Meurice's. What was the use of his money, or his dogs, or his horses, or his broad acres? All these put together would not purchase Aurora Floyd. What was the good of life, if it came to that, since the banker's daughter refused to share it with him? Remember that this big, blue-eyed, curly-haired John Mellish had been from his cradle a spoiled child,--spoiled by poor relations and parasites, servants and toadies, from the first hour to the thirtieth year of his existence,--and it seemed such a very hard thing that this beautiful woman should be denied to him. Had he been an eastern potentate, he would have sent for his vizier, and would have had that official bow-strung before his eyes, and so made an end of it; but being merely a Yorkshire gentleman and landowner, he had no more to do but to bear his burden quietly. As if he had ever borne anything quietly! He flung half the weight of his grief upon his valet; until that functionary dreaded the sound of Miss Floyd's name, and told a fellow-servant in confidence that his master "made such a howling about that young woman as he offered marriage to at Brighton, that there was no bearing him." The end of it all was, that one night John Mellish gave sudden orders for the striking of his tents, and early the next morning departed for the Great Northern Railway, leaving only the ashes of his fires behind him. It was only natural to suppose that Mr. Mellish would have gone straight to his country residence, where there was much business to be done by him: foals to be entered for coming races, trainers and stable-boys to be settled with, the planning and laying down of a proposed tan-gallop to be carried out, and a racing stud awaiting the eye of the master. But instead of going from the Dover Railway Station to the Great Northern Hotel, eating his dinner, and starting for Doncaster by the express, Mr. Mellish drove to the Gloucester Coffee-house, and there took up his quarters, for the purpose, as he said, of seeing the Cattle-show. He made a melancholy pretence of driving to Baker Street in a Hansom cab, and roamed hither and thither for a quarter of an hour, staring dismally into the pens, and then fled away precipitately from the Yorkshire gentlemen-farmers, who gave him hearty greeting. He left the Gloucester the next morning in a dog-cart, and drove straight to Beckenham. Archibald Floyd, who knew nothing of this young Yorkshireman's declaration and rejection, had given him a hearty invitation to Felden Woods. Why shouldn't he go there? Only to make a morning call upon the hospitable banker; not to see Aurora; only to take a few long respirations of the air she breathed before he went back to Yorkshire. Of course he knew nothing of Talbot Bulstrode's happiness; and it had been one of the chief consolations of his exile to remember that that gentleman had put forth in the same vessel, and had been shipwrecked along with him. He was ushered into the billiard-room, where he found Aurora Floyd seated at a little table near the fire, making a pencil copy of a proof engraving of one of Rosa Bonheur's pictures, while Talbot Bulstrode sat by her side preparing her pencils. We feel instinctively that the man who cuts lead-pencils, or holds a skein of silk upon his outstretched hands, or carries lap-dogs, opera-cloaks, camp-stools, or parasols, is "engaged." Even John Mellish had learned enough to know this. He breathed a sigh so loud as to be heard by Lucy and her mother seated by the other fireplace,--a sigh that was on the verge of a groan,--and then held out his hand to Miss Floyd. Not to Talbot Bulstrode. He had vague memories of Roman legends floating in his brain, legends of superhuman generosity and classic self-abnegation; but he could not have shaken hands with that dark-haired young Cornishman, though the tenure of the Mellish estate had hung upon the sacrifice. He could not do it. He seated himself a few paces from Aurora and her lover, twisting his hat about in his hot, nervous hands until the brim was well-nigh limp; and was powerless to utter one sentence, even so much as some poor pitiful remark about the weather. He was a great spoiled baby of thirty years of age; and I am afraid that, if the stern truth must be told, he saw Aurora Floyd across a mist, that blurred and distorted the bright face before his eyes. Lucy Floyd came to his relief, by carrying him off to introduce him to her mother; and kind-hearted Mrs. Alexander was delighted with his frank, fair English face. He had the good fortune to stand with his back to the light, so that neither of the ladies detected that foolish mist in his blue eyes. Archibald Floyd would not hear of his visitor's returning to town either that night or the next day. "You must spend Christmas with us," he said, "and see the New Year in, before you go back to Yorkshire. I have all my children about me at this season, and it is the only time that Felden seems like an old man's home. Your friend Bulstrode stops with us" (Mellish winced as he received this intelligence), "and I sha'n't think it friendly if you refuse to join our party." What a pitiful coward this John Mellish must have been to accept the banker's invitation, and send the Newport Pagnell back to the Gloucester, and suffer himself to be led away by Mr. Floyd's own man to a pleasant chamber, a few doors from the chintz-rooms occupied by Talbot! But I have said before, that love is a cowardly passion. It is like the toothache; the bravest and strongest succumb to it, and howl aloud under the torture. I don't suppose the Iron Duke would have been ashamed to own that he objected to having his teeth out. I have heard of a great fighting man who could take punishment better than any other of the genii of the ring, but who fainted away at the first grip of the dentist's forceps. John Mellish consented to stay at Felden, and he went between the lights into Talbot's dressing-room, to expostulate with the captain upon his treachery. Talbot did his best to console his doleful visitant. "There are more women than one in the world," he said, after John had unbosomed himself of his grief--he didn't think this, the hypocrite, though he said it--"there are more women than one, my dear Mellish; and there are many very charming and estimable girls, who would be glad to win the affections of such a fellow as you." "I hate estimable girls," said Mr. Mellish; "bother my affections! nobody will ever win my affections; but I love her, I love that beautiful black-eyed creature down-stairs, who looks at you with two flashes of lightning, and rides like young Challoner in a cloth habit; I love her, Bulstrode, and you told me that she'd refused you, and that you were going to leave Brighton by the eight o'clock express, and you didn't; and you sneaked back and made her a second offer, and she accepted you, and, damme, it wasn't fair play." Having said which, Mr. Mellish flung himself upon a chair, which creaked under his weight, and fell to poking the fire furiously. It was hard for poor Talbot to have to excuse himself for having won Aurora's hand. He could not very well remind John Mellish that if Miss Floyd had accepted him, it was perhaps because she preferred him to the honest Yorkshireman. To John the matter never presented itself in this light. The spoiled child had been cheated out of that toy above all other toys, upon the possession of which he had set his foolish heart. It was as if he had bidden for some crack horse at Tattersall's, in fair and open competition with a friend, who had gone back after the sale to outbid him in some underhand fashion. He could not understand that there had been no dishonesty in Talbot's conduct, and he was highly indignant when that gentleman ventured to hint to him that perhaps, on the whole, it would have been wiser to have kept away from Felden Woods. Talbot Bulstrode had avoided any further allusion to Mr. Matthew Harrison the dog-fancier; and this, the first dispute between the lovers, had ended in the triumph of Aurora. Miss Floyd was not a little embarrassed by the presence of John Mellish, who roamed disconsolately about the big rooms, seating himself ever and anon at one of the tables to peer into the lenses of a stereoscope, or to take up some gorgeously-bound volume and drop it on the carpet in gloomy absence of mind, and who sighed heavily when spoken to, and was altogether far from pleasant company. Aurora's warm heart was touched by the piteous spectacle of this rejected lover, and she sought him out once or twice, and talked to him about his racing stud, and asked him how he liked the hunting in Surrey; but John changed from red to white, and from hot to cold, when she spoke to him, and fled away from her with a scared and ghastly aspect, which would have been grotesque had it not been so painfully real. But by-and-by John found a more pitiful listener to his sorrows than ever Talbot Bulstrode had been; and this gentle and compassionate listener was no other than Lucy Floyd, to whom the big Yorkshireman turned in his trouble. Did he know, or did he guess, by some wondrous clairvoyance, that her griefs bore a common likeness to his own, and that she was just the one person, of all others at Felden Woods, to be pitiful to him and patient with him? He was by no means proud, this transparent, boyish, babyish good fellow. Two days after his arrival at Felden, he told all to poor Lucy. "I suppose you know, Miss Floyd," he said, "that your cousin rejected me. Yes, of course you do; I believe she rejected Bulstrode about the same time; but some men haven't a ha'porth of pride: I must say I think the captain acted like a sneak." A sneak! Her idol, her adored, her demi-god, her dark-haired and gray-eyed divinity, to be spoken of thus! She turned upon Mr. Mellish with her fair cheeks flushed into a pale glow of anger, and told him that Talbot had a right to do what he had done, and that whatever Talbot did was right. Like most men whose reflective faculties are entirely undeveloped, John Mellish was blessed with a sufficiently rapid perception; a perception sharpened just then by that peculiar sympathetic prescience, that marvellous clairvoyance of which I have spoken; and in those few indignant words, and that angry flush, he read poor Lucy's secret: she loved Talbot Bulstrode as he loved Aurora--hopelessly. How he admired this fragile girl, who was frightened of horses and dogs, and who shivered if a breath of the winter air blew across the heated hall, and who yet bore her burden with this quiet, uncomplaining patience! while he, who weighed fourteen stone, and could ride forty miles across country with the bitterest blasts of December blowing in his face, was powerless to endure his affliction. It comforted him to watch Lucy, and to read in those faint signs and tokens, which had escaped even a mother's eye, the sad history of her unrequited affection. Poor John was too good-natured and unselfish to hold out for ever in the dreary fortress of despair which he had built up for his habitation; and on Christmas-eve, when there were certain rejoicings at Felden, held in especial honour of the younger visitors, he gave way, and joined in their merriment, and was more boyish than the youngest of them, burning his fingers with blazing raisins, suffering his eyes to be bandaged at the will of noisy little players at blindman's-buff, undergoing ignominious penalties in their games of forfeits, performing alternately innkeepers, sheriff's officers, policemen, clergymen, and justices, in the acted charades, lifting the little ones who wanted to see "de top of de Kitmat tee" in his sturdy arms, and making himself otherwise agreeable and useful to young people of from three to fifteen years of age; until at last, under the influence of all this juvenile gaiety, and perhaps two or three glasses of Moselle, he boldly kissed Aurora Floyd beneath the branch of mistletoe, hanging, "for this night only," in the great hall at Felden Woods. And having done this, Mr. Mellish fairly lost his wits, and was "off his head" for the rest of the evening; making speeches to the little ones at the supper-table, and proposing Mr. Archibald Floyd and the commercial interests of Great Britain, with three times three; leading the chorus of those tiny treble voices with his own sonorous bass; and weeping freely--he never quite knew why--behind his table-napkin. It was through an atmosphere of tears, and sparkling wines, and gas, and hot-house flowers, that he saw Aurora Floyd, looking, ah, how lovely! in those simple robes of white which so much became her, and with a garland of artificial holly round her head. The spiked leaves and the scarlet berries formed themselves into a crown--I think, indeed, that a cheese-plate would have been transformed into a diadem, if Miss Floyd had been pleased to put it on her head--and she looked like the genius of Christmas: something bright and beautiful; too beautiful to come more than once a year. When the clocks were striking 2 a.m., long after the little ones had been carried away muffled up in opera-cloaks, terribly sleepy, and I'm afraid in some instances under the influence of strong drink,--when the elder guests had all retired to rest, and the lights, with a few exceptions, were fled, the garlands dead, and all but Talbot and John Mellish departed, the two young men walked up and down the long billiard-room, in the red glow of the two declining fires, and talked to each other confidentially. It was the morning of Christmas-day, and it would have been strange to be unfriendly at such a time. "If you'd fallen in love with the other one, Bulstrode," said John, clasping his old school-fellow by the hand, and staring at him pathetically, "I could have looked upon you as a brother; she's better suited to you, twenty thousand times better adapted to you, than her cousin, and you ought to have married her--in common courtesy--I mean to say as an honourable--having very much compromised yourself by your attentions--Mrs. Whatshername--the companion--Mrs. Powell--said so--you ought to have married her." "Married her! Married whom?" cried Talbot rather savagely, shaking off his friend's hot grasp, and allowing Mr. Mellish to sway backward upon the heels of his varnished boots in rather an alarming manner. "Who do you mean?" "The sweetest girl in Christendom--except one," exclaimed John, clasping his hot hands and elevating his dim blue eyes to the ceiling; "the loveliest girl in Christendom, except one--Lucy Floyd." "Lucy Floyd!" "Yes, Lucy; the sweetest girl in----" "Who says that I ought to marry Lucy Floyd?" "She says so--no, no, I don't mean that! I mean," said Mr. Mellish, sinking his voice to a solemn whisper,--"I mean that Lucy Floyd loves you! She didn't tell me so--oh, no, bless your soul,--she never uttered a word upon the subject; but she loves you. Yes," continued John, pushing his friend away from him with both hands, and staring at him as if mentally taking his pattern for a suit of clothes, "that girl loves you, and has loved you all along. I am not a fool, and I give you my word and honour that Lucy Floyd loves you." "Not a fool!" cried Talbot; "you're worse than a fool, John Mellish--you're drunk!" He turned upon his heel contemptuously, and taking a candle from a table near the door, lighted it, and strode out of the room. John stood rubbing his hands through his curly hair, and staring helplessly after the captain. "This is the reward a fellow gets for doing a generous thing," he said, as he thrust his own candle into the burning coals, ignoring any easier mode of lighting it. "It's hard, but I suppose it's human nature." Talbot Bulstrode went to bed in a very bad humour. Could it be true that Lucy loved him? Could this chattering Yorkshireman have discovered a secret which had escaped the captain's penetration? He remembered how, only a short time before, he had wished that this fair-haired girl might fall in love with him, and now all was trouble and confusion. Guinevere was lady of his heart, and poor Elaine was sadly in the way. Mr. Tennyson's wondrous book had not been given to the world in the year fifty-seven, or no doubt poor Talbot would have compared himself to the knight whose "honour rooted in dishonour stood." Had he been dishonourable? Had he compromised himself by his attentions to Lucy? Had he deceived that fair and gentle creature? The down pillows in the chintz chamber gave no rest to his weary head that night; and when he fell asleep in the late daybreak, it was to dream horrible dreams, and to see in a vision Aurora Floyd standing on the brink of a clear pool of water in a woody recess at Felden, and pointing down through its crystal surface to the corpse of Lucy, lying pale and still amidst lilies and clustering aquatic plants, whose long tendrils entwined themselves with the fair golden hair. He heard the splash of the water in that terrible dream, and awoke, to find his valet breaking the ice in his bath in the adjoining room. His perplexities about poor Lucy vanished in the broad daylight, and he laughed at a trouble which must have grown out of his own vanity. What was he, that young ladies should fall in love with him? What a weak fool he must have been to have believed for one moment in the drunken babble of John Mellish! So he dismissed the image of Aurora's cousin from his mind, and had eyes, ears, and thought only for Aurora herself, who drove him to Beckenham church in her basket-carriage, and sat by his side in the banker's great square pew. Alas, I fear he heard very little of the sermon that was preached that day; but, for all that, I declare that he was a good and devout man: a man whom God had blest with the gift of earnest belief; a man who took all blessings from the hand of God reverently, almost fearfully; and as he bowed his head at the end of that Christmas service of rejoicing and thanksgiving, he thanked Heaven for his overflowing cup of gladness, and prayed that he might become worthy of so much happiness. He had a vague fear that he was too happy; too much bound up heart and soul in the dark-eyed woman by his side. If she were to die! If she were to be false to him! He turned sick and dizzy at the thought; and even in that sacred temple the Devil whispered to him that there were still pools, loaded pistols, and other certain remedies for such calamities as those,--so wicked as well as cowardly a passion is this terrible fever, Love! The day was bright and clear, the light snow whitening the ground; every line of hedge-top and tree cut sharply out against the cold blue of the winter sky. The banker proposed that they should send home the carriages, and walk down the hill to Felden; so Talbot Bulstrode offered Aurora his arm, only too glad of the chance of a _tête-à-tête_ with his betrothed. John Mellish walked with Archibald Floyd, with whom the Yorkshireman was an especial favourite; and Lucy was lost amid a group of brothers, sisters, and cousins. "We were so busy all yesterday with the little people," said Talbot, "that I forgot to tell you, Aurora, that I had had a letter from my mother." Miss Floyd looked up at him with her brightest glance. She was always pleased to hear anything about Lady Bulstrode. "Of course there is very little news in the letter," added Talbot, "for there is rarely much to tell at Bulstrode. And yet--yes--there is one piece of news which concerns yourself." "Which concerns me?" "Yes. You remember my cousin, Constance Trevyllian?" "Y-es--" "She has returned from Paris, her education finished at last, and she, I believe, all-accomplished, and has gone to spend Christmas at Bulstrode. Good heavens, Aurora! what is the matter?" Nothing very much, apparently. Her face had grown as white as a sheet of letter-paper; but the hand upon his arm did not tremble. Perhaps, had he taken especial notice of it, he would have found it preternaturally still. "Aurora, what is the matter?" "Nothing. Why do you ask?" "Your face is as pale as----" "It is the cold, I suppose," she said, shivering. "Tell me about your cousin, this Miss Trevyllian; when did she go to Bulstrode Castle?" "She was to arrive the day before yesterday. My mother was expecting her when she wrote." "Is she a favourite of Lady Bulstrode's?" "No very especial favourite. My mother likes her well enough; but Constance is rather a frivolous girl." "The day before yesterday," said Aurora; "Miss Trevyllian was to arrive the day before yesterday. The letters from Cornwall are delivered at Felden early in the afternoon; are they not?" "Yes, dear." "You will have a letter from your mother today, Talbot." "A letter to-day! oh, no, Aurora, she never writes two days running; seldom more than once a week." Miss Floyd did not make any answer to this, nor did her face regain its natural hue during the whole of the homeward walk. She was very silent, only replying in the briefest manner to Talbot's inquiries. "I am sure that you are ill, Aurora," he said, as they ascended the terrace steps. "I am ill." "But, dearest, what is it? Let me tell Mrs. Alexander, or Mrs. Powell. Let me go back to Beckenham for the doctor." She looked at him with a mournful earnestness in her eyes. "My foolish Talbot," she said, "do you remember what Macbeth said to _his_ doctor? There are diseases that cannot be ministered to. Let me alone; you will know soon enough--you will know very soon, I dare say." "But, Aurora, what do you mean by this? What can there be upon your mind?" "Ah, what indeed! Let me alone, let me alone, Captain Bulstrode." He had caught her hand; but she broke from him, and ran up the staircase, in the direction of her own apartments. Talbot hurried to Lucy, with a pale, frightened, face. "Your cousin is ill, Lucy," he said; "go to her, for Heaven's sake, and see what is wrong." Lucy obeyed immediately; but she found the door of Miss Floyd's room locked against her; and when she called to Aurora, and implored to be admitted, that young lady cried out-- "Go away, Lucy Floyd! go away, and leave me to myself, unless you want to drive me mad!" CHAPTER IX. HOW TALBOT BULSTRODE SPENT HIS CHRISTMAS. There was no more happiness for Talbot Bulstrode that day. He wandered from room to room, till he was as weary of that exercise as the young lady in Monk Lewis's 'Castle Spectre;' he roamed forlornly hither and thither, hoping to find Aurora, now in the billiard-room, now in the drawing-room. He loitered in the hall, upon the shallow pretence of looking at barometers and thermometers, in order to listen for the opening and shutting of Aurora's door. All the doors at Felden Woods were perpetually opening and shutting that afternoon, as it seemed to Talbot Bulstrode. He had no excuse for passing the doors of Miss Floyd's apartments, for his own rooms lay at the opposite angle of the house; but he lingered on the broad staircase, looking at the furniture-pictures upon the walls, and not seeing one line in these Wardour-Street productions. He had hoped that Aurora would appear at luncheon; but that dismal meal had been eaten without her; and the merry laughter and pleasant talk of the family assembly had sounded far away to Talbot's ears--far away across some wide ocean of doubt and confusion. He passed the afternoon in this wretched manner, unobserved by any one but Lucy, who watched him furtively from her distant seat, as he roamed in and out of the drawing-room. Ah, how many a man is watched by loving eyes whose light he never sees! How many a man is cared for by a tender heart whose secret he never learns! A little after dusk, Talbot Bulstrode went to his room to dress. It was some time before the bell would ring; but he would dress early, he thought, so as to make sure of being in the drawing-room when Aurora came down. He took no light with him, for there were always wax-candles upon the chimney-piece in his room. It was almost dark in that pleasant chintz chamber, for the fire had been lately replenished, and there was no blaze; but he could just distinguish a white patch upon the green-cloth cover of the writing-table. The white patch was a letter. He stirred the black mass of coal in the grate, and a bright flame went dancing up the chimney, making the room as light as day. He took the letter in one hand, while he lighted one of the candles on the chimney-piece with the other. The letter was from his mother. Aurora Floyd had told him that he would receive such a letter. What did it all mean? The gay flowers and birds upon the papered walls spun round him as he tore open the envelope. I firmly believe that we have a semi-supernatural prescience of the coming of all misfortune; a prophetic instinct, which tells us that such a letter, or such a messenger, carries evil tidings. Talbot Bulstrode had that prescience as he unfolded the paper in his hands. The horrible trouble was before him; a brooding shadow, with a veiled face, ghastly and undefined; but it was _there._ "My dear Talbot,--I know that the letter I am about to write will distress and perplex you; but my duty lies not the less plainly before me. I fear that your heart is much involved in your engagement to Miss Floyd." The evil tidings concerned Aurora, then; the brooding shadow was slowly lifting its dark veil, and the face of her he loved best on earth appeared behind it. "But I know," continued that pitiless letter, "that the sense of honour is the strongest part of your nature, and that, however you may have loved this girl" (O God, she spoke of his love in the past!), "you will not suffer yourself to be entrapped into a false position through any weakness of affection. There is some mystery about the life of Aurora Floyd." This sentence was at the bottom of the first page; and before Talbot Bulstrode's shaking hand could turn the leaf, every doubt, every fear, every presentiment he had ever felt, flashed back upon him with preternatural distinctness. "Constance Trevyllian came here yesterday; and you may imagine that in the course of the evening you were spoken of, and your engagement discussed." A curse upon their frivolous women's gossip! Talbot crushed the letter in his hand, and was about to fling it from him; but, no, it _must_ be read. The shadow of doubt must be faced, and wrestled with, and vanquished, or there was no more peace upon this earth for him. He went on reading the letter. "I told Constance that Miss Floyd had been educated in the Rue St.-Dominique, and asked if she remembered her. 'What!' she said, 'is it the Miss Floyd whom there was such a fuss about? the Miss Floyd who ran away from school?' And she told me, Talbot, that a Miss Floyd was brought to the Desmoiselles Lespard by her father last June twelvemonth, and that less than a fortnight after arriving at the school she disappeared; her disappearance of course causing a great sensation and an immense deal of talk among the other pupils, as it was said she had _run away_. The matter was hushed up as much as possible; but you know that girls will talk, and from what Constance tells me, I imagine that very unpleasant things were said about Miss Floyd. Now you say that the banker's daughter only returned to Felden Woods in September last. _Where was she in the interval?_" He read no more. One glance told him that the rest of the letter consisted of motherly cautions, and admonitions as to how he was to act in this perplexing business. He thrust the crumpled paper into his bosom, and dropped into a chair by the hearth. It was so, then! There was a mystery in the life of this woman. The doubts and suspicions, the undefined fears and perplexities, which had held him back at the first, and caused him to wrestle against his love, had not been unfounded. There was good reason for them all, ample reason for them; as there is for every instinct which Providence puts into our hearts. A black wall rose up round about him, and shut him for ever from the woman he loved; this woman whom he loved, so far from wisely, so fearfully well; this woman, for whom he had thanked God in the church only a few hours before. And she was to have been his wife; the mother of his children, perhaps. He clasped his cold hands over his face and sobbed aloud. Do not despise him for those drops of anguish: they were the virgin tears of his manhood. Never since infancy had his eyes been wet before. God forbid that such tears as those should be shed more than once in a lifetime! The agony of that moment was not to be lived through twice. The hoarse sobs rent and tore his breast as if his flesh had been hacked by a rusty sword; and when he took his wet hands from his face, he wondered that they were not red; for it seemed to him as if he had been weeping blood. What should he do? Go to Aurora, and ask her the meaning of that letter? Yes; the course was plain enough. A tumult of hope rushed back upon him, and swept away his terror. Why was he so ready to doubt her? What a pitiful coward he was to suspect her--to suspect this girl, whose transparent soul had been so freely unveiled to him; whose every accent was truth! For in his intercourse with Aurora, the quality which he had learned most to reverence in her nature was its sublime candour. He almost laughed at the recollection of his mother's solemn letter. It was so like these simple country people, whose lives had been bounded by the narrow limits of a Cornish village--it was so like them to make mountains out of the veriest mole-hills. What was there so wonderful in that which had occurred? The spoiled child, the wilful heiress, had grown tired of a foreign school, and had run away. Her father, not wishing the girlish escapade to be known, had placed her somewhere else, and had kept her folly a secret. What was there from first to last in the whole affair that was not perfectly natural and probable, the exceptional circumstances of the case duly considered? He could fancy Aurora, with her cheeks in a flame, and her eyes flashing lightning, flinging a page of blotted exercises into the face of her French master, and running out of the schoolroom, amid a tumult of ejaculatory babble. The beautiful, impetuous creature! There is nothing a man cannot admire in the woman he loves, and Talbot was half inclined to admire Aurora for having run away from school. The first dinner-bell had rung during Captain Bulstrode's agony; so the corridors and rooms were deserted when he went to look for Aurora, with his mother's letter in his breast. She was not in the billiard-room or the drawing-room, but he found her at last in a little inner chamber at the end of the house, with a bay-window looking out over the park. The room was dimly lighted by a shaded lamp, and Miss Floyd was seated in the uncurtained window, with her elbow resting on a cushioned ledge, looking out at the steel-cold wintry sky and the whitened landscape. She was dressed in black; her face, neck, and arms gleaming marble-white against the sombre hue of her dress; and her attitude was as still as that of a statue. She neither stirred nor looked round when Talbot entered the room. "My dear Aurora," he said, "I have been looking for you everywhere." She shivered at the sound of his voice. "You wanted to see me?" "Yes, dearest. I want you to explain something to me. A foolish business enough, no doubt, my darling, and, of course, very easily explained; but, as your future husband, I have a right to ask for an explanation; and I know, I know, Aurora, that you will give it in all candour." She did not speak, although Talbot paused for some moments, awaiting her answer. He could only see her profile, dimly lighted by the wintry sky. He could not see the mute pain, the white anguish, in that youthful face. "I have had a letter from my mother, and there is something in that letter which I wish you to explain. Shall I read it to you, dearest?" His voice faltered upon the endearing expression, and he remembered afterwards that it was the last time he had ever addressed her with a lover's tenderness. The day came when she had need of his compassion, and when he gave it freely; but that moment sounded the death-knell of Love. In that moment the gulf yawned, and the cliffs were rent asunder. "Shall I read you the letter, Aurora?" "If you please." He took the crumpled epistle from his bosom, and, bending over the lamp, read it aloud to Aurora. He fully expected at every sentence that she would interrupt him with some eager explanation; but she was silent until he had finished, and even then she did not speak. "Aurora, Aurora, is this true?" "Perfectly true." "But why did you run away from the Rue St.-Dominique?" "I cannot tell you." "And where were you between the month of June in the year fifty-six and last September?" "I cannot tell you, Talbot Bulstrode. This is my secret, which I cannot tell you." "You cannot tell me! There is upwards of a year missing from your life; and you cannot tell me, your betrothed husband, what you did with that year?" "I cannot." "Then, Aurora Floyd, you can never be my wife." He thought that she would turn upon him, sublime in her indignation and fury, and that the explanation he longed for would burst from her lips in a passionate torrent of angry words; but she rose from her chair, and, tottering towards him, fell upon her knees at his feet. No other action could have struck such terror to his heart. It seemed to him a confession of guilt. But what guilt? what guilt? What was the dark secret of this young creature's brief life? "Talbot Bulstrode," she said, in a tremulous voice, which cut him to the soul,--"Talbot Bulstrode, Heaven knows how often I have foreseen and dreaded this hour. Had I not been a coward, I should have anticipated this explanation. But I thought--I thought the occasion might never come; or that when it did come you would be generous--and--trust me. If you can trust me, Talbot; if you can believe that this secret is not utterly shameful----" "Not utterly shameful!" he cried. "O God! Aurora, that I should ever hear you talk like this! Do you think there are any degrees in these things? There must be _no_ secret between my wife and me; and the day that a secret, or the shadow of one, arises between us, must see us part for ever. Rise from your knees, Aurora; you are killing me with this shame and humiliation. Rise from your knees; and if we are to part this moment, tell me, tell me, for pity's sake, that I have no need to despise myself for having loved you with an intensity which has scarcely been manly." She did not obey him, but sank lower in her half-kneeling, half-crouching attitude, her face buried in her hands, and only the coils of her black hair visible to Captain Bulstrode. "I was motherless from my cradle, Talbot," she said, in a half-stifled voice. "Have pity upon me." "Pity!" echoed the captain; "_pity!_ Why do you not ask me for _justice?_ One question, Aurora Floyd; one more question; perhaps the last I ever may ask of you. Does your father know why you left that school, and where you were during that twelvemonth?" "He does." "Thank God, at least, for that! Tell me, Aurora, then--only tell me this, and I will believe your simple word as I would the oath of another woman. Tell me if he approved of your motive in leaving that school; if he approved of the manner in which your life was spent during that twelvemonth. If you can say yes, Aurora, there shall be no more questions between us, and I can make you without fear my loved and honoured wife." "I cannot," she answered. "I am only nineteen; but within the two last years of my life I have done enough to break my father's heart; to break the heart of the dearest father that ever breathed the breath of life." "Then all is over between us. God forgive you, Aurora Floyd; but by your own confession you are no fit wife for an honourable man. I shut my mind against all foul suspicions; but the past life of my wife must be a white unblemished page, which all the world may be free to read." He walked towards the door, and then, returning, assisted the wretched girl to rise, and led her back to her seat by the window, courteously, as if she had been his partner at a ball. Their hands met with as icy a touch as the hands of two corpses. Ah, how much there was of death in that touch! How much had died between those two within the last few hours!--hope, confidence, security, love, happiness; all that makes life worth the holding. Talbot Bulstrode paused upon the threshold of the little chamber, and spoke once more. "I shall have left Felden in half an hour, Miss Floyd," he said; "it will be better to allow your father to suppose that the disagreement between us has arisen from something of a trifling nature, and that my dismissal has come from you. I shall write to Mr. Floyd from London, and, if you please, I will so word my letter as to lead him to think this." "You are very good," she answered. "Yes, I would rather he should think that. It may spare him pain. Heaven knows I have cause to be grateful for anything that will do that." Talbot bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. The closing of that door had a dismal sound to his ear. He thought of some frail young creature abandoned by her sister nuns in a living tomb. He thought that he would rather have left Aurora lying rigidly beautiful in her coffin than as he was leaving her to-day. The jangling, jarring sound of the second dinner-bell clanged out, as he went from the semi-obscurity of the corridor into the glaring gaslight of the billiard-room. He met Lucy Floyd coming towards him in her rustling silk dinner-dress, with fringes and laces and ribbons and jewels fluttering and sparkling about her; and he almost hated her for looking so bright and radiant, remembering, as he did, the ghastly face of the stricken creature he had just left. We are apt to be horribly unjust in the hour of supreme trouble; and I fear that if any one had had the temerity to ask Talbot Bulstrode's opinion of Lucy Floyd just at that moment, the captain would have declared her to be a mass of frivolity and affectation. If you discover the worthlessness of the only woman you love upon earth, you will perhaps be apt to feel maliciously disposed towards the many estimable people about you. You are savagely inclined, when you remember that they for whom you care nothing are so good, while she on whom you set your soul is so wicked. The vessel which you freighted with every hope of your heart has gone down; and you are angry at the very sight of those other ships riding so gallantly before the breeze. Lucy recoiled at the aspect of the young man's face. "What is it?" she asked; "what has happened, Captain Bulstrode?" "Nothing--I have received a letter from Cornwall which obliges me to----" His hollow voice died away into a hoarse whisper before he could finish the sentence. "Lady Bulstrode--or Sir John--is ill perhaps?" hazarded Lucy. Talbot pointed to his white lips and shook his head. The gesture might mean anything. He could not speak. The hall was full of visitors and children going into dinner. The little people were to dine with their seniors that day, as an especial treat and privilege of the season. The door of the dining-room was open, and Talbot saw the gray head of Archibald Floyd dimly visible at the end of a long vista of lights and silver and glass and evergreens. The old man had his nephews and nieces and their children grouped about him; but the place at his right hand, the place Aurora was meant to fill, was vacant. Captain Bulstrode turned away from that gaily-lighted scene and ran up the staircase to his room, where he found his servant waiting with his master's clothes laid out, wondering why he had not come to dress. The man fell back at the sight of Talbot's face, ghastly in the light of the wax-candles on the dressing-table. "I am going away, Philman," said the captain, speaking very fast, and in a thick indistinct voice. "I am going down to Cornwall by the express to-night, if I can get to Town in time to catch the train. Pack my clothes and come after me. You can join me at the Paddington Station. I shall walk up to Beckenham, and take the first train for Town. Here, give this to the servants for me, will you?" He took a confused heap of gold and silver from his pocket, and dropped it into the man's hand. "Nothing wrong at Bulstrode, I hope, sir?" said the servant. "Is Sir John ill?" "No, no; I've had a letter from my mother--I--you'll find me at the Great Western." He snatched up his hat, and was hurrying from the room; but the man followed him with his greatcoat. "You'll catch your death, sir, on such a night as this," the servant said, in a tone of respectful remonstrance. The banker was standing at the door of the dining-room when Talbot crossed the hall. He was telling a servant to look for his daughter. "We are all waiting for Miss Floyd," the old man said; "we cannot begin dinner without Miss Floyd." Unobserved in the confusion, Talbot opened the great door softly, and let himself out into the cold winter's night. The long terrace was all ablaze with the lights in the high narrow windows, as upon the night when he had first come to Felden; and before him lay the park, the trees bare and leafless, the ground white with a thin coating of snow, the sky above gray and starless,--a cold and desolate expanse, in dreary contrast with the warmth and brightness behind. All this was typical of the crisis of his life. He was leaving warm love and hope, for cold resignation or icy despair. He went down the terrace-steps, across the trim garden-walks and out into that wide, mysterious park. The long avenue was ghostly in the gray light, the tracery of the interlacing branches above his head making black shadows, that flickered to and fro upon the whitened ground beneath his feet. He walked for a quarter of a mile before he looked back at the lighted windows behind him. He did not turn, until a bend in the avenue had brought him to a spot from which he could see the dimly lighted bay-window of the room in which he had left Aurora. He stood for some time looking at this feeble glimmer, and thinking--thinking of all he had lost, or all he had perhaps escaped--thinking of what his life was to be henceforth without that woman--thinking that he would rather have been the poorest ploughboy in Beckenham parish than the heir of Bulstrode, if he could have taken the girl he loved to his heart, and believed in her truth. CHAPTER X. FIGHTING THE BATTLE. The new year began in sadness at Felden Woods, for it found Archibald Floyd watching in the sick-room of his only daughter. Aurora had taken her place at the long dinner-table upon the night of Talbot's departure; and except for being perhaps a little more vivacious and brilliant than usual, her manner had in no way changed after that terrible interview in the bay-windowed room. She had talked to John Mellish, and had played and sung to her younger cousins; she had stood behind her father, looking over his cards through all the fluctuating fortunes of a rubber of long whist; and the next morning her maid had found her in a raging fever, with burning cheeks and blood-shot eyes, her long purple-black hair all tumbled and tossed about the pillows, and her dry hands scorching to the touch. The telegraph brought two grave London physicians to Felden before noon; and the house was clear of visitors by nightfall, only Mrs. Alexander and Lucy remaining to assist in nursing the invalid. The West-End doctors said very little. This fever was as other fevers to them. The young lady had caught a cold perhaps; she had been imprudent, as these young people will be, and had received some sudden chill. She had very likely overheated herself with dancing, or had sat in a draught, or eaten an ice. There was no immediate danger to be apprehended. The patient had a superb constitution; there was wonderful vitality in the system; and with careful treatment she would soon come round. Careful treatment meant a two-guinea visit every day from each of these learned gentlemen; though, perhaps, had they given utterance to their inmost thoughts, they would have owned that, for all they could tell to the contrary, Aurora Floyd wanted nothing but to be let alone, and left in a darkened chamber to fight out the battle by herself. But the banker would have had all Saville Row summoned to the sick-bed of his child, if he could by such a measure have saved her a moment's pain; and he implored the two physicians to come to Felden twice a day if necessary, and to call in other physicians if they had the least fear for their patient. Aurora was delirious; but she revealed very little in that delirium. I do not quite believe that people often make the pretty, sentimental, consecutive confessions under the influence of fever which are so freely attributed to them by the writers of romances. We rave about foolish things in those cruel moments of feverish madness. We are wretched because there is a man with a white hat on in the room; or a black cat upon the counterpane; or spiders crawling about the bed-curtains; or a coal-heaver who _will_ put a sack of coals on our chest. Our delirious fancies are like our dreams, and have very little connection with the sorrows or joys which make up the sum of our lives. So Aurora Floyd talked of horses and dogs, and masters and governesses; of childish troubles that had afflicted her years before, and of girlish pleasures, which, in her normal state of mind, had been utterly forgotten. She seldom recognized Lucy or Mrs. Alexander, mistaking them for all kinds of unlikely people; but she never entirely forgot her father, and, indeed, always seemed to be conscious of his presence, and was perpetually appealing to him, imploring him to forgive her for some act of childish disobedience committed in those departed years of which she talked so much. John Mellish had taken up his abode at the Grayhound Inn, in Croydon High Street, and drove every day to Felden Woods, leaving his phaeton at the park-gates, and walking up to the house to make his inquiries. The servants took notice of the big Yorkshireman's pale face, and set him down at once as "sweet" upon their young lady. They liked him a great deal better than Captain Bulstrode, who had been too "'igh" and "'aughty" for them. John flung his half-sovereigns right and left when he came to the hushed mansion in which Aurora lay, with loving friends about her. He held the footman who answered the door by the button-hole, and would have gladly paid the man half-a-crown a minute for his time while he asked anxious questions about Miss Floyd's health. Mr. Mellish was warmly sympathized with, therefore, in the servants' hall at Felden. His man had informed the banker's household how he was the best master in England, and how Mellish Park was a species of terrestrial Paradise, maintained for the benefit of trustworthy retainers; and Mr. Floyd's servants expressed a wish that their young lady might get well, and marry the "fair one," as they called John. They came to the conclusion that there had been what they called "a split" between Miss Floyd and the captain, and that he had gone off in a huff; which was like his impudence, seeing that their young lady would have hundreds of thousands of pounds by-and-by, and was good enough for a duke instead of a beggarly officer. Talbot's letter to Mr. Floyd reached Felden Woods on the 27th of December; but it lay for some time unopened upon the library table. Archibald had scarcely heeded his intended son-in-law's disappearance, in his anxiety about Aurora. When he did open the letter, Captain Bulstrode's words were almost meaningless to him, though he was just able to gather that the engagement had been broken,--by his daughter's wish, as Talbot seemed to infer. The banker's reply to this communication was very brief; he wrote: "MY DEAR SIR,--Your letter arrived here some days since, but has only been opened by me this morning. I have laid it aside, to be replied to, D.V., at a future time. At present I am unable to attend to anything. My daughter is seriously ill. "Yours obediently, "ARCHIBALD FLOYD." "Seriously ill!" Talbot Bulstrode sat for nearly an hour with the banker's letter in his hand, looking at those two words. How much or how little might the sentence mean? At one moment, remembering Archibald Floyd's devotion to his daughter, he thought that this serious illness was doubtless some very trifling business,--some feminine nervous attack, common to young ladies upon any hitch in their love affairs; but five minutes afterwards he fancied that those words had an awful meaning--that Aurora was dying; dying of the shame and anguish of that interview in the little chamber at Felden. Heaven above! what had he done? Had he murdered this beautiful creature, whom he loved a million times better than himself? Had he killed her with those impalpable weapons, those sharp and cruel words which he had spoken on the 25th of December? He acted the scene over again and again, until the sense of outraged honour, then so strong upon him, seemed to grow dim and confused; and he began almost to wonder why he had quarrelled with Aurora. What if, after all, this secret involved only some school-girl's folly? No; the crouching figure and ghastly face gave the lie to that hope. The secret, whatever it might be, was a matter of life and death to Aurora Floyd. He dared not try to guess what it was. He strove to close his mind against the surmises that would arise to him. In the first days that succeeded that terrible Christmas he determined to leave England. He would try to get some Government appointment that would take him away to the other end of the world, where he could never hear Aurora's name--never be enlightened as to the mystery that had separated them. But now, now that she was ill,--in danger, perhaps,--how could he leave the country? How could he go away to some place where he might one day open the English newspapers and see her name among the list of deaths? Talbot was a dreary guest at Bulstrode Castle. His mother and his cousin Constance respected his pale face, and held themselves aloof from him in fear and trembling; but his father asked what the deuce was the matter with the boy, that he looked so chapfallen, and why he didn't take his gun and go out on the moors, and get an appetite for his dinner, like a Christian, instead of moping in his own rooms all day long, biting his fingers' ends. Once, and once only, did Lady Bulstrode allude to Aurora Floyd. "You asked Miss Floyd for an explanation, I suppose, Talbot?" she said. "Yes, mother." "And the result?" "Was the termination of our engagement. I had rather you would not speak to me of this subject again, if you please, mother." Talbot took his gun, and went out upon the moors, as his father advised; but it was not to slaughter the last of the pheasants, but to think in peace of Aurora Floyd, that the young man went out. The low-lying clouds upon the moorlands seemed to shut him in like prison-walls. How many miles of desolate country lay between the dark expanse on which he stood and the red-brick mansion at Felden!--how many leafless hedge-rows!--how many frozen streams! It was only a day's journey, certainly, by the Great Western; but there was something cruel in the knowledge that half the length of England lay between the Kentish woods and that far angle of the British Isles upon which Castle Bulstrode reared its weather-beaten walls. The wail of mourning voices might be loud in Kent, and not a whisper of death reach the listening ears in Cornwall. How he envied the lowest servant at Felden, who knew day by day and hour by hour of the progress of the battle between Death and Aurora Floyd! And yet, after all, what was she to him? What did it matter to him if she were well or ill? The grave could never separate them more utterly than they had been separated from the very moment in which he discovered that she was not worthy to be his wife. He had done her no wrong; he had given her a full and fair opportunity of clearing herself from the doubtful shadow on her name; and she had been unable to do so. Nay, more, she had given him every reason to suppose, by her manner, that the shadow was even a darker one than he had feared. Was he to blame, then? Was it his fault if she were ill? Were his days to be misery, and his nights a burden because of her? He struck the stock of his gun violently upon the ground at the thought, and thrust the ramrod down the barrel, and loaded his fowling-piece furiously with nothing; and then, casting himself at full length upon the stunted turf, lay there till the early dusk closed in about him, and the soft evening dew saturated his shooting-coat, and he was in a fair way to be stricken with rheumatic fever. I might fill chapters with the foolish sufferings of this young man; but I fear he must have become very wearisome to my afflicted readers; to those, at least, who have never suffered from this fever. The sharper the disease, the shorter its continuance; so Talbot will be better by-and-by, and will look back at his old self, and laugh at his old agonies. Surely this inconstancy of ours is the worst of all--this fickleness, by reason of which we cast off our former selves with no more compunction than we feel in flinging away a worn-out garment. Our poor threadbare selves, the shadows of what we were! With what sublime, patronizing pity, with what scornful compassion, we look back upon the helpless dead and gone creatures, and wonder that anything so foolish could have been allowed to cumber the earth! Shall I feel the same contempt ten years hence for myself as I am to-day, as I feel today for myself as I was ten years ago? Will the loves and aspirations, the beliefs and desires of to-day, appear as pitiful then as the dead loves and dreams of the bygone decade? Shall I look back in pitying wonder, and think what a fool that young man was, although there was something candid and innocent in his very stupidity, after all? Who can wonder that the last visit to Paris killed Voltaire? Fancy the octogenarian looking round the national theatre, and seeing himself, through an endless vista of dim years, a young man again, paying his court to a "goat-faced cardinal," and being beaten by De Rohan's lackeys in broad daylight. Have you ever visited some still country town after a lapse of years, and wondered, O fast-living reader! to find the people you knew in your last visit still alive and thriving, with hair unbleached as yet, although you have lived and suffered whole centuries since then? Surely Providence gives us this sublimely egotistical sense of Time as a set-off against the brevity of our lives! I might make this book a companion in bulk to the Catalogue of the British Museum, if I were to tell all that Talbot Bulstrode felt and suffered in the month of January, 1858,--if I were to anatomize the doubts and confusions and self-contradictions, the mental resolutions made one moment to be broken the next. I refrain, therefore, and will set down nothing but the fact, that on a certain Sunday midway in the month, the captain, sitting in the family pew at Bulstrode church, directly facing the monument of Admiral Hartley Bulstrode, who fought and died in the days of Queen Elizabeth, registered a silent oath that, as he was a gentleman and a Christian, he would henceforth abstain from holding any voluntary communication with Aurora Floyd. But for this vow he must have broken down, and yielded to his yearning fear and love, and gone to Felden Woods to throw himself, blind and unquestioning, at the feet of the sick woman. * * * * * The tender green of the earliest leaflets was breaking out in bright patches upon the hedge-rows round Felden Woods; the ash-buds were no longer black upon the front of March, and pale violets and primroses made exquisite tracery in the shady nooks beneath the oaks and beeches. All nature was rejoicing in the mild April weather, when Aurora lifted her dark eyes to her father's face with something of their old look and familiar light. The battle had been a long and severe one; but it was well-nigh over now, the physicians said. Defeated Death drew back for a while, to wait a better opportunity for making his fatal spring; and the feeble victor was to be carried down-stairs to sit in the drawing-room for the first time since the night of December the 25th. John Mellish, happening to be at Felden that day, was allowed the supreme privilege of carrying the fragile burden in his strong arms, from the door of the sick chamber to the great sofa by the fire in the drawing-room; attended by a procession of happy people bearing shawls and pillows, vinaigrettes and scent-bottles, and other invalid paraphernalia. Every creature at Felden was devoted to this adored convalescent. Archibald Floyd lived only to minister to her; gentle Lucy waited on her night and day, fearful to trust the service to menial hands; Mrs. Powell, like some pale and quiet shadow, lurked amidst the bed-curtains, soft of foot and watchful of eye, invaluable in the sick-chamber, as the doctors said. Throughout her illness, Aurora had never mentioned the name of Talbot Bulstrode. Not even when the fever was at its worst, and the brain most distraught, had that familiar name escaped her lips. Other names, strange to Lucy, had been repeated by her again and again: the names of places and horses and slangy technicalities of the turf, had interlarded the poor girl's brain-sick babble; but whatever were her feelings with regard to Talbot, no word had revealed their depth or sadness. Yet I do not think that my poor dark-eyed heroine was utterly feelingless upon this point. When they first spoke of carrying her down-stairs, Mrs. Powell and Lucy proposed the little bay-windowed chamber, which was small and snug, and had a southern aspect, as the fittest place for the invalid; but Aurora cried out shuddering, that she would never enter that hateful chamber again. As soon as ever she was strong enough to bear the fatigue of the journey, it was considered advisable to remove her from Felden; and Leamington was suggested by the doctors as the best place for the change. A mild climate and a pretty inland retreat, a hushed and quiet town, peculiarly adapted to invalids, being almost deserted by other visitors after the hunting season. Shakespeare's birthday had come and gone, and the high festivals at Stratford were over, when Archibald Floyd took his pale daughter to Leamington. A furnished cottage had been engaged for them a mile and a half out of the town; a pretty place, half villa, half farmhouse, with walls of white plaster chequered with beams of black wood, and well-nigh buried in a luxuriant and trimly-kept flower-garden; a pleasant place, forming one of a little cluster of rustic buildings crowded about a gray old church in a nook of the roadway, where two or three green lanes met, and went branching off between overhanging hedges; a most retired spot, yet clamorous with that noise which is of all others cheerful and joyous,--the hubbub of farmyards, the cackle of poultry, the cooing of pigeons, the monotonous lowing of lazy cattle, and the squabbling grunt of quarrelsome pigs. Archibald could not have brought his daughter to a better place. The chequered farmhouse seemed a haven of rest to this poor weary girl of nineteen. It was so pleasant to lie wrapped in shawls, on a chintz-covered sofa, in the open window, listening to the rustic noises in the straw-littered yard upon the other side of the hedge, with her faithful Bow-wow's big fore-paws resting on the cushions at her feet. The sounds in the farmyard were pleasanter to Aurora than the monotonous inflections of Mrs. Powell's voice; but as that lady considered it a part of her duty to read aloud for the invalid's delectation, Miss Floyd was too good-natured to own how tired she was of 'Marmion' and 'Childe Harold,' 'Evangeline,' and 'The Queen of the May,' and how she would have preferred in her present state of mind to listen to a lively dispute between a brood of ducks round the pond in the farmyard, or a trifling discussion in the pigsty, to the sublimest lines ever penned by poet, living or dead. The poor girl had suffered very much, and there was a certain sensuous, lazy pleasure in this slow recovery, this gradual return to strength. Her own nature revived in unison with the bright revival of the genial summer weather. As the trees in the garden put forth new strength and beauty, so the glorious vitality of her constitution returned with much of its wonted power. The bitter blows had left their scars behind them, but they had not killed her, after all. They had not utterly changed her even, for glimpses of the old Aurora appeared day by day in the pale convalescent; and Archibald Floyd, whose life was at best but a reflected existence, felt his hopes revive as he looked at his daughter. Lucy and her mother had gone back to the villa at Fulham, and to their own family duties; so the Leamington party consisted only of Aurora and her father, and that pale shadow of propriety, the ensign's light-haired widow. But they were not long without a visitor. John Mellish, artfully taking the banker at a disadvantage in some moment of flurry and confusion at Felden Woods, had extorted from him an invitation to Leamington; and a fortnight after their arrival he presented his stalwart form and fair face at the low wooden gates of the chequered cottage. Aurora laughed (for the first time since her illness) as she saw that faithful adorer come, carpet-bag in hand, through the labyrinth of grass and flower-beds towards the open window at which she and her father sat; and Archibald, seeing that first gleam of gaiety in the beloved face, could have hugged John Mellish for being the cause of it. He would have embraced a street tumbler, or the low comedian of a booth at a fair, or a troop of performing dogs and monkeys, or anything upon earth that could win a smile from his sick child. Like the Eastern potentate in the fairy tale, who always offers half his kingdom and his daughter's hand to any one who can cure the princess of her bilious headache, or extract her carious tooth, Archibald would have opened a banking account in Lombard Street, with a fabulous sum to start with, for any one who could give pleasure to this black-eyed girl, now smiling, for the first time in that year, at sight of the big fair-faced Yorkshireman coming to pay his foolish worship at her shrine. It was not to be supposed that Mr. Floyd had felt no wonder as to the cause of the rupture of his daughter's engagement to Talbot Bulstrode. The anguish and terror endured by him during her long illness had left no room for any other thought; but since the passing away of the danger, he had pondered not a little upon the abrupt rupture between the lovers. He ventured once, in the first week of their stay at Leamington, to speak to her upon the subject, asking why it was she had dismissed the captain. Now if there was one thing more hateful than another to Aurora Floyd, it was a lie. I do not say that she had never told one in the course of her life. There are some acts of folly which carry falsehood and dissimulation at their heels as certainly as the shadows which follow us when we walk towards the evening sun; and we very rarely swerve from the severe boundary-line of right without being dragged ever so much farther than we calculated upon across the border. Alas! my heroine is not faultless. She would take her shoes off to give them to the barefooted poor; she would take the heart from her breast, if she could by so doing heal the wounds she has inflicted upon the loving heart of her father. But a shadow of mad folly has blotted her motherless youth, and she has a terrible harvest to reap from that lightly-sown seed, and a cruel expiation to make for that unforgotten wrong. Yet her natural disposition is all truth and candour; and there are many young ladies, whose lives have been as primly ruled and ordered as the fair pleasure-gardens of a Tyburnian square, who could tell a falsehood with a great deal better grace than Aurora Floyd. So when her father asked her why she had _dismissed_ Talbot Bulstrode, she made no answer to that question; but simply told him that the quarrel had been a very painful one, and that she hoped never to hear the captain's name again: although at the same time she assured Mr. Floyd that her lover's conduct had been in nowise unbecoming a gentleman and a man of honour. Archibald implicitly obeyed his daughter in this matter, and the name of Talbot Bulstrode never being spoken, it seemed as if the young man had dropped out of their lives, or as if he had never had any part in the destiny of Aurora Floyd. Heaven knows what Aurora herself felt and suffered in the quiet of her low-roofed, white-curtained little chamber, with the soft May moonlight stealing in at the casement-windows, and creeping in wan radiance about the walls. Heaven only knows the bitterness of the silent battle. Her vitality made her strong to suffer; her vivid imagination intensified every throb of pain. In a dull and torpid soul grief is a slow anguish; but with her it was a fierce and tempestuous emotion, in which past and future seemed rolled together with the present to make a concentrated agony. But, by an all-wise dispensation, the stormy sorrow wears itself out by reason of its very violence, while the dull woe drags its slow length sometimes through weary years, becoming at last engrafted in the very nature of the patient sufferer, as some diseases become part of our constitutions. Aurora was fortunate in being permitted to fight her battle in silence, and to suffer unquestioned. If the dark hollow rings about her eyes told of sleepless nights, Archibald Floyd forbore to torment her with anxious speeches and trite consolations. The clairvoyance of love told him that it was better to let her alone. So the trouble hanging over the little circle was neither seen nor spoken of. Aurora kept her skeleton in some quiet corner, and no one saw the grim skull, or heard the rattle of the dry bones. Archibald Floyd read his newspapers, and wrote his letters; Mrs. Walter Powell tended the convalescent, who reclined during the best part of the day on the sofa in the open window; and John Mellish loitered about the garden and the farmyard, leaned on the low white gate, smoking his cigar, and talking to the men about the place, and was in and out of the house twenty times in an hour. The banker pondered sometimes in serio-comic perplexity as to what was to be done with this big Yorkshireman, who hung upon him like a good-natured monster of six feet two, conjured into existence by the hospitality of a modern Frankenstein. He had invited him to dinner, and, lo, he appeared to be saddled with him for life. He could not tell the friendly, generous, loud-spoken creature to go away. Besides, Mr. Mellish was on the whole very useful, and he did much towards keeping Aurora in apparently good spirits. Yet, on the other hand, was it right to tamper with this great loving heart? Was it just to let the young man linger in the light of those black eyes, and then send him away when the invalid was equal to the effort of giving him his _congé?_ Archibald Floyd did not know that John had been rejected by his daughter on a certain autumn morning at Brighton. So he made up his mind to speak frankly, and sound the depths of his visitor's feelings. Mrs. Powell was making tea at a little table near one of the windows; Aurora had fallen asleep with an open book in her hand; and the banker walked with John Mellish up and down an espaliered alley in the golden sunset. Archibald freely communicated his perplexities to the Yorkshireman. "I need not tell you, my dear Mellish," he said, "how pleasant it is to me to have you here. I never had a son; but if it had pleased God to give me one, I could have wished him to be just such a frank, noble-hearted fellow as yourself. I'm an old man, and have seen a great deal of trouble--the sort of trouble which strikes deeper home to the heart than any sorrows that begin in Lombard Street or on 'Change; but I feel younger in your society, and I find myself clinging to you and leaning on you as a father might upon his son. You may believe, then, that _I_ don't wish to get rid of you." "I do, Mr. Floyd; but do you think that any one else wishes to get rid of me? Do you think I'm a nuisance to Miss Floyd?" "No, Mellish," answered the banker energetically. "I am sure that Aurora takes pleasure in your society, and seems to treat you almost as if you were her brother; but--but I know your feelings, my dear boy, and what I fear is, that you may perhaps never inspire a warmer feeling in her heart." "Let me stay and take my chance, Mr. Floyd," cried John, throwing his cigar across the espaliers, and coming to a dead stop upon the gravel-walk in the warmth of his enthusiasm. "Let me stay and take my chance. If there's any disappointment to be borne, I'll bear it like a man; I'll go back to the Park, and you shall never be bothered with me again. Miss Floyd has rejected me once already; but perhaps I was in too great a hurry. I've grown wiser since then, and I've learnt to bide my time. I've one of the finest estates in Yorkshire; I'm not worse looking than the generality of fellows, or worse educated than the generality of fellows. I mayn't have straight hair, and a pale face, and look as if I'd walked out of a three-volume novel, like Talbot Bulstrode. I may be a stone or two over the correct weight for winning a young lady's heart; but I'm sound, wind and limb. I never told a lie, or committed a mean action; and I love your daughter with as true and pure a love as ever man felt for woman. May I try my luck once more?" "You may, John." "And have I,--thank you, sir, for calling me John,--have I your good wishes for my success?" The banker shook Mr. Mellish by the hand as he answered this question. "You have, my dear John, my best and heartiest wishes." So there were three battles of the heart being fought in that spring-tide of fifty-eight. Aurora and Talbot, separated from each other by the length and breadth of half England, yet united by an impalpable chain, were struggling day by day to break its links; while poor John Mellish quietly waited in the background, fighting the sturdy fight of the strong heart, which very rarely fails to win the prize it is set upon, however high or far away that prize may seem to be. CHAPTER XI. AT THE CHÂTEAU D'ARQUES. John Mellish made himself entirely at home in the little Leamington circle after this interview with Mr. Floyd. No one could have been more tender in his manner, more respectful, untiring, and devoted, than was this rough Yorkshireman to the broken old man. Archibald must have been less than human had he not in somewise returned this devotion, and it is therefore scarcely to be wondered that he became very warmly attached to his daughter's adorer. Had John Mellish been the most designing disciple of Machiavelli, instead of the most transparent and candid of living creatures, I scarcely think he could have adopted a truer means of making for himself a claim upon the gratitude of Aurora Floyd than by the affection he evinced for her father. And this affection was as genuine as all else in that simple nature. How could he do otherwise than love Aurora's father? He was her father. He had a sublime claim upon the devotion of the man who loved her; who loved her as John loved,--unreservedly, undoubtingly, childishly; with such blind, unquestioning love as an infant feels for its mother. There may be better women than that mother, perhaps; but who shall make the child believe so? John Mellish could not argue with himself upon his passion, as Talbot Bulstrode had done. He could not separate himself from his love, and reason with the wild madness. How could he divide himself from that which was himself; more than himself; a diviner self? He asked no questions about the past life of the woman he loved. He never sought to know the secret of Talbot's departure from Felden. He saw her, beautiful, fascinating, perfect; and he accepted her as a great and wonderful fact, like the round midsummer moon shining down on the rustic flower-beds and espaliered garden-walks in the balmy June nights. So the tranquil days glided slowly and monotonously past that quiet circle. Aurora bore her silent burden; bore her trouble with a grand courage, peculiar to such rich organizations as her own; and none knew whether the serpent had been rooted from her breast, or had made for himself a permanent home in her heart. The banker's most watchful care could not fathom the womanly mystery; but there were times when Archibald Floyd ventured to hope that his daughter was at peace, and Talbot Bulstrode well-nigh forgotten. In any case, it was wise to keep her away from Felden Woods; so Mr. Floyd proposed a tour through Normandy to his daughter and Mrs. Powell. Aurora consented, with a tender smile and gentle pressure of her father's hand. She divined the old man's motive, and recognized the all-watchful love which sought to carry her from the scene of her trouble. John Mellish, who was not invited to join the party, burst forth into such raptures at the proposal, that it would have required considerable hardness of heart to have refused his escort. He knew every inch of Normandy, he said, and promised to be of infinite use to Mr. Floyd and his daughter; which, seeing that his knowledge of Normandy had been acquired in his attendance at the Dieppe steeple-chases, and that his acquaintance with the French language was very limited, seemed rather doubtful. But for all this he contrived to keep his word. He went up to Town and hired an all-accomplished courier, who conducted the little party from town to village, from church to ruin, and who could always find relays of Normandy horses for the banker's roomy travelling-carriage. The little party travelled from place to place until pale gleams of colour returned in transient flushes to Aurora's cheeks. Grief is terribly selfish. I fear that Miss Floyd never took into consideration the havoc that might be going on in the great honest heart of John Mellish. I dare say that if she had ever considered the matter, she would have thought that a broad-shouldered Yorkshireman of six feet two could never suffer seriously from such a passion as love. She grew accustomed to his society; accustomed to have his strong arm handy for her to lean upon when she grew tired; accustomed to his carrying her sketch-book and shawls and camp-stools; accustomed to be waited upon by him all day, and served faithfully by him at every turn; taking his homage as a thing of course, but making him superlatively and dangerously happy by her tacit acceptance of it. September was half gone when they bent their way homeward, lingering for a few days at Dieppe, where the bathers were splashing about in semi-theatrical costume, and the Etablissement des Bains was all aflame with coloured lanterns, and noisy with nightly concerts. The early autumnal days were glorious in their balmy beauty. The best part of a year had gone by since Talbot Bulstrode had bade Aurora that adieu which, in one sense at least, was to be eternal. They two, Aurora and Talbot, might meet again, it is true. They might meet, ay, and even be cordial and friendly together, and do each other good service in some dim time to come; but the two lovers who had parted in the little bay-windowed room at Felden Woods could _never_ meet again. Between _them_ there was death and the grave. Perhaps some such thoughts as these had their place in the breast of Aurora Floyd as she sat, with John Mellish at her side, looking down upon the varied landscape from the height upon which the ruined walls of the Château d'Arques still rear the proud memorials of a day that is dead. I don't suppose that the banker's daughter troubled herself much about Henry the Fourth, or any other dead-and-gone celebrity who may have left the impress of his name upon that spot. She felt a tranquil sense of the exquisite purity and softness of the air, the deep blue of the cloudless sky, the spreading woods and grassy plains, the orchards, where the trees were rosy with their plenteous burden, the tiny streamlets, the white villa-like cottages and straggling gardens, outspread in a fair panorama beneath her. Carried out of her sorrow by the sensuous rapture we derive from nature, and for the first time discovering in herself a vague sense of happiness, she began to wonder how it was she had outlived her grief by so many months. She had never during those weary months heard of Talbot Bulstrode. Any change might have come to him without her knowledge. He might have married; might have chosen a prouder and worthier bride to share his lofty name. She might meet him on her return to England with that happier woman leaning upon his arm. Would some good-natured friend tell the bride how Talbot had loved and wooed the banker's daughter? Aurora found herself pitying this happier woman, who would, after all, win but the second love of that proud heart; the pale reflection of a sun that has set; the feeble glow of expiring embers when the great blaze has died out. They had made her a couch with shawls and carriage-rugs, outspread upon a rustic seat, for she was still far from strong; and she lay in the bright September sunshine, looking down at the fair landscape, and listening to the hum of beetles and the chirp of grasshoppers upon the smooth turf. Her father had walked to some distance with Mrs. Powell, who explored every crevice and cranny of the ruins with the dutiful perseverance peculiar to commonplace people; but faithful John Mellish never stirred from Aurora's side. He was watching her musing face, trying to read its meaning--trying to gather a gleam of hope from some chance expression flitting across it. Neither he nor she knew how long he had watched her thus, when, turning to speak to him about the landscape at her feet, she found him on his knees imploring her to have pity upon him, and to love him, or to let him love her; which was much the same. "I don't expect you to love _me_, Aurora," he said passionately; "how should you? What is there in a big clumsy fellow like me to win your love? I don't ask that. I only ask you to let me love you, to let me worship you, as the people we see kneeling in the churches here worship their saints. You won't drive me away from you, will you, Aurora, because I presume to forget what you said to me that cruel day at Brighton? You would never have suffered me to stay with you so long, and to be so happy, if you had meant to drive me away at the last! You never could have been so cruel!" Miss Floyd looked at him with a sudden terror in her face. What was this? What had she done? More wrong, more mischief? Was her life to be one of perpetual wrong-doing? Was she to be for ever bringing sorrow upon good people? Was this John Mellish to be another sufferer by her folly? "Oh, forgive me!" she cried, "forgive me! I never thought----" "You never thought that every day spent by your side must make the anguish of parting from you more cruelly bitter. O Aurora, women should think of these things! Send me away from you, and what shall I be for the rest of my life?--a broken man, fit for nothing better than the race-course and the betting-rooms; a reckless man, ready to go to the bad by any road that can take me there; worthless alike to myself and to others. You must have seen such men, Aurora; men whose unblemished youth promised an honourable manhood; but who break up all of a sudden, and go to ruin in a few years of mad dissipation. Nine times out of ten a woman is the cause of that sudden change. I lay my life at your feet, Aurora; I offer you more than my heart--I offer you my destiny. Do with it as you will." He rose in his agitation, and walked a few paces away from her. The grass-grown battlements sloped away from his feet; an outer and inner moat lay below him, at the bottom of a steep declivity. What a convenient place for suicide, if Aurora should refuse to take pity upon him! The reader must allow that he had availed himself of considerable artifice in addressing Miss Floyd. His appeal had taken the form of an accusation rather than a prayer, and he had duly impressed upon this poor girl the responsibility she would incur in refusing him. And this, I take it, is a meanness of which men are often guilty in their dealings with the weaker sex. Miss Floyd looked up at her lover with a quiet, half-mournful smile. "Sit down there, Mr. Mellish," she said, pointing to a camp-stool at her side. John took the indicated seat, very much with the air of a prisoner in a criminal dock about to answer for his life. "Shall I tell you a secret?" asked Aurora, looking compassionately at his pale face. "A secret?" "Yes; the secret of my parting with Talbot Bulstrode. It was not I who dismissed him from Felden; it was he who refused to fulfil his engagement with me." She spoke slowly, in a low voice, as if it were painful to her to say the words which told of so much humiliation. "He did!" cried John Mellish, rising, red and furious, from his seat, eager to run to look for Talbot Bulstrode then and there, in order to inflict chastisement upon him. "He did, John Mellish, and he was justified in doing so," answered Aurora, gravely. "You would have done the same." "O Aurora, Aurora!" "You would. You are as good a man as he, and why should your sense of honour be less strong than his? A barrier arose between Talbot Bulstrode and me, and separated us for ever. That barrier was a secret." She told him of the missing year in her young life; how Talbot had called upon her for an explanation, and how she had refused to give it. John listened to her with a thoughtful face, which broke out into sunshine as she turned to him and said-- "How would you have acted in such a case, Mr. Mellish?" "How should I have acted, Aurora? I should have trusted you. But I can give you a better answer to your question, Aurora. I can answer it by a renewal of the prayer I made you five minutes ago. Be my wife." "In spite of this secret?" "In spite of a hundred secrets. I could not love you as I do, Aurora, if I did not believe you to be all that is best and purest in woman. I cannot believe this one moment, and doubt you the next. I give my life and honour into your hands. I would not confide them to the woman whom I could insult by a doubt." His handsome Saxon face was radiant with love and trustfulness as he spoke. All his patient devotion, so long unheeded, or accepted as a thing of course, recurred to Aurora's mind. Did he not deserve some reward, some requital for all this? But there was one who was nearer and dearer to her, dearer than even Talbot Bulstrode had ever been; and that one was the white-haired old man pottering about amongst the ruins on the other side of the grassy platform. "Does my father know of this, Mr. Mellish?" she asked. "He does, Aurora. He has promised to accept me as his son; and Heaven knows I will try to deserve that name. Do not let me distress you, dearest. The murder is out now. You know that I still love you; still hope. Let time do the rest." She held out both her hands to him with a tearful smile. He took those little hands in his own broad palms, and bending down kissed them reverently. "You are right," she said; "let time do the rest. You are worthy of the love of a better woman than me, John Mellish; but, with the help of Heaven, I will never give you cause to regret having trusted me." CHAPTER XII. STEEVE HARGRAVES, THE "SOFTY." Early in October Aurora Floyd returned to Felden Woods, once more "engaged." The county families opened their eyes when the report reached them that the banker's daughter was going to be married, not to Talbot Bulstrode, but to Mr. John Mellish, of Mellish Park, near Doncaster. The unmarried ladies--rather hanging on hand about Beckenham and West Wickham--did not approve of all this chopping and changing. They recognized the taint of the Prodder blood in this fickleness. The spangles and the sawdust were breaking out, and Aurora was, as they had always said, her mother's own daughter. She was a very lucky young woman, they remarked, in being able, after jilting one rich man, to pick up another; but of course a young person whose father could give her fifty thousand pounds on her wedding-day might be permitted to play fast and loose with the male sex, while worthier Marianas moped in their moated granges till gray hairs showed themselves in glistening _bandeaux_, and cruel crow's feet gathered about the corners of bright eyes. It is well to be merry and wise, and honest and true, and to be off with the old love, &c.; but it is better to be Miss Floyd, of the senior branch of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, for then you need be none of these things. At least to such effect was the talk about Beckenham when Archibald brought his daughter back to Felden Woods; and a crowd of dressmakers and milliners set to work at the marriage garments as busily as if Miss Floyd had never had any clothes in her life before. Mrs. Alexander and Lucy came back to Felden to assist in the preparations for the wedding. Lucy had improved very much in appearance since the preceding winter; there was a happier light in her soft blue eyes, and a healthier hue in her cheeks; but she blushed crimson when she first met Aurora, and hung back a little from Miss Floyd's caresses. The wedding was to take place at the end of November. The bride and bridegroom were to spend the winter in Paris, where Archibald Floyd was to join them, and return to England, "in time for the Craven Meeting," as John Mellish said,--for I am sorry to say that, having been so happily successful in his love-affair, this young man's thoughts returned into their accustomed channels; and the creature he held dearest on earth next to Miss Floyd and those belonging to her, was a bay filly called Aurora, and entered for the Oaks and Leger of a future year. Ought I to apologize for my heroine, because she has forgotten Talbot Bulstrode, and that she entertains a grateful affection for this adoring John Mellish? She ought, no doubt, to have died of shame and sorrow after Talbot's cruel desertion; and Heaven knows that only her youth and vitality carried her through a very severe battle with the grim rider of the pale horse; but having once passed through that dread encounter, she was, however feeble, in a fair way to recover. These passionate griefs, to kill at all, must kill suddenly. The lovers who die for love in our tragedies die in such a vast hurry, that there is generally some mistake or misapprehension about the business, and the tragedy might have been a comedy if the hero or heroine had only waited for a quarter of an hour. If Othello had but lingered a little before smothering his wife, Mistress Emilia might have come in and sworn and protested; and Cassio, with the handkerchief about his leg, might have been in time to set the mind of the valiant Moor at rest, and put the Venetian dog to confusion. How happily Mr. and Mrs. Romeo Montague might have lived and died, thanks to the dear good friar, if the foolish bridegroom had not been in such a hurry to swallow the vile stuff from the apothecary's! and as people are, I hope and believe, a little wiser in real life than they appear to be upon the stage, the worms very rarely get an honest meal off men and women who have died for love. So Aurora walked through the rooms at Felden in which Talbot Bulstrode had so often walked by her side; and if there was any regret at her heart, it was a quiet sorrow, such as we feel for the dead,--a sorrow not unmingled with pity, for she thought that the proud son of Sir John Raleigh Bulstrode might have been a happier man if he had been as generous and trusting as John Mellish. Perhaps the healthiest sign of the state of her heart was, that she could speak of Talbot freely, cheerfully, and without a blush. She asked Lucy if she had met Captain Bulstrode that year; and the little hypocrite told her cousin, Yes; that he had spoken to them one day in the Park, and that she believed he had gone into Parliament. She _believed!_ Why, she knew his maiden speech by heart, though it was on some hopelessly uninteresting bill in which the Cornish mines were in some vague manner involved with the national survey; and she could have repeated it as correctly as her youngest brother could declaim to his "Romans, countrymen and lovers." Aurora might forget him, and basely marry a fair-haired Yorkshireman; but for Lucy Floyd earth only held this dark knight, with the severe gray eyes and the stiff leg. Poor Lucy, therefore, loved and was grateful to her brilliant cousin for that fickleness which had brought about such a change in the programme of the gay wedding at Felden Woods. The fair young confidante and bridesmaid could assist in the ceremonial now with a good grace. She no longer walked about like a "corpse alive;" but took a hearty womanly interest in the whole affair, and was very much concerned in a discussion as to the merits of pink _versus_ blue for the bonnets of the bridesmaids. The boisterous happiness of John Mellish seemed contagious, and made a genial atmosphere about the great mansion at Felden. Stalwart Andrew Floyd was delighted with his young cousin's choice. No more refusals to join him in the hunting-field; but half the county breakfasting at Felden, and the long terrace and garden luminous with "pink." Not a ripple disturbed the smooth current of that brief courtship. The Yorkshireman contrived to make himself agreeable to everybody belonging to his dark-eyed divinity. He flattered their weaknesses, he gratified their caprices, he studied their wishes, and paid them all such insidious court, that I'm afraid invidious comparisons were drawn between John and Talbot, to the disadvantage of the proud young officer. It was impossible for any quarrel to arise between the lovers, for John followed his mistress about like some big slave, who only lived to do her bidding; and Aurora accepted his devotion with a Sultana-like grace, which became her amazingly. Once more she visited the stables and inspected her father's stud, for the first time since she had left Felden for the Parisian finishing school. Once more she rode across country, wearing a hat which provoked considerable criticism,--a hat which was no other than the now universal turban, or pork-pie, but which was new to the world in the autumn of fifty-eight. Her earlier girlhood appeared to return to her once more. It seemed almost as if the two years and a half in which she had left and returned to her home, and had met and parted with Talbot Bulstrode, had been blotted from her life, leaving her spirits fresh and bright as they were before that stormy interview in her father's study in the June of fifty-six. The county families came to the wedding at Beckenham church, and were fain to confess that Miss Floyd looked wondrously handsome in her virginal crown of orange buds and flowers, and her voluminous Mechlin veil; she had pleaded hard to be married in a bonnet, but had been overruled by a posse of female cousins. Mr. Richard Gunter provided the marriage feast, and sent a man down to Felden to superintend the arrangements, who was more dashing and splendid to look upon than any of the Kentish guests. John Mellish alternately laughed and cried throughout that eventful morning. Heaven knows how many times he shook hands with Archibald Floyd, carrying the banker off into solitary corners, and swearing, with the tears running down his broad cheeks, to be a good husband to the old man's daughter; so that it must have been a relief to the white-haired old Scotchman when Aurora descended the staircase, rustling in violet moiré antique, and surrounded by her bridesmaids, to take leave of this dear father before the prancing steeds carried Mr. and Mrs. Mellish to that most prosaic of hymeneal stages, the London Bridge Station. Mrs. Mellish! Yes, she was Mrs. Mellish now. Talbot Bulstrode read of her marriage in that very column of the newspaper in which he had thought perhaps to see her death. How flatly the romance ended! With what a dull cadence the storm died out, and what a commonplace gray, every-day sky succeeded the terrors of the lightning! Less than a year since, the globe had seemed to him to collapse, and creation to come to a standstill because of his trouble; and he was now in Parliament, legislating for the Cornish miners, and getting stout, his ill-natured friends said; and she--she who ought, in accordance with all dramatic propriety, to have died out of hand long before this, she had married a Yorkshire landowner, and would no doubt take her place in the county and play My Lady Bountiful in the village, and be chief patroness at the race-balls, and live happily ever afterwards. He crumpled the 'Times' newspaper, and flung it from him in his rage and mortification. "And I once thought that she loved me!" he cried. And she did love you, Talbot Bulstrode; loved you as she can never love this honest, generous, devoted John Mellish, though she may by-and-by bestow upon him an affection which is a great deal better worth having. She loved you with the girl's romantic fancy and reverent admiration; and tried humbly to fashion her very nature anew, that she might be worthy of your sublime excellence. She loved you as women only love in their first youth, and as they rarely love the men they ultimately marry. The tree is perhaps all the stronger when these first frail branches are lopped away to give place to strong and spreading arms, beneath which a husband and children may shelter. But Talbot could not see all this. He saw nothing but that brief announcement in the 'Times:' "John Mellish, Esq., of Mellish Park, near Doncaster, to Aurora, only daughter of Archibald Floyd, Banker, of Felden Woods, Kent." He was angry with his sometime love, and more angry with himself for feeling that anger; and he plunged furiously into blue-books, to prepare himself for the coming session; and again he took his gun and went out upon the "barren, barren moorland," as he had done in the first violence of his grief, and wandered down to the dreary sea-shore, where he raved about his "Amy, shallow-hearted," and tried the pitch of his voice against the ides of February should come round, and the bill for the Cornish miners be laid before the Speaker. Towards the close of January, the servants at Mellish Park prepared for the advent of Master John and his bride. It was a work of love in that disorderly household, for it pleased them that master would have some one to keep him at home, and that the county would be entertained, and festivals held in the roomy rambling mansion. Architects, upholsterers, and decorators had been busy through the short winter days preparing a suite of apartments for Mrs. Mellish; and the western, or as it was called the Gothic, wing of the house had been restored and remodelled for Aurora, until the oak-roofed chambers blazed with rose-colour and gold, like a mediæval chapel. If John could have expended half his fortune in the purchase of a roc's egg to hang in these apartments, he would have gladly done so. He was so proud of his Cleopatra-like bride, his jewel beyond all parallel amid all gems, that he fancied he could not build a shrine rich enough for his treasure. So the house in which honest country squires and their sensible motherly wives had lived contentedly for nearly three centuries was almost pulled to pieces, before John thought it worthy of the banker's daughter. The trainers and grooms and stable-boys shrugged their shoulders superciliously, and spat fragments of straw disdainfully upon the paved stable-yard, as they heard the clatter of the tools of stonemasons and glaziers busy about the façade of the restored apartments. The stable would be _naught_ now, they supposed, and Muster Mellish would be always tied to his wife's apron-string. It was a relief to them to hear that Mrs. Mellish was fond of riding and hunting, and would no doubt take to horse-racing in due time, as the legitimate taste of a lady of position and fortune. The bells of the village church rang loudly and joyously in the clear winter air as the carriage-and-four which had met John and his bride at Doncaster, dashed into the gates of Mellish Park and up the long avenue to the semi-Gothic, semi-barbaric portico of the great door. Hearty Yorkshire voices rang out in loud cheers of welcome as Aurora stepped from the carriage, and passed under the shadow of the porch and into the old oak hall, which had been hung with evergreens and adorned with floral devices; amongst which figured the legend, "Welcom to Melish!" and other such friendly inscriptions, more conspicuous for their kindly meaning than their strict orthography. The servants were enraptured with their master's choice. She was so brightly handsome, that the simple-hearted creatures accepted her beauty as we accept the sunlight, and felt a genial warmth in that radiant loveliness, which the most classical perfection could never have inspired. Indeed, a Grecian outline might have been thrown away upon the Yorkshire servants, whose uncultivated tastes were a great deal more disposed to recognize splendour of colour than purity of form. They could not choose but admire Aurora's eyes, which they unanimously declared to be "regular shiners;" and the flash of her white teeth, glancing between the full crimson lips; and the bright flush which lighted up her pale olive skin; and the purple lustre of her massive coronal of plaited hair. Her beauty was of that luxuriant and splendid order which has always most effect upon the masses, and the fascination of her manner was almost akin to sorcery in its power over simple people. I lose myself when I try to describe the feminine intoxications, the wonderful fascination exercised by this dark-eyed siren. Surely the secret of her power to charm must have been the wonderful vitality of her nature, by virtue of which she carried life and animal spirits about with her as an atmosphere, till dull people grew merry by reason of her contagious presence; or perhaps the true charm of her manner was that childlike and exquisite unconsciousness of self which made her for ever a new creature; for ever impulsive and sympathetic, acutely sensible of all sorrow in others, though of a nature originally joyous in the extreme. Mrs. Walter Powell had been transferred from Felden Woods to Mellish Park, and was comfortably installed in her prim apartments when the bride and bridegroom arrived. The Yorkshire housekeeper was to abandon the executive power to the ensign's widow, who was to take all trouble of administration off Aurora's hands. "Heaven help your friends if they ever had to eat a dinner of my ordering, John," Mrs. Mellish said, making free confession of her ignorance; "I am glad, too, that we have no occasion to turn the poor soul out upon the world once more. Those long columns of advertisements in the 'Times' give me a sick pain at my heart when I think of what a governess must have to encounter. I cannot loll back in my carriage and be 'grateful for my advantages,' as Mrs. Alexander says, when I remember the sufferings of others. I am rather inclined to be discontented with my lot, and to think it a poor thing, after all, to be rich and happy in a world where so many must suffer; so I am glad we can give Mrs. Powell something to do at Mellish Park." The ensign's widow rejoiced very much in that she was to be retained in such comfortable quarters; but she did not thank Aurora for the benefits received from the open hands of the banker's daughter. She did not thank her, because--she hated her. Why did she hate her? She hated her for the very benefits she received, or rather because she, Aurora, had power to bestow such benefits. She hated her as such slow, sluggish, narrow-minded creatures always hate the frank and generous; hated her as envy will for ever hate prosperity; as Haman hated Mordecai from the height of his throne; and as the man of Haman nature would hate, were he supreme in the universe. If Mrs. Walter Powell had been a duchess, and Aurora a crossing-sweeper, she would still have envied her; she would have envied her glorious eyes and flashing teeth, her imperial carriage and generous soul. This pale, whity-brown-haired woman felt herself contemptible in the presence of Aurora, and she resented the bounteous vitality of this nature which made her conscious of the sluggishness of her own. She detested Mrs. Mellish for the possession of attributes which she felt were richer gifts than all the wealth of the house of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd melted into one mountain of ore. But it is not for a dependent to hate, except in a decorous and gentlewomanly manner--secretly, in the dim recesses of her soul; while she dresses her face with an unvarying smile--a smile which she puts on every morning with her clean collar, and takes off at night when she goes to bed. Now as, by an all-wise dispensation of Providence, it is not possible for one person so to hate another without that other having a vague consciousness of the deadly sentiment, Aurora felt that Mrs. Powell's attachment to her was of no very profound nature. But the reckless girl did not seek to fathom the depth of any inimical feeling which might lurk in her dependent's breast. "She is not very fond of me, poor soul!" she said; "and I dare say I torment and annoy her with my careless follies. If I were like that dear considerate little Lucy, now--" And with a shrug of her shoulders, and an unfinished sentence such as this, Mrs. Mellish dismissed the insignificant subject from her mind. You cannot expect these grand, courageous creatures to be frightened of quiet people. And yet, in the great dramas of life, it is the quiet people who do the mischief. Iago was not a noisy person; though, thank Heaven! it is no longer the fashion to represent him as an oily sneak, whom even the most foolish of Moors _could not_ have trusted. Aurora was at peace. The storms that had so nearly shipwrecked her young life had passed away, leaving her upon a fair and fertile shore. Whatever griefs she had inflicted upon her father's devoted heart had not been mortal; and the old banker seemed a very happy man when he came, in the bright April weather, to see the young couple at Mellish Park. Amongst all the hangers-on of that large establishment there was only one person who did not join in the general voice when Mrs. Mellish was spoken of, and that one person was so very insignificant that his fellow-servants scarcely cared to ascertain his opinion. He was a man of about forty, who had been born at Mellish Park, and had pottered about the stables from his babyhood, doing odd jobs for the grooms, and being reckoned, although a little "fond" upon common matters, a very acute judge of horse-flesh. This man was called Stephen, or, more commonly, Steeve Hargraves. He was a squat, broad-shouldered fellow, with a big head, a pale haggard face,--a face whose ghastly pallor seemed almost unnatural,--reddish-brown eyes, and bushy, sandy eyebrows, which formed a species of penthouse over those sinister-looking eyes. He was the sort of man who is generally called _repulsive_,--a man from whom you recoil with a feeling of instinctive dislike, which is, no doubt, both wicked and unjust; for we have no right to take objection to a man because he has an ugly glitter in his eyes, and shaggy tufts of red hair meeting on the bridge of his nose, and big splay feet, which seem made to crush and destroy whatever comes in their way. This was what Aurora Mellish thought when, a few days after her arrival at the Park, she saw Steeve Hargraves for the first time, coming out of the harness-room with a bridle across his arm. She was angry with herself for the involuntary shudder with which she drew back at the sight of this man, who stood at a little distance polishing the brass ornaments upon a set of harness, and furtively regarding Mrs. Mellish as she leaned on her husband's arm, talking to the trainer about the foals at grass in the meadows outside the Park. Aurora asked who the man was. "Why, his name is Hargraves, ma'am," answered the trainer; "but we call him Steeve. He's a little bit touched in the upper story,--a little bit 'fond,' as we call it here; but he's useful about the stables when he pleases; that arnt always though, for he's rather a queer temper, and there's none of us has ever been able to get the upper hand of him, as master knows." John Mellish laughed. "No," he said; "Steeve has pretty much his own way in the stables, I fancy. He was a favourite groom of my father's twenty years ago; but he got a fall in the hunting-field, which did him some injury about the head, and he's never been quite right since. Of course this, with my poor father's regard for him, gives him a claim upon us, and we put up with his queer ways, don't we, Langley?" "Well, we do, sir," said the trainer; "though, upon my honour, I'm sometimes half afraid of him, and begin to think he'll get up in the middle of the night and murder some of us." "Not till some of you have won a hatful of money, Langley. Steeve's a little too fond of the brass to murder any of you for nothing. You shall see his face light up presently, Aurora," said John, beckoning to the stable-man. "Come here, Steeve. Mrs. Mellish wishes you to drink her health." He dropped a sovereign into the man's broad muscular palm,--the hand of a gladiator, with horny flesh and sinews of iron. Steeve's red eyes glistened as his fingers closed upon the money. "Thank you kindly, my lady," he said, touching his cap. He spoke in a low subdued voice, which contrasted so strangely with the physical power manifest in his appearance that Aurora drew back with a start. Unhappily for this poor "fond" creature, whose person was in itself repulsive, there was something in this inward, semi-whispering voice which gave rise to an instinctive dislike in those who heard him speak for the first time. He touched his greasy woollen cap once more, and went slowly back to his work. "How white his face is!" said Aurora. "Has he been ill?" "No. He has had that pale face ever since his fall. I was too young when it happened, to remember much about it; but I have heard my father say, that when they brought the poor creature home, his face, which had been florid before, was as white as a sheet of writing-paper, and his voice, until that period strong and gruff, was reduced to the half-whisper in which he now speaks. The doctors did all they could for him, and carried him through an awful attack of brain-fever; but they could never bring back his voice, nor the colour to his cheeks." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Mellish gently; "he is very much to be pitied." She was reproaching herself, as she said this, for that feeling of repugnance which she could not overcome. It was a repugnance closely allied to terror; she felt as if she could scarcely be happy at Mellish Park while that man was on the premises. She was half inclined to beg her indulgent husband to pension him off, and send him to the other end of the county; but the next moment she was ashamed of her childish folly, and a few hours afterwards had forgotten Steeve Hargraves, the "Softy," as he was politely called in the stables. Reader, when any creature inspires you with this instinctive unreasoning abhorrence, avoid that creature. He is dangerous. Take warning, as you take warning by the clouds in the sky, and the ominous stillness of the atmosphere when there is a storm coming. Nature cannot lie; and it is nature which has planted that shuddering terror in your breast; an instinct of self-preservation rather than of cowardly fear, which at the first sight of some fellow-creature tells you more plainly than words can speak, "That man is my enemy!" Had Aurora suffered herself to be guided by this instinct,--had she given way to the impulse which she despised as childish, and caused Stephen Hargraves to be dismissed from Mellish Park, what bitter misery, what cruel anguish, might have been spared to herself and others! The mastiff Bow-wow had accompanied his mistress to her new home; but Bow-wow's best days were done. A month before Aurora's marriage he had been run over by a pony-carriage in one of the roads about Felden, and had been conveyed, bleeding and disabled, to the veterinary surgeon's, to have one of his hind-legs put into splints, and to be carried through his sufferings by the highest available skill in the science of dog-doctoring. Aurora drove every day to Croydon to see her sick favourite; and at the worst Bow-wow was always well enough to recognize his beloved mistress, and roll his listless, feverish tongue over her white hands, in token of that unchanging brute affection which can only perish with life. So the mastiff was quite lame as well as half blind when he arrived at Mellish Park, with the rest of Aurora's goods and chattels. He was a privileged creature in the roomy mansion; a tiger-skin was spread for him upon the hearth in the drawing-room, and he spent his declining days in luxurious repose, basking in the fire-light or sunning himself in the windows, as it pleased his royal fancy; but, feeble as he was, always able to limp after Mrs. Mellish when she walked on the lawn or in the woody shrubberies which skirted the gardens. One day, when she had returned from her morning's ride with John and her father, who accompanied them sometimes upon a quiet gray cob, and seemed a younger man for the exercise, she lingered on the lawn in her riding-habit after the horses had been taken back to the stables, and Mr. Mellish and his father-in-law had re-entered the house. The mastiff saw her from the drawing-room window, and crawled out to welcome her. Tempted by the exquisite softness of the atmosphere, she strolled, with her riding-habit gathered under her arm and her whip in her hand, looking for primroses under the clumps of trees upon the lawn. She gathered a cluster of wild-flowers, and was returning to the house, when she remembered some directions respecting a favourite pony that was ill, which she had omitted to give to her groom. She crossed the stable-yard, followed by Bow-wow, found the groom, gave him her orders, and went back to the gardens. While talking to the man, she had recognized the white face of Steeve Hargraves at one of the windows of the harness-room. He came out while she was giving her directions, and carried a set of harness across to a coach-house on the opposite side of the quadrangle. Aurora was on the threshold of the gates opening from the stables into the gardens, when she was arrested by a howl of pain from the mastiff Bow-wow. Rapid as lightning in every movement, she turned round in time to see the cause of this cry. Steeve Hargraves had sent the animal reeling away from him with a kick from his iron-bound clog. Cruelty to animals was one of the failings of the "Softy." He was not cruel to the Mellish horses, for he had sense enough to know that his daily bread depended upon his attention to them; but Heaven help any outsider that came in his way! Aurora sprang upon him like a beautiful tigress, and catching the collar of his fustian jacket in her slight hands, rooted him to the spot upon which he stood. The grasp of those slender hands, convulsed by passion, was not to be easily shaken off; and Steeve Hargraves, taken completely off his guard, stared aghast at his assailant. Taller than the stable-man by a foot and a half, she towered above him, her cheeks white with rage, her eyes flashing fury, her hat fallen off, and her black hair tumbling about her shoulders, sublime in her passion. The man crouched beneath the grasp of the imperious creature. "Let me go!" he gasped, in his inward whisper, which had a hissing sound in his agitation; "let me go, or you'll be sorry; let me go!" "How dared you!" cried Aurora,--"how dared you hurt him? My poor dog! My poor lame, feeble dog! How dared you to do it? You cowardly dastard! you----" She disengaged her right hand from his collar and rained a shower of blows upon his clumsy shoulders with her slender whip; a mere toy, with emeralds set in its golden head, but stinging like a rod of flexible steel in that little hand. "How dared you!" she repeated again and again, her cheeks changing from white to scarlet in the effort to hold the man with one hand. Her tangled hair had fallen to her waist by this time, and the whip was broken in half a dozen places. John Mellish, entering the stable-yard by chance at this very moment, turned white with horror at beholding the beautiful fury. "Aurora! Aurora!" he cried, snatching the man's collar from her grasp, and hurling him half a dozen paces off. "Aurora, what is it?" She told him in broken gasps the cause of her indignation. He took the splintered whip from her hand, picked up her hat, which she had trodden upon in her rage, and led her across the yard towards the back entrance to the house. It was such bitter shame to him to think that this peerless, this adored creature should do anything to bring disgrace, or even ridicule, upon herself. He would have stripped off his coat and fought with half a dozen coal-heavers, and thought nothing of it; but that she---- "Go in, go in, my darling girl," he said, with sorrowful tenderness; "the servants are peeping and prying about, I dare say. You should not have done this; you should have told me." "I should have told you!" she cried impatiently. "How could I stop to tell you when I saw him strike my dog, my poor lame dog?" "Go in, darling, go in! There, there, calm yourself, and go in." He spoke as if he had been trying to soothe an agitated child, for he saw by the convulsive heaving of her breast that the violent emotion would terminate in hysteria, as all womanly fury must, sooner or later. He half led, half carried her up a back staircase to her own room, and left her lying on a sofa in her riding-habit. He thrust the broken whip into his pocket, and then, setting his strong white teeth and clenching his fist, went to look for Stephen Hargraves. As he crossed the hall in his way out, he selected a stout leather-thonged hunting-whip from a stand of formidable implements. Steeve, the "Softy," was sitting on a horse-block when John re-entered the stable-yard. He was rubbing his shoulders with a very doleful face, while a couple of grinning stable-boys, who had perhaps witnessed his chastisement, watched him from a respectful distance. They had no inclination to go too near him just then, for the "Softy" had a playful habit of brandishing a big clasp-knife when he felt himself aggrieved; and the bravest lad in the stables had no wish to die from a stab in the abdomen, with the pleasant conviction that his murderer's heaviest punishment might be a fortnight's imprisonment, or an easy fine. "Now, Mr. Hargraves," said John Mellish, lifting the "Softy" off the horse-block and planting him at a convenient distance for giving full play to the hunting-whip, "it wasn't Mrs. Mellish's business to horsewhip you, but it was her duty to let me do it for her; so take that, you coward." The leathern thong whistled in the air, and curled about Steeve's shoulders; but John felt there was something despicable in the unequal contest. He threw the whip away, and still holding him by the collar, conducted the "Softy" to the gates of the stable-yard. "You see that avenue," he said, pointing down a fair glade that stretched before them; "it leads pretty straight out of the Park, and I strongly recommend you, Mr. Stephen Hargraves, to get to the end of it as fast as ever you can, and never to show your ugly white face upon an inch of ground belonging to me again. D'ye hear?" "E-es, sir." "Stay! I suppose there's wages or something due to you." He took a handful of money from his waistcoat-pocket and threw it on the ground, sovereigns and half-crowns rolling hither and thither on the gravel-path; then turning on his heel, he left the "Softy" to pick up the scattered treasure. Steeve Hargraves dropped on his knees, and groped about till he had found the last coin; then, as he slowly counted the money from one hand into the other, his white face relapsed into a grin: John Mellish had given him gold and silver amounting to upwards of two years of his ordinary wages. He walked a few paces down the avenue, and then looking back shook his fist at the house he was leaving behind him. "You're a fine-spirited madam, Mrs. John Mellish, sure enough," he muttered; "but never you give me a chance of doing you any mischief, or by the Lord, _fond_ as I am, I'll do it! They think the 'Softy's' up to naught, perhaps. Wait a bit." He took his money from his pocket again, and counted it once more, as he walked slowly towards the gates of the Park. It will be seen, therefore, that Aurora had two enemies, one without and one within her pleasant home: one for ever brooding discontent and hatred within the holy circle of the domestic hearth; the other plotting ruin and vengeance without the walls of the citadel. CHAPTER XIII. THE SPRING MEETING. The early spring brought Lucy Floyd on a visit to her cousin, a wondering witness of the happiness that reigned at Mellish Park. Poor Lucy had expected to find Aurora held as something better than the dogs, and a little higher than the horses, in that Yorkshire household; and was considerably surprised to find her dark-eyed cousin a despotic and capricious sovereign, reigning with undisputed sway over every creature, biped or quadruped, upon the estate. She was surprised to see the bright glow in her cheeks, the merry sparkle in her eyes; surprised to hear the light tread of her footstep, the gushing music of her laugh; surprised, in fact, to discover that, instead of weeping over the dry bones of her dead love for Talbot Bulstrode, Aurora had learned to love her husband. Have I any need to be ashamed of my heroine in that she had forgotten her straight-nosed, gray-eyed Cornish lover, who had set his pride and his pedigree between himself and his affection, and had loved her at best with a reservation, although Heaven only knows how dearly he had loved her? Have I any cause to blush for this poor, impetuous girl, if, turning in the sickness of her sorrowful heart with a sense of relief and gratitude to the honest shelter of John's love, she had quickly learnt to feel for him an affection which repaid him a thousandfold for his long-suffering devotion? Surely it would have been impossible for any true-hearted woman to withhold some such repayment for such a love as that which, in every word, and look, and thought, and deed, John Mellish bestowed upon his wife. How could she be for ever his creditor for such a boundless debt? Are hearts like his common amongst our clay? Is it a small thing to be beloved with this loyal and pure affection? Is it laid so often at the feet of any mortal woman that she should spurn and trample upon the holy offering? He had loved; and more, he had trusted her. He had trusted her, when the man who passionately loved her had left her in an agony of doubt and despair. The cause of this lay in the difference between the two men. John Mellish had as high and stern a sense of honour as Talbot Bulstrode; but while the proud Cornishman's strength of brain lay in the reflective faculties, the Yorkshireman's acute intellect was strongest in its power of perception. Talbot drove himself half mad with imagining what _might be;_ John saw what _was;_ and he saw, or fancied he saw, that the woman he loved was worthy of all love; and he gave his peace and honour freely into her keeping. He had his reward. He had his reward in her frank womanly affection, and in the delight of seeing that she was happy; no cloud upon her face, no shadow on her life, but ever-beaming joy in her eyes, ever-changing smiles upon her lips. She was happy in the calm security of her home, happy in that pleasant stronghold in which she was so fenced about and guarded by love and devotion. I do not know that she ever felt any romantic or enthusiastic love for this big Yorkshireman; but I do know that from the first hour in which she laid her head upon his broad breast she was true to him--true as a wife should be; true in every thought; true in the merest shadow of a thought. A wide gulf yawned around the altar of her home, separating her from every other man in the universe, and leaving her alone with that one man whom she had accepted as her husband. She had accepted him in the truest and purest sense of the word. She had accepted him from the hand of God, as the protector and shelterer of her life; and morning and night, upon her knees, she thanked the gracious Creator who had made this man for her help-meet. But after duly setting down all this, I have to confess that poor John Mellish was cruelly hen-pecked. Such big, blustering fellows are created to be the much-enduring subjects of petticoat government; and they carry the rosy garlands until their dying hour with a sublime unconsciousness that those floral chains are not very easy to be broken. Your little man is self-assertive, and for ever on his guard against womanly domination. All tyrannical husbands on record have been little men, from Mr. Daniel Quilp upwards; but who could ever convince a fellow of six foot two in his stockings that he was afraid of his wife? He submits to the pretty tyrant with a quiet smile of resignation. What does it matter? She is so little, so fragile; he could break that tiny wrist with one twist of his big thumb and finger; and in the mean time, till affairs get desperate, and such measures become necessary, it's as well to let her have her own way. John Mellish did not even debate the point. He loved her, and he laid himself down to be trampled upon by her gracious feet. Whatever she did or said was charming, bewitching, and wonderful to him. If she ridiculed and laughed at him, her laughter was the sweetest harmony in creation; and it pleased him to think that his absurdities could give birth to such music. If she lectured him, she arose to the sublimity of a priestess, and he listened to her and worshipped her as the most noble of living creatures. And with all this, his innate manliness of character preserved him from any taint of that quality our _argot_ has christened _spooneyism_. It was only those who knew him well and watched him closely who could fathom the full depths of his tender weakness. The noblest sentiments approach most nearly to the universal, and this love of John's was in a manner universal. It was the love of husband, father, mother, brother, melted into one comprehensive affection. He had a mother's weak pride in Aurora, a mother's foolish vanity in the wonderful creature, the _rara avis_ he had won from her nest to be his wife. If Mrs. Mellish was complimented while John stood by, he simpered like a school-girl who blushes at a handsome man's first flatteries. I'm afraid he bored his male acquaintance about "my wife:" her marvellous leap over the bullfinch; the plan she drew for the new stables, "which the architect said was a better plan than he could have drawn himself, sir, by Gad" (a clever man, that Doncaster architect); the surprising way in which she had discovered the fault in the chestnut colt's off fore-leg; the pencil sketch she had made of her dog Bow-wow ("Sir Edwin Landseer might have been proud of such spirit and dash, sir"). All these things did the county gentlemen hear, until, perhaps, they grew a shade weary of John's talk of "my wife." But they were never weary of Aurora herself. She took her place at once among them; and they bowed down to her and worshipped her, envying John Mellish the ownership of such a high-bred filly, as I fear they were but likely, unconsciously, to designate my black-eyed heroine. The domain over which Aurora found herself empress was no inconsiderable one. John Mellish had inherited an estate which brought him an income of something between sixteen and seventeen thousand a year. Far-away farms, upon wide Yorkshire wolds and fenny Lincolnshire flats, owned him master; and the intricate secrets of his possessions were scarcely known to himself,--known, perhaps, to none but his land-steward and solicitor, a grave gentleman who lived in Doncaster, and drove about once a fortnight down to Mellish Park, much to the horror of its light-hearted master, to whom "business" was a terrible bugbear. Not that I would have the reader for a moment imagine John Mellish an empty-headed blockhead, with no comprehension save for his own daily pleasures. He was not a reading man, nor a business man, nor a politician, nor a student of the natural sciences. There was an observatory in the Park; but John had fitted it up as a smoking-room, the revolving openings in the roof being very convenient for letting out the effluvia of his guests' cheroots and Havanas; Mr. Mellish caring for the stars very much after the fashion of that Assyrian monarch who was content to see them shine, and thank their Maker for their beauty. He was not a spiritualist; and unless one of the tables at Mellish could have given him "a tip" for the "Sellinger," or Great Ebor, he would have cared very little if every inch of walnut and rosewood in his house had grown oracular. But for all this he was no fool; he had that brightly clear intellect which very often accompanies perfect honesty of purpose, and which is the very intellect of all others most successful in the discomfiture of all knavery. He was not a creature to despise, for his very weaknesses were manly. Perhaps Aurora felt this, and that it was something to rule over such a man. Sometimes, in an outburst of loving gratitude, she would nestle her handsome head upon his breast,--tall as she was, she was only tall enough to take shelter under his wing,--and tell him that he was the dearest and the best of men, and that, although she might love him to her dying day, she could never, _never_, NEVER love him half as much as he deserved. After which, half ashamed of herself for the sentimental declaration, she would alternately ridicule, lecture, and tyrannize over him for the rest of the day. Lucy beheld this state of things with silent bewilderment. Could the woman who had once been loved by Talbot Bulstrode sink to _this?_ The happy wife of a fair-haired Yorkshireman; with her fondest wishes concentred in her namesake the bay filly, which was to run in a weight-for-age race at the York Spring, and was entered for the ensuing Derby; interested in a tan gallop, a new stable; talking of mysterious but evidently all-important creatures, called by such names as Scott and Fobert and Chiffney and Challoner; and to all appearance utterly forgetful of the fact that there existed upon the earth a divinity with fathomless gray eyes, known to mortals as the heir of Bulstrode. Poor Lucy was like to have been driven well-nigh demented by the talk about this bay filly, Aurora, as the Spring Meeting drew near. She was taken to see her every morning by Aurora and John, who, in their anxiety for the improvement of their favourite, looked at the animal upon each visit as if they expected some wonderful physical transformation to have occurred in the stillness of the night. The loose box in which the filly was lodged was watched night and day by an amateur detective force of stable-boys and hangers-on; and John Mellish once went so far as to dip a tumbler into the pail of water provided for the bay filly, Aurora, to ascertain, of his own experience, that the crystal fluid was innocuous; for he grew nervous as the eventful day drew nigh, and was afraid of lurking danger to the filly from dark-minded touts who might have heard of her in London. I fear the touts troubled their heads very little about this graceful two-year old, though she had the blood of Old Melbourne and West Australian in her veins, to say nothing of other aristocracy upon the maternal side. The suspicious gentlemen hanging about York and Doncaster in those early April days were a great deal too much occupied with Lord Glasgow's lot, and John Scott's lot, and Lord Zetland's and Mr. Merry's lot, and other lots of equal distinction, to have much time to prowl about Mellish Park, or peer into that meadow which the young man had caused to be surrounded by an eight-foot fence for the privacy of the Derby winner _in futuro._ Lucy declared the filly to be the loveliest of creatures, and safe to win any number of cups and plates that might be offered for equine competition; but she was always glad, when the daily visit was over, to find herself safely out of reach of those high-bred hind-legs, which seemed to possess a faculty for being in all four corners of the loose-box at one and the same moment. The first day of the Meeting came, and found half the Mellish household established at York: John and his family at an hotel near the betting-rooms; and the trainer, his satellites, and the filly, at a little inn close to the Knavesmire. Archibald Floyd did his best to be interested in the event which was so interesting to his children; but he freely confessed to his grandniece, Lucy, that he heartily wished the Meeting over, and the merits of the bay filly decided. She had stood her trial nobly, John said; not winning with a rush, it is true; in point of fact, being in a manner beaten; but evincing a power to _stay_, which promised better for the future than any two-year-old velocity. When the saddling-bell rang, Aurora, her father, and Lucy were stationed in the balcony, a crowd of friends about them; Mrs. Mellish, with a pencil in her hand, putting down all manner of impossible bets in her excitement, and making such a book as might have been preserved as a curiosity in sporting annals. John was pushing in and out of the ring below; tumbling over small book-men in his agitation; dashing from the ring to the weighing-house; and hanging about the small pale-faced boy who was to ride the filly as anxiously as if the jockey had been a prime minister, and John a family-man with half a dozen sons in need of Government appointments. I tremble to think how many bonuses, in the way of five-pound notes, John promised this pale-faced lad, on condition that the stakes (some small matter amounting to about sixty pounds) were pulled off--pulled off where, I wonder?--by the bay filly Aurora. If the youth had not been of that preternatural order of beings who seem born of an emotionless character to wear silk for the good of their fellow-men, his brain must certainly have been dazed by the variety of conflicting directions which John Mellish gave him within the critical last quarter of an hour; but having received his orders early that morning from the trainer, accompanied with a warning not to suffer himself to be _tewed_ (Yorkshire _patois_ for worried) by anything Mr. Mellish might say, the sallow-complexioned lad walked about in the calm serenity of innocence,--there are honest jockeys in the world,--and took his seat in the saddle with as even a pulse as if he had been about to ride in an omnibus. There were some people upon the Stand that morning who thought the face of Aurora Mellish as pleasant a sight as the smooth greensward of the Knavesmire, or the best horse-flesh in the county of York. All forgetful of herself in her excitement, with her natural vivacity multiplied by the animation of the scene before her, she was more than usually lovely; and Archibald Floyd looked at her with a fond emotion, so intermingled with gratitude to Heaven for the happiness of his daughter's destiny as to be almost akin to pain. She was happy; she was thoroughly happy at last, this child of his dead Eliza, this sacred charge left to him by the woman he had loved; she was happy, and she was _safe;_ he could go to his grave resignedly to-morrow, if it pleased God,--knowing this. Strange thoughts, perhaps, for a crowded race-course; but our most solemn fancies do not come always in solemn places. Nay, it is often in the midst of crowds and confusion that our souls wing their loftiest flights, and the saddest memories return to us. You see a man sitting at some theatrical entertainment, with a grave, abstracted face, over which no change of those around him has any influence. He may be thinking of his dead wife, dead ten years ago; he may be acting over well-remembered scenes of joy and sorrow; he may be recalling cruel words, never to be atoned for upon earth, angry looks gone to be registered against him in the skies; while his children are laughing at the clown on the stage below him. He may be moodily meditating inevitable bankruptcy or coming ruin, holding imaginary meetings with his creditors, and contemplating prussic acid upon the refusal of his certificate, while his eldest daughter is crying with Pauline Deschappelles. So Archibald Floyd, while the numbers were going up, and the jockeys being weighed, and the book-men clamouring below him, leaned over the broad ledge of the stone balcony, and, looking far away across the grassy amphitheatre, thought of the dead wife who had bequeathed to him this precious daughter. The bay filly, Aurora, was beaten ignominiously. Mrs. Mellish turned white with despair as she saw the amber jacket, black belt, and blue cap crawling in at the heels of the ruck, the jockey looking pale defiance at the bystanders: as who should say that the filly had never been meant to win, and that the defeat of to-day was but an artfully-concocted _ruse_ whereby fortunes were to be made in the future? John Mellish, something used to such disappointments, crept away to hide his discomfiture outside the ring; but Aurora dropped her card and pencil, and, stamping her foot upon the stone flooring of the balcony, told Lucy and the banker that it was a shame, and that the boy must have sold the race, as it was _impossible_ the filly could have been fairly beaten. As she turned to say this, her cheeks flushed with passion, and her eyes flashing bright indignation on any one who might stand in the way to receive the angry electric light, she became aware of a pale face and a pair of gray eyes earnestly regarding her from the threshold of an open window two or three paces off; and in another moment both she and her father had recognized Talbot Bulstrode. The young man saw that he was recognized, and approached them, hat in hand,--very, very pale, as Lucy always remembered,--and, with a voice that trembled as he spoke, wished the banker and the two ladies "Good day." And it was thus that they met, these two who had "parted in silence and tears," more than "half broken-hearted," to sever, as they thought, for eternity; it was thus--upon this commonplace, prosaic, half-guinea Grand Stand--that Destiny brought them once more face to face. A year ago, and how often in the spring twilight Aurora Floyd had pictured her possible meeting with Talbot Bulstrode! He would come upon her suddenly, perhaps, in the still moonlight, and she would swoon away and die at his feet of the unendurable emotion. Or they would meet in some crowded assembly; she dancing, laughing with hollow, simulated mirth; and the shock of one glance of those eyes would slay her in her painted glory of jewels and grandeur. How often, ah, how often she had acted the scene and felt the anguish!--only a year ago, less than a year ago, ay, even so lately as on that balmy September day when she had lain on the rustic couch at the Château d'Arques, looking down at the fair Normandy landscape, with faithful John at watch by her side, the tame goats browsing upon the grassy platform behind her, and preternaturally ancient French children teasing the mild, long-suffering animals. And to-day she met him with her thoughts so full of the horse which had just been beaten, that she scarcely knew what she said to her sometime lover. Aurora Floyd was dead and buried, and Aurora Mellish, looking critically at Talbot Bulstrode, wondered how any one could have ever gone near to the gates of death for the love of him. It was Talbot who grew pale at this unlooked-for encounter; it was Talbot whose voice was shaken in the utterance of those few every-day syllables which common courtesy demanded of him. The captain had not so easily learned to forget. He was older than Aurora, and he had reached the age of two-and-thirty without having ever loved woman, only to be the more desperately attacked by the fatal disease when his time came. He suffered acutely at that sudden meeting. Wounded in his pride by her serene indifference, dazzled afresh by her beauty, mad with jealous fury at the thought that he had lost her, Captain Bulstrode's feelings were of no very enviable nature; and if Aurora had ever wished to avenge that cruel scene at Felden Woods, her hour of vengeance had most certainly come. But she was too generous a creature to have harboured such a thought. She had submitted in all humility to Talbot's decree; she had accepted his decision, and had believed in its justice; and seeing his agitation to-day, she was sorry for him. She pitied him, with a tender, matronly compassion; such as she, in the safe harbour of a happy home, might be privileged to feel for this poor wanderer, still at sea on life's troubled ocean. Love, and the memory of love, must indeed have died before we can feel like this. The terrible passion must have died that slow and certain death, from the grave of which no haunting ghost ever returns to torment the survivors. It was, and it is not. Aurora might have been shipwrecked and cast on a desert island with Talbot Bulstrode, and might have lived ten years in his company, without ever feeling for ten seconds as she had felt for him once. With these impetuous and impressionable people, who live quickly, a year is sometimes as twenty years; so Aurora looked back at Talbot Bulstrode across a gulf which stretched for weary miles between them, and wondered if they had really ever stood side by side, allied by Hope and Love, in the days that were gone. While Aurora was thinking of these things, as well as a little of the bay filly, and while Talbot, half choked by a thousand confused emotions, tried to appear preternaturally at his ease, John Mellish, having refreshed his spirits with bottled beer, came suddenly upon the party, and slapped the captain on the back. _He_ was not jealous, this happy John. Secure in his wife's love and truth, he was ready to face a regiment of her old admirers; indeed, he rather delighted in the idea of avenging Aurora upon this cowardly lover. Talbot glanced involuntarily at the members of the York constabulary on the course below; wondering how they would act if he were to fling John Mellish over the stone balcony, and do a murder then and there. He was thinking this while John was nearly wringing off his hand in cordial salutation, and asking what the deuce had brought him to the York Spring. Talbot explained rather lamely that, being knocked up by his Parliamentary work, he had come down to spend a few days with an old brother-officer, Captain Hunter, who had a place between York and Leeds. Mr. Mellish declared that nothing could be more lucky than this. He knew Hunter well; the two men must join them at dinner that day; and Talbot must give them a week at the Park after he left the captain's place. Talbot murmured some vague protestation of the impossibility of this, to which John paid no attention whatever, hustling his sometime rival away from the ladies in his eagerness to get back to the ring, where he had to complete his book for the next race. So Captain Bulstrode was gone once more, and throughout the brief interview no one had cared to notice Lucy Floyd, who had been pale and red by turns half a dozen times within the last ten minutes. John and Talbot returned after the start, with Captain Hunter, who was brought on to the stand to be presented to Aurora, and who immediately entered into a very animated discussion upon the day's racing. How Captain Bulstrode abhorred this idle babble of horse-flesh; this perpetual jargon, alike in every mouth--from Aurora's rosy Cupid's bow to the tobacco-tainted lips of the book-men in the ring! Thank Heaven, this was not _his_ wife who knew all the slang of the course, and, with _lorgnette_ in hand, was craning her swan-like throat to catch sight of a bend in the Knavesmire and the horse that had a lead of half a mile. Why had he ever consented to come into this accursed horse-racing county? Why had he deserted the Cornish miners, even for a week? Better to be wearing out his brains over Dryasdust pamphlets and Parliamentary minutes than to be here; desolate amongst this shallow-minded, clamorous multitude, who have nothing to do but to throw up caps and cry huzza for any winner of any race. Talbot, as a bystander, could not but remark this, and draw from this something of a philosophical lesson on life. He saw that there was always the same clamour and the same rejoicing in the crowd, whether the winning jockey wore blue and black belt, yellow and black cap, white with scarlet spots, or any other variety of colour, even to dismal sable; and he could but wonder how this was. Did the unlucky speculators run away and hide themselves while the uplifted voices were rejoicing? When the welkin was rent with the name of Caractacus or Tim Whiffler, where were the men who had backed Buckstone or the Marquis unflinchingly up to the dropping of the flag and the ringing of the bell? When Thormanby came in with a rush, where were the wretched creatures whose fortunes hung on "the Yankee" or Wizard? They were voiceless, these poor unlucky ones, crawling away with sick white faces to gather in groups, and explain to each other, with stable jargon intermingled with oaths, how the victory just over ought not to have been, and never could have been, but for some un-looked-for and preposterous combination of events never before witnessed upon any mortal course. How little is ever seen of the losers in any of the great races run upon this earth! For years and years the name of Louis Napoleon is an empty sound, signifying nothing; when, lo, a few master strokes of policy and _finesse_, a little juggling with those pieces of pasteboard out of which are built the shaky card-palaces men call empires, and creation rings with the same name; the outsider emerges from the ruck, and the purple jacket spotted with golden bees is foremost in the mighty race. Talbot Bulstrode leaned with folded arms upon the stone balustrade, looking down at the busy life below him, and thinking of these things. Pardon him for his indulgence in dreary platitudes and worn-out sentimentalities. He was a desolate, purposeless man; entered for no race himself; scratched for the matrimonial stakes; embittered by disappointment; soured by doubt and suspicion. He had spent the dull winter months upon the Continent, having no mind to go down to Bulstrode to encounter his mother's sympathy and his cousin Constance Trevyllian's chatter. He was unjust enough to nourish a secret dislike to that young lady for the good service she had done him by revealing Aurora's flight. Are we ever really grateful to the people who tell us of the iniquity of those we love? Are we ever really just to the kindly creatures who give us friendly warning of our danger? No, never! We hate them; always involuntarily reverting to them as the first causes of our anguish; always repeating to ourselves that, had they been silent, that anguish need never have been; always ready to burst forth in our wild rage with the mad cry, that "it is better to be much abused than but to know't a little." When the friendly Ancient drops his poisoned hints into poor Othello's ear, it is not Mistress Desdemona, but Iago himself, whom the noble Moor first has a mind to strangle. If poor innocent Constance Trevyllian had been born the veriest cur in the county of Cornwall, she would have had a better chance of winning Talbot's regard than she had now. Why had he come into Yorkshire? I left that question unanswered just now, for I am ashamed to tell the reasons which actuated this unhappy man. He came, in a paroxysm of curiosity, to learn what kind of life Aurora led with her husband, John Mellish. He had suffered horrible distractions of mind upon this subject; one moment imagining her the most despicable of coquettes, ready to marry any man who had a fair estate and a good position to offer her, and by-and-by depicting her as some white-robed Iphigenia, led a passive victim to the sacrificial shrine. So, when happening to meet his goodnatured brother-officer at the United Service Club, he had consented to run down to Captain Hunter's country place, for a brief respite from Parliamentary minutes and red-tape, the artful hypocrite had never owned to himself that he was burning to hear tidings of his false and fickle love, and that it was some lingering fumes of the old intoxication that carried him down to Yorkshire. But now, now that he met her--met her, the heartless, abominable creature, radiant and happy--mere simulated happiness and feverish mock radiance, no doubt, but too well put on to be quite pleasing to him,--_now he knew her._ He knew her at last, the wicked enchantress, the soulless siren. He knew that she had never loved him; that she was of course powerless to love; good for nothing but to wreath her white arms and flash the dark splendour of her eyes for weak man's destruction; fit for nothing but to float in her beauty above the waves that concealed the bleached bones of her victims. Poor John Mellish! Talbot reproached himself for his hardness of heart in nourishing one spiteful feeling towards a man who was so deeply to be pitied. When the race was done, Captain Bulstrode turned, and beheld the black-eyed sorceress in the midst of a group gathered about a grave Patriarch with gray hair and the look of one accustomed to command. This grave Patriarch was John Pastern. I write his name with respect, even as it was reverentially whispered there, till, travelling from lip to lip, every one present knew that a great man was amongst them. A very quiet, unassuming veteran, sitting with his womankind about him,--his wife and daughter, as I think,--self-possessed and grave, while men were busy with his name in the crowd below, and while tens of thousands were staked in trusting dependence on his acumen. What golden syllables might have fallen from those oracular lips, had the veteran been so pleased! What hundreds would have been freely bidden for a word, a look, a nod, a wink, a mere significant pursing-up of the lips from that great man! What is the fable of the young lady who discoursed pearls and diamonds to a truth such as this? Pearls and diamonds must be of large size which would be worth the secrets of those Richmond stables, the secrets which Mr. Pastern might tell if he chose. Perhaps it is the knowledge of this which gives him a calm, almost clerical, gravity of manner. People come to him and fawn upon him, and tell him that such and such a horse from his stable has won, or looks safe to win; and he nods pleasantly, thanking them for the kind information; while perhaps his thoughts are far away on Epsom Downs or Newmarket Heath, winning future Derbys and Two Thousands with colts that are as yet unfoaled. John Mellish is on intimate terms with the great man, to whom he presents Aurora, and of whom he asks advice upon a matter that has been troubling him for some time. His trainer's health is failing him, and he wants assistance in the stables; a younger man, honest and clever. Does Mr. Pastern know such a one? The veteran tells him, after due consideration, that he does know of a young man; honest, he believes, as times go, who was once employed in the Richmond stables, and who had written to him only a few days before, asking for his influence in getting him a situation. "But the lad's name has slipped my memory," added Mr. Pastern; "he was but a lad when he was with me; but, bless my soul, that's ten years ago! I'll look up his letter, when I go home, and write to you about him. I know he's clever, and I believe he's honest; and I shall be only too happy," concluded the old gentleman, gallantly, "to do anything to oblige Mrs. Mellish." END OF VOL. I. 
56973	----	[Illustration: Oliver Resents his Step-brother's Interference.] ADRIFT IN THE CITY OR _OLIVER CONRAD'S PLUCKY FIGHT_ BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK" SERIES, "TATTERED TOM" SERIES, "LUCK AND PLUCK" SERIES THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY PORTER & COATES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. TWO YOUNG ENEMIES, 1 II. OPEN REVOLT, 10 III. THE YOUNG RIVALS, 18 IV. MR. KENYON'S SECRET, 28 V. MR. KENYON'S RESOLVE, 37 VI. MR. KENYON'S CHANGE OF BASE, 46 VII. ROLAND'S DISCOMFITURE, 55 VIII. A DANGEROUS LETTER, 64 IX. OLIVER'S MOTHER, 73 X. THE ROYAL LUNATIC, 82 XI. HOW THE LETTER WAS MAILED, 92 XII. OLIVER'S JOURNEY, 97 XIII. MR. KENYON'S PLANS FOR OLIVER, 102 XIV. A STORE IN THE BOWERY, 111 XV. JOHN'S COURTSHIP, 120 XVI. THE CONSPIRACY, 129 XVII. OLIVER LOSES HIS PLACE, 135 XVIII. OLIVER, THE OUTCAST, 143 XIX. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE, 147 XX. A TERRIBLE SITUATION, 156 XXI. ROLAND IS SURPRISED, 165 XXII. OLIVER ADOPTS A NEW GUARDIAN, 175 XXIII. MR. BUNDY IS DISAPPOINTED, AND OLIVER MEETS SOME FRIENDS, 184 XXIV. ANOTHER CLUE, 193 XXV. MAKING ARRANGEMENTS, 199 XXVI. WHO RUPERT JONES WAS, 203 XXVII. A STARTLING TELEGRAM, 208 XXVIII. OLD NANCY'S HUT, 213 XXIX. DR. FOX IN PURSUIT, 222 XXX. HOW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED, 231 XXXI. MRS. KENYON FINDS FRIENDS, 240 XXXII. MR. DENTON OF CHICAGO, 249 XXXIII. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK, 258 XXXIV. DENTON SEES HIS VICTIMS ESCAPE, 267 XXXV. ON THE TRACK, 274 XXXVI. DENTON IS CHECKMATED, 280 XXXVII. DENTON'S LITTLE ADVENTURE IN THE CARS, 286 XXXVIII. THE MEETING AT LINCOLN PARK, 296 XXXIX. THE COMMON ENEMY, 305 XL. THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS, 314 ADRIFT IN THE CITY; OR, OLIVER CONRAD'S PLUCKY FIGHT. CHAPTER I. TWO YOUNG ENEMIES. "Oliver, bring me that ball!" said Roland Kenyon, in a tone of command. The speaker, a boy of sixteen, stood on the lawn before a handsome country mansion. He had a bat in his hand, and had sent the ball far down the street. He was fashionably dressed, and evidently felt himself a personage of no small consequence. The boy he addressed, Oliver Conrad, was his junior by a year--not so tall, but broader and more thick-set, with a frank, manly face, and an air of independence and self-reliance. He was returning home from school, and carried two books in his hand. Oliver was naturally obliging, but there was something he did not like in the other's imperious tone, and his pride was touched. "Are you speaking to me?" he demanded quietly. "Of course I am. Is there any other Oliver about?" "When you ask a favor, you had better be polite about it." "Bother politeness! Go after that ball! Do you hear?" exclaimed Roland angrily. Oliver eyed him calmly. "Go for it yourself," he retorted. "I don't intend to run on your errands." "You don't?" exclaimed Roland furiously. "Didn't I speak plainly enough? I meant what I said." "Go after that ball this instant!" shrieked Roland, stamping his foot; "or I'll make you!" "Suppose you make me do it," said Oliver contemptuously, opening the gate, and entering the yard. Roland had worked himself into a passion, and this made him reckless of consequences. He threw the bat in his hand at Oliver, and if the latter had not dodged quickly it would have seriously injured him. At the same time Roland rushed impetuously upon the boy who had offended him by his independence. To say that Oliver kept calm under this aggravated attack would be incorrect. His eyes flashed with anger. He threw his books upon the lawn, and put himself in an instant on guard. A moment, and the two boys were engaged in a close struggle. Roland was taller, and this gave him an advantage; but Oliver was the more sturdy and agile. He clasped Roland around the waist, lifted him off his feet, and laid him, after a brief resistance, on the lawn. "You'd better not attack me again!" he said, looking with flushed face at his fallen foe. Roland was furious. He sprang to his feet and flung himself upon Oliver, but with so little discretion that the latter, by a well-planted blow, immediately felled him to the ground, and, warned by the second attack, planted his knee on Roland's breast, thus preventing him from rising. "Let me up!" shrieked Roland furiously, struggling desperately but ineffectually. "Will you let me alone, then?" "No, I won't!" returned Roland, who in his anger lost sight of prudence. "Then you may lie there till you promise," said Oliver composedly. "Get up, you bully!" screamed Roland. "You are the bully. You attacked me, or I should never have touched you," said Oliver. "I'll tell my father," said Roland. "Tell, if you want to," said Oliver, his lip curling. "He'll have you well beaten." "I don't think he will." "So you defy him, then?" "No; I defy nobody. But I mean to defend myself from violence." "What's the matter with you two boys? Oliver, what are you doing?" The speaker was Mr. Kenyon's gardener, John Bradford, a sensible man and usually intelligent. Oliver often talked with him, and treated him respectfully, as he deserved. Roland was foolish enough to look down upon him because he was a poor man and occupied a subordinate position. Oliver rose from the ground and let up his adversary. "We have had a little difficulty, Mr. Bradford," he said. "Roland may tell you if he likes." "What is the trouble, Roland?" enquired the gardener. "None of your business!" answered Roland insolently. "You are very polite," said the gardener. "I don't feel called upon to be polite to my father's hired man," remarked Roland unpleasantly. "If he won't answer your question, I will," said Oliver. "Roland commanded me to run and get his ball, and I didn't choose to do it. He attacked me, and I defended myself. That is all there is about it." "No, it isn't all there is about it," said Roland passionately. "You have insulted me, and you are going to be flogged. You may just make up your mind to that." "How have I insulted you?" "You threw me down." "Suppose I hadn't. What would have happened to me?" "I would have whipped you if you hadn't taken me by surprise." Oliver shrugged his shoulders. Apparently Roland didn't propose to renew the fight. Oliver watched him warily, suspecting a sudden attack, but it was not made. Roland turned toward the house, merely discharging this last shaft at his young conqueror: "You'll get it when my father gets home." "Your ball is in the road," said the gardener. "It will be lost." "No, it won't. Oliver will have to bring it in yet." "I am afraid he means mischief, Oliver," said the gardener, turning to our hero as Roland slammed the front door upon entering. "I suppose he does," said Oliver quietly. "It isn't the first attempt he has made to order me around." "He is a very disagreeable boy," said Bradford. "He is the most disagreeable boy I know," said Oliver. "I can get along with any of the other boys, except Jim Cameron, his chosen friend. He's pretty much the same sort of fellow as Roland--only, not being rich, he can't put on so many airs." "You talk of Roland being rich," said the gardener. "He has no right to be called so." "His father has property, I suppose?" "Mr. Kenyon was poor enough when he married your mother. All the property he owns came from her." "Is that true, Mr. Bradford?" asked Oliver thoughtfully. "Yes; didn't you know it?" "I have sometimes thought so." "There is no doubt about it. It excited a good deal of talk--your mother's will." "Did she leave all her property to Mr. Kenyon, John?" "So he says, and he shows a will that has been admitted to probate." Oliver was silent for a moment. Then he spoke: "If my mother chose to leave all to him, I have not a word to say. She had a right to do as she pleased." "But it seems singular. She loved you as much as any mother loves her son; yet she disinherited you." "I will not complain of anything she did, Mr. Bradford," said Oliver soberly. "Suppose she didn't do it, Master Oliver?" "What do you mean, Mr. Bradford?" asked the boy, fixing his eyes upon the gardener's face. "I mean that there are some in the village who think there has been foul play--that the will is not genuine." "Do you think so, Mr. Bradford?" "Knowing your mother, and her love for you, I believe there's been some fraud practised, and that Mr. Kenyon is at the bottom of it." "I wish I knew," said Oliver. "It isn't the money I care about so much, but I don't like to think that my mother preferred Mr. Kenyon to me." "Wait patiently, Oliver; it'll all come out some day." Just then Roland appeared at the front door and called out, in a tone of triumphant malice: "Come right in, Oliver; my father wants to see you." Oliver and the gardener exchanged glances. Then the boy answered: "You may tell your father I am coming," and walked quietly toward the front door. "I've told him all about it," said Roland. "Are you sure you have told your father all?" "Yes, I have." "That's all I want. If you have told him all, he must see that I am not to blame." "You'll find out. He's mad enough." Oliver knew enough of his step-father to accept this as probable. "Now, for it," he thought, and followed Roland into his father's presence. CHAPTER II. OPEN REVOLT. Benjamin Kenyon, the father of Roland and Oliver's step-father, was a man of fifty or more. He had a high narrow forehead, small eyes, and a scanty supply of coarse black hair rimming a bald crown with a fringe in the shape of a horse-shoe. His expression was crafty and insincere. A tolerable judge of physiognomy would at once pronounce him as a man not to be trusted. He turned upon Oliver with a frown, and said harshly: "How dared you assault my son Roland!" "It was he who assaulted me, Mr. Kenyon," answered Oliver quietly. "Do you deny that you felled him to the earth twice?" "I threw him over twice, if that is what you mean, sir." "If that is what I mean! Don't be impertinent, sir." "I have not been--thus far." "Do you think I shall allow you to make a brutal assault upon my son, you young reprobate?" "If you call me by that name again I shall refuse to answer you," said Oliver with spirit. "Do you hear that, father?" interrupted Roland, anxious to prejudice his father against his young enemy. "I hear it," said Mr. Kenyon; "and you may rely upon it that I shall take notice of it, too. So you have no defence to make, then?" This last question was, of course, addressed to Oliver. "I will merely state what happened, Mr. Kenyon. Roland had batted his ball far out on the road. He ordered me to go for it, and I refused." "You refused?" "Yes, sir." "And why?" "Because I am not subject to your son's orders." "It is because you are selfish and disobliging." "No, sir. If Roland had asked me, as a favor, to get the ball, I would have done it, being nearer to it than he, but I did not choose to obey his orders." "He has a right to order you about," said Mr. Kenyon, frowning. "I don't admit it," said Oliver. "Is he not older than you?" "Yes, sir." "Then you must obey him?" "I am sorry to differ with you, Mr. Kenyon, but I cannot see it in that light." "It makes very little difference in what light you see it," sneered Mr. Kenyon. "I command you to obey him!" Roland listened with triumphant malice, and nodded his head with satisfaction. "Do you hear that?" he said insolently. Oliver eyed him calmly. "Yes, I hear it," he said. "Then you'd better remember it next time." "Where is the ball now?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "In the street." "Oliver, you may go and get it, and bring it to Roland." Roland laughed--a little low, chuckling laugh that was very exasperating to Oliver. Our hero's naturally pleasant face assumed a firm and determined expression. He was about to make a declaration of independence. "Do you ask me to go for this ball as a favor?" he asked, turning to his step-father. "No," returned the latter harshly. "I command you to do it without question, and at once." "Then, sir, much as I regret it, I must refuse to obey you." Oliver was pale but firm. Mr. Kenyon's face, on the contrary, was flushed and angry. "Do you defy me?" he roared furiously. "I defy no one, sir, but you require me to do what would put me in the power of your son. If I consented, there would be no end to his attempts to tyrannize over me." "Are you aware that I am your natural guardian, sir--that the law delegates to me supreme authority over you, you young reprobate?" demanded Mr. Kenyon, working himself into an ungovernable passion. Oliver did not reply. "Speak, I order you!" exclaimed his step-father, stamping his foot. "I did not speak sooner because you called me a young reprobate, sir. I answer now that I will sooner leave your house and go out into the world to shift for myself than allow Roland to trample upon me and order me about like a dog." "Enough of this! Roland, go downstairs and get my cane." "I'll go," said Roland, with alacrity. It was a welcome commission. Smarting with a sense of his own recent humiliating defeat, nothing could be sweeter than to see his victorious adversary beaten in his own presence. Of course he understood that it was for this purpose his father wanted the cane. There was silence in the room while Roland was gone. Oliver was rapidly making up his mind what he would do. Roland ran upstairs with the cane. "Here it is, father," he said, extending it to Mr. Kenyon. "I will give you one more chance, Oliver," said his step-father. "You have insulted my son and rebelled against my authority, but I do not want to proceed to violence unless I am absolutely obliged to. I command you once more to go and get Roland's ball." "If you command me, sir, I must answer as I did before--I must refuse." Roland looked relieved. He feared that Oliver would yield, and so escape the beating he was anxious to witness. "Aint he impudent!" he ejaculated. "Are you going to stand that, father?" "No, I am not," said Mr. Kenyon grimly. "I will make him repent bitterly his rebellious course. Come here, sir--or no," and a smile lighted up his face, "it is more befitting that your punishment should come from the one whom you have insulted. Roland, take the cane and give Oliver a dozen strokes with it." "You'll back me up, won't you?" asked Roland cautiously. "Yes, I will back you up. There is nothing to fear." "I guess father and I'll be a match for him," thought the brave Roland. He took the cane and advanced toward Oliver with it uplifted. "If you touch me it will be at your peril!" said Oliver, pale but firm. Roland looked at his father, and received a nod of encouragement. He hesitated no longer, but, with a look of triumphant spite, lifted the cane and rushed toward Oliver. It did not fall where it was intended, for, with a spring, Oliver wrested it from his grasp and threw it out of the window. Then, without a word, leaving father and son gazing into each other's faces with mingled wrath and dismay, he left the room. "Are you going to allow this, father?" asked Roland in a tone of disappointment. "Oliver doesn't pay you the least respect." Mr. Kenyon was not a brave or a resolute man. He was a man capable of petty tyranny, but one to be cowed by manly opposition. It occurred to him that in seeking to break Oliver's spirit, he had undertaken a difficult task. So he hardly knew what to say. "Shall I run after him?" asked Roland. "No," said his father. "I will take a little time to consider what is to be done with him. I'll make him rue this day, you may depend upon it." "I hope you will," said Roland. "I don't mind so much about myself," he added artfully, "but I hate to see him treat you so." "I'll break his proud spirit," said Mr. Kenyon, biting his lip. "I'll find a way, you may depend upon it." CHAPTER III. THE YOUNG RIVALS. When Oliver left the house he was uncertain whither to bend his steps. The supper hour was near at hand, but it would hardly be pleasant under the circumstances to meet his step-father and Roland at the tea-table. He preferred to go without his evening meal. As he walked slowly along the main street on which his step-father's house was situated, plunged in thought, he was called to himself by a slap on his shoulder. "What are you thinking about, Oliver?" was asked, in a cheery voice. "Frank Dudley!" said our hero, "you're just the boy I want to see." "Do I owe you any money?" asked Frank, in mock alarm. "Not that I know of." "Then it's all right. I am glad to meet you, too. Where are you going?" "I don't know." "Have you had supper?" "No." "Then come home with me. You haven't taken supper at our house for a long time." "So I will," responded Oliver with alacrity. "I see how it is," said Frank. "They were going to send you to bed without your supper, and my invitation brings you unexpected relief." "You are partly right. But for your invitation I should have had no supper." "What is it all about, Oliver? What's the matter?" "I'll tell you, Frank. Mr. Kenyon and I have had a quarrel." "I am not surprised at that. I don't admire the man, even if he is your step-father." "Oh, you needn't check your feelings on my account. I never could like him." "How did the trouble begin?" "It began with Roland. I'll tell you about it," and Oliver told what had occurred. Frank listened in silence. "I think you did right," he said. "I wouldn't submit to be ordered round by such a popinjay. He's the most disagreeable boy I know, and my sister thinks so, too." "He seems to admire your sister." "She doesn't appreciate his attentions. He's always coming up and wanting to walk with her, though she is cool enough with him." Oliver was glad to hear this. To tell the truth, he had a boyish fancy for Carrie Dudley himself, which was not surprising, for she was the prettiest girl in the village. Though he had not supposed she looked favorably upon Roland, it was pleasant to be assured of this by the young lady's brother. "Poor Roland!" he said, smiling. "Your sister may give him the heartache." "Oh, I guess his heart's pretty tough. But here we are." Frank Dudley's father was a successful physician. His mother was dead, and her place in the household was supplied by his father's sister, Miss Pauline Dudley, who, though an old maid, had a sunny temperament and kindly disposition. The doctor's house, though not as pretentious as Mr. Kenyon's, was unusually pleasant and attractive. "Aunt Pauline," said Frank to his aunt, who was sitting on a rocking chair on the front piazza, "I have brought Oliver home to supper." "I am very glad to see you, Oliver," said Miss Dudley. "I wish you would come oftener." "Thank you, Miss Dudley; I am always glad to come here. It is so pleasant and social compared with----" He paused, thinking it not in good taste to refer unfavorably to his own home. "I understand," said Miss Dudley. "You must be lonely at home." "I am," said Oliver briefly. "Not much company, and that poor," whispered Frank. Oliver nodded assent. Here Carrie Dudley appeared and cordially welcomed Oliver. "Carrie seems glad to see you, Oliver," said Frank; "but you must not feel too much elated. It's only on account of your relationship to Roland. She's perfectly infatuated with that boy." Like most brothers, Frank liked to tease his sister. "Roland!" repeated Carrie, tossing her head. "I hope I have better taste than to like him." "It's all put on, Oliver. You mustn't believe what she says." "Didn't I see Roland walking with you yesterday?" asked Oliver, willing to join in the teasing. "Because I couldn't get rid of him," retorted Carrie. "He thinks you are over head and ears in love with him," said Frank. "I don't believe he thinks anything of the kind. If he does, he is very much mistaken; that is all I can say." "Don't tease your sister any more, Frank," said Oliver. "I don't believe she admires Roland any more than I do." "Thank you, Oliver. I am glad to have you on my side," said the young lady graciously. "I shouldn't mind if I never saw Roland Kenyon." "Stop your quarrelling, young people, and walk in to supper," said Miss Pauline. "Where is your father to-night, Frank?" asked Oliver, as they ranged themselves round the neat supper table. "He has been sent for to Claremont. He won't be back till late, probably. You will please look upon me as the head of the household while he is away." "I will, most learned doctor." The evening meal passed pleasantly. Oliver could not help contrasting it with the dull and formal supper he was accustomed to take at home, and his thoughts found utterance. "I wish I had as pleasant a home as you, Frank." "You had better come and live with us, Oliver." "I should like to." "Suppose you propose it to Mr. Kenyon. I don't believe he prizes your society very much." "Nor I. He wouldn't mind being rid of me, but Roland would probably object to my coming here." "I didn't think of that." "I should like to have you with us, Oliver," said Miss Pauline. "You would be company for Frank, and could help keep him straight." "As if I needed it, Aunt Pauline! All the same, I should enjoy having Oliver here, and so would Carrie." "Yes, I should," said the young lady unhesitatingly. Oliver was well pleased, and expressed his satisfaction. After supper they adjourned to the parlor, and presently Carrie sat down to the piano and played and sang some popular songs, Frank and Oliver joining in the singing. While they were thus engaged a ring was heard at the door-bell. "That's Roland, I'll bet a hat," said Frank. "It's one of his courting evenings." It proved to be Roland. He entered with a stiff bow. "Good-evening, Miss Carrie," he said, a little awkwardly. "Good-evening, Mr. Kenyon," said the young lady distantly. "Will you be seated?" "Thank you. Good-evening, Frank." "Good-evening. May I introduce you to Mr. Oliver Conrad?" "You here?" said Roland, surprised. Being near-sighted, he had not before noticed our hero's presence. "I am here," said Oliver briefly. "We were singing as you entered, Roland," said Frank mischievously. "Won't you favor us with a melody?" "I don't sing," said Roland stiffly. "Indeed! Oliver is quite a singer." "I was not aware he was so accomplished," said Roland, unable to suppress a sneer. "I suppose he doesn't often sing to you." "I shouldn't like to trouble him. I should be very glad to hear you sing, Miss Carrie." "If Frank and Oliver will join in. I don't like to sing alone." A song was selected, and the three sang it through. Sitting at the other end of the room, Roland, who greatly admired Carrie, was tormented with jealousy as he saw Oliver at her side, winning smiles and attention which he had never been able to win. He could not help wishing that he, too, were able to sing. If Oliver had made himself ridiculous, it would have comforted him, but our hero had a strong and musical voice, and acquitted himself very creditably. "It's a pity you don't sing, Roland," said Frank. "I wouldn't try to sing unless I could sing well," said Roland. "Is he hitting you or me, Oliver?" asked Frank. "You sing well," said Roland. "Then it's you, Oliver!" Oliver smiled, but took no notice of the remark. Roland rose to go a little after nine. He had not enjoyed the evening. It was very unsatisfactory to see the favor with which his enemy was regarded by Carrie Dudley. He had not the art to conceal his dislike of our hero. "You'd better come home," he said, turning to Oliver. "Father objects to our being out late." "I know when to come home," said Oliver briefly. "You'd better ask leave before you go out to supper again." "If you have no more to say I will bid you good-evening," said Oliver quietly. "You see what a pleasant brother I have," said Oliver after Roland's departure. "It's a good thing to have somebody to look after you," said Carrie. "I wish Frank had such a guardian and guide." "I shall have, when Roland is my brother-in-law," retorted Frank. "Then you'll have to go without one forever." "Girls never say what they mean, Oliver." "Sometimes they do." Meanwhile Roland was trudging home in no very good humor. "I'd give fifty dollars to see Oliver well thrashed," he muttered. "He is interfering with me in everything." CHAPTER IV. MR. KENYON'S SECRET. While this rivalry was going on between Oliver and Roland, Mr. Kenyon, remaining at home, had had a surprise and a disagreeable one. At half-past seven Roland left the house. At quarter to eight the door-bell rang, and Mr. Kenyon was informed that a gentleman wished to see him. He was looking over some business papers and the interruption did not please him. "Who is it?" he demanded impatiently. "A gentleman." "So I suppose. What is his name?" "He is a stranger, sir, and he didn't give me his name. He said he wanted to see you partic'lar." "Well, you may bring him up," said Mr. Kenyon, folding up his papers with an air of resignation. He looked up impatiently as the visitor entered, and straightway a look of dismay overspread his countenance. The visitor was a dark-complexioned man of about forty-five, with bushy black whiskers. "Dr. Fox!" ejaculated Mr. Kenyon mechanically. The visitor chuckled. "So you know me, Mr.---- ahem! Mr. Kenyon. I feared under the circumstances you might have forgotten me." "How came you here?" demanded Kenyon abruptly. "A little matter of business brought me to New York, and a matter of curiosity brought me to this place." "How did you trace me to--to Brentville?" asked Mr. Kenyon, with evident uneasiness. "I suppose that means you didn't wish to be traced, eh?" "And suppose I did not?" "I am really sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Crandall--I beg pardon, Kenyon; but I thought you might like to hear directly from your wife." "For Heaven's sake, hush!" exclaimed Kenyon, looking round him nervously. He rose, and, walking to the door, shut it, first peering into the hall to see if anyone were listening. Dr. Fox laughed again. "It's well to be cautious," he said. "I quite approve of it--under the circumstances, Mr. Kenyon," he proceeded, leering at him with unpleasant familiarity. "You're a deep one! I give you credit for being deeper than I supposed. You've played your cards well, that's a fact." Mr. Kenyon bit his finger-nails to the quick in his alarm and irritation. He would like to have choked the man who sat before him, if he had dared, and possessed the requisite strength. "You only made one mistake, my dear sir. You shouldn't have tried to deceive me. You should have taken me into your confidence. You might have known I would find out your little game." "Dr. Fox," said Mr. Kenyon, frowning, "your tone is very offensive. You will bear in mind that you are addressing a gentleman." "Ho! ho!" laughed the visitor. "I really beg pardon," he said, marking the dark look on the face of the other. "No offence is intended. In fact, I was rather expressing my admiration for your sharpness. It was an admirable plan, that of yours." "I don't care for compliments. Why have you sought me out?" "A moment's patience, Mr. Kenyon. I was about to say Crandall--force of habit, sir. As I remarked, it was a capital plan to commit your wife to an insane asylum, and then take possession of her property. Did you have any difficulty about that, by the way?" "None of your business!" snapped Mr. Kenyon. "I am naturally a little curious on the subject." "Confound your curiosity!" "And so--ho! ho!--you are popularly regarded as a widower? Perhaps you have reared a monument in the cemetery to the dear departed? Ho! ho!" "This is too much, sir!" exploded Kenyon, in wrath. "Drop this subject, or I may do you a mischief." "You'd better think twice before you permit your feelings to overmaster you," said the stranger significantly. "That's an ugly secret I possess of yours. What would the good people of Brentville say if they knew that your wife, supposed to be dead, is really confined in an insane asylum, while you, without any sanction of law, are living luxuriously on her wealth? I think, Mr. Kenyon, they would be very apt to lynch you." "You have nothing to complain of, at least. You are well paid for the care of--of the person you mention." "I am paid my regular price--that is all, sir." "Is not that enough?" "Under the circumstances, it is not." "Why not?" "Do you need to ask? To begin with, your wife----" "Hush!" said Kenyon nervously. "Call her Mrs. Crandall." "Mrs. Crandall, if you will. Well, Mrs. Crandall is as sane as you are." "Then she is less trouble." "Not at all! She is continually imploring us to release her. It is quite a strain upon our feelings, I do assure you." "Your feelings!" repeated Kenyon disdainfully. Dr. Fox laughed. "Really," he said, "I am quite affected at times by her urgency." "Does she--ever mention me?" asked Mr. Kenyon slowly. "Yes, but it wouldn't flatter you to hear her. She speaks of you as a cruel tyrant, who has separated her from her boy. His name is Oliver, isn't it?" "Yes." "She mourns for him, and prays to see him once more before she dies." "Is her physical health failing?" enquired Kenyon, with sudden hopefulness. "No; that is the strangest part of it. She retains her strength. Apparently she is determined to husband her strength, and resolved to live on in the hope of some day being restored to her son." Mr. Kenyon gnawed his nails more viciously than before. It had been his cherished hope that the wife whom he had so cruelly consigned to a living death would succumb beneath the accumulated weight of woe, and relieve him of all future anxiety by dying in reality. The report just received showed that such hopes were fallacious. "Well, sir," he commenced, after a brief pause. "I do not wish to prolong this interview. Tell me why you have tracked me here? What is it you require?" "The fact is, Mr. Kenyon,--you'll excuse my dropping the name of Crandall,--I want some money." "A month since I paid, through my agent, your last quarterly bill. No more money will be due you till the 1st of December." "I want a thousand dollars," said the visitor quietly. "What!" ejaculated Kenyon. "I want a thousand dollars before I leave Brentville." "You won't get it from me!" "Consider a moment, Mr. Crandall,--I mean Mr. Kenyon,--the result of my publishing this secret of yours. I understand that your wife's property, which you wrongfully hold, amounts to a quarter of a million of dollars. If all were known, your step-son Oliver and his mother would step into it, and you would be left out in the cold. Disagreeable, very! Can't you introduce me to Oliver?" Mr. Kenyon's face was a study. He was like a fly in the meshes of a spider, absolutely helpless. "If I give you a check," he said, "will you leave Brentville at once?" "First thing to-morrow morning." "Can't you go before?" "Not conveniently. The next town is five miles away, and I don't like night travel." Mr. Kenyon opened his desk and hastily dashed off a check. "Now," said he, "leave, and don't come back." "You waive ceremony with a vengeance, Mr. Kenyon," said the visitor, depositing the check in his pocket-book with an air of satisfaction. "Permit me to thank you for your liberality." As he was about to leave the room Roland dashed in. The two looked at each other curiously. "Is this Oliver?" asked Dr. Fox. "No, it is my son Roland. Good-evening." "I am glad to make the young gentleman's acquaintance. Hope he'll inherit his father's virtues, ha, ha!" "Who is that, father?" asked Roland when the visitor had retired. "A mere acquaintance, Roland--a man with whom I have had a little business." "I don't like him." "Nor I. But I must bid you good-night, my son. I am tired and need rest." "I wanted to speak to you about Oliver." "We will defer that till morning." "Good-night, then!" and Roland left his father a prey to anxieties which kept him awake for hours. CHAPTER V. MR. KENYON'S RESOLVE. Mr. Kenyon felt that a sword was impending over his head which might at any time fall and destroy him. Four years before he had married Mrs. Conrad, a wealthy widow, whose acquaintance he had made at a Saratoga boarding-house. Why Mrs. Conrad should have been willing to sacrifice her independence for such a man is one of the mysteries which I do not pretend to solve. I can only record the fact. Oliver was away at the time, or his influence--for he never fancied Mr. Kenyon--might have turned the scale against the marriage. Mr. Kenyon professed to be wealthy, but his new wife never was able to learn in what his property consisted or where it was located. Shortly after marriage he tried to get the management of his wife's property into his own hands; but she was a cautious woman,--a trait she inherited from Scotch ancestry,--and, moreover, she was devotedly attached to her son Oliver. She came to know Mr. Kenyon better after she had assumed his name, and to distrust him more. Three months had not passed when she bitterly repented having accepted him; but she had taken a step which she could not retrace. She allowed Mr. Kenyon a liberal sum for his personal expenses, and gave a home to his son Roland, who was allowed every advantage which her own son enjoyed. Further than this she was not willing to go, and Mr. Kenyon was, in consequence, bitterly disappointed. He had supposed his wife to be of a more yielding temperament. So matters went on for three years. Then Mr. Kenyon all at once fancied himself in very poor health, at any rate he so represented. He induced a physician to recommend travelling, and to urge the importance of his wife accompanying him. She fell into the trap, for it proved to be a trap. The boys were left at home, at a boarding school, and Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon set out on their travels. They sailed for Cuba, where they remained two months; then they embarked for Charleston. In the neighborhood of Charleston Mr. Kenyon was enabled at length to carry out his nefarious design. He made the acquaintance of Dr. Fox, an unprincipled keeper of a private insane asylum, and left Mrs. Kenyon in his charge, under the name of Mrs. Crandall, with the strictest orders that under no circumstances should she be permitted to leave the asylum. Three months from the time of his departure he reappeared in Brentville, wearing deep mourning--a widower. According to his account, Mrs. Kenyon had been attacked by a malignant fever, and died in four days. He also produced a will, made by his wife, conveying to him absolutely her property, all and entire. The only reference to her son Oliver was couched in these terms: "I commend my dear son Oliver to my husband's charge, fully satisfied that he will provide for him in all ways as I would myself, urging him to do all in his power to promote my dear Oliver's welfare, and prepare him for a creditable and useful position in the world." But for this clause doubts would have been expressed as to the genuineness of the will. As it was, it was generally supposed to be authentic, but Mrs. Kenyon was severely criticised for reposing so much confidence in her husband, and leaving Oliver wholly dependent upon him. It was a great blow to Oliver,--his mother's death,--and the world seemed very lonely to him. Besides, he could not fail to notice a great difference in the manner of Mr. Kenyon and Roland toward him. The former laid aside his velvety manner and assumed airs of command. He felt secure in the position he had so wrongfully assumed, and hated Oliver all the more because he knew how much he had wronged him. Roland, too, was quick to understand the new state of things. He was older than Oliver, and tried to exact deference from him on that account. His father had promised to make him his chief heir, and both had a tacit understanding that Oliver was to be treated as a poor relation, with no money and no rights except such as they might be graciously pleased to accord. But Oliver did not fit well into this rôle. He was too spirited and too independent to be browbeaten, and did not choose to flatter or fawn upon his step-father though he did bear the purse. The outbreak recorded in the first chapter would have come sooner had Oliver been steadily at home. But he had spent some weeks in visiting a cousin out of town, and was thus saved from a conflict with Roland. Soon after he came home the scene already described took place. Thus far things had gone to suit Mr. Kenyon. But the arrival of Dr. Fox, and his extortionate demand, with the absolute certainty that it would be followed at frequent intervals by others, was like a clap of thunder in a clear sky. Henceforth peril was imminent. At any time his wife might escape from her asylum, and appear on the scene to convict him of conspiracy and falsehood. This would mean ruin. At any time Dr. Fox, if his exactions were resisted, might reveal the whole plot, and this, again, would be destruction. If not, he might be emboldened, by the possession of a damaging secret, to the most exorbitant demands. These thoughts worried Mr. Kenyon, and robbed him of sleep. What should he, or could he do? Two things seemed desirable--to get rid of Oliver, and to leave Brentville for some place where neither Dr. Fox nor his injured wife could seek him out. The more he thought of this way out of the difficulty the better he liked it. There was nothing to bind him to Brentville except the possession of a handsome place. But this comprised in value not more than a tenth part of his--that is, his wife's--possessions. Why should he not let or, still better, sell it, and at once and forever leave Brentville? There were no friendly ties to sunder. He was not popular in the village, and he knew it. He was popularly regarded as an interloper, who had no business with the property of which he had usurped the charge. Neither was Roland liked, as much on his own account as on his father's, for he strutted about the village, turning up his nose at boys who would have been better off than himself in a worldly point of view but for his father's lucky marriage, and declining to engage in any game in which the first place was not accorded to him. It was very different with Oliver. He was born to be popular. Though he possessed his share of pride, doubtless, he never showed it in an offensive manner. No poor boy ever felt ill at ease in his company. He was the life and soul of the playground, though he obtained an easy pre-eminence in the schoolroom. "Oliver is worth a dozen of Roland!" was the common remark. "What a pity he was left dependent on his step-father!" The last remark was often made to Oliver himself, but it was a subject which he was not willing to discuss. It seemed to him that he would be reproaching his mother, to find fault with the provision she had made for his future. It did seem to him, however, in his secret heart, that his mother had been misled by too blind a confidence in his step-father. "I wish she had left me only one-quarter of the property, and left it independent of him," he thought more than once. "She couldn't know how disagreeable it would be to me to be dependent upon him." Oliver thought this, but he did not say it. The thought came to him again as he walked home from the house of Frank Dudley, twenty minutes after Roland had travelled over the same road. "I wonder whether Mr. Kenyon will be up," he asked himself, as he rang the bell. "If he is, I suppose I must make up my mind for another volley. How different it was when my poor mother was alive!" The door was opened by Maggie, the servant. "Has Roland come home?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Oliver; he is in bed by this time." "That's good!" thought Oliver. "Is Mr. Kenyon up?" "No, Mr. Oliver. Did you wish to see him?" "Oh, no," said Oliver, feeling relieved. "I only enquired out of curiosity. You'd better shut up the house, Maggie." "I was going to, Mr. Oliver." Oliver took his lamp and went up slowly to bed. His room was just opposite to Roland's, which adjoined the apartment occupied by his father. Remembering the scene of the previous day, Oliver expected it would be renewed when he met his stepfather and Roland at breakfast in the morning. Such, also, was the expectation of Roland. He wanted Oliver to be humiliated, and fully anticipated that he would be. What, then, was the surprise of the two boys when Mr. Kenyon displayed an unusually gracious manner at table! CHAPTER VI. MR. KENYON'S CHANGE OF BASE. "Good-morning, Oliver," he said pleasantly, when our hero entered the room. "Good-morning, sir," returned Oliver in surprise. "We missed you at supper last evening," continued the step-father. "Yes, sir; I took supper at Dr. Dudley's," explained Oliver, not quite certain whether this would be considered satisfactory. "Dr. Dudley is a very worthy man," said Mr. Kenyon. "His son is about your age, is he not?" "Yes, sir." "He has a daughter, also--rather a pretty girl." "I believe Roland thinks so," said Oliver, glancing at his step-brother. "Roland has taste, then," said Mr. Kenyon. "You two boys mustn't quarrel about the young lady." "I shan't quarrel," said Roland stiffly. "There are plenty other girls in this world." "You are a philosopher, I see," said his father. Roland felt that this had gone far enough. Why should his father talk pleasantly to Oliver, who had defied his authority the day before? If this went on, Oliver would be encouraged in his insubordination. He felt that it was necessary to revive the subject. "I expect my ball is lost," he said in an aggrieved tone. "What ball?" asked his father. "The ball I batted out into the road yesterday afternoon." "Probably someone has picked it up," said Mr. Kenyon, proceeding to open an egg. Roland was provoked at his father's coolness and unconcern. "If Oliver had picked it up for me it would not have been lost," he continued, with a scowl at our hero. "If you had picked it up yourself, wouldn't it have answered the same purpose?" Roland stared at his father in anger and dismay. Could he really mean it? Had he been won over to Oliver's side? Oliver, too, was surprised. He began to entertain a much more favorable opinion of his step-father. "Didn't you tell Oliver to pick it up yesterday afternoon?" demanded Roland, making a charge upon his father. "Yes, I believe I did." "Well, he didn't do it." "He was wrong, then," said Mr. Kenyon mildly. "He should have respected my authority." "I'll go and look for it directly breakfast is over," said Oliver, quite won over by Mr. Kenyon's mildness. "It wouldn't be any use," said Roland. "I've been looking for it myself this morning, and it isn't there." "Of course, it wouldn't stay there all night," said Mr. Kenyon. "It has, no doubt, been picked up." "Aint you going to punish Oliver for disobeying you?" burst out the disappointed Roland. Oliver turned to his step-father with interest to hear his answer. "No, Roland. On second thought, I don't think it was his place to go for the ball. You should have gone after it yourself." Oliver smiled to himself with secret satisfaction. He had never thought so well of his step-father before. He even felt better disposed toward Roland. "Why didn't you ask me politely, Roland?" he said. "Then we should have saved all this trouble." "Because I am older than you, and you ought to obey me." "I can't agree with you there," said Oliver composedly. "Come, boys, I can't allow any quarrelling at the table," said Mr. Kenyon, but still pleasantly. "I don't see why we can't live together in peace and quietness." "If he will only be like that all the time," thought Oliver, "there will be some pleasure in living with him. I am only afraid it won't last. What a difference there is between his manner to-day and yesterday." Oliver was destined to be still more astonished when breakfast was over. He had known for some time that Roland was better supplied with money than himself. In fact, he had been pinched for the want of a little ready money more than once, and whenever he applied to Mr. Kenyon, he was either refused or the favor was grudgingly accorded. To-day, as he rose from the table, Mr. Kenyon asked: "How are you off for pocket-money, Oliver?" "I have twenty-five cents in my pocket," said Oliver with a smile. "Then it is about time for a new supply?" "If you please, sir." Mr. Kenyon took a five-dollar bill from his pocket, and passed it over to our hero. "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, with mingled surprise and gratitude. "How much did you give him?" asked Roland crossly. "The same that I give you, my son;" and Mr. Kenyon produced another bill. Roland took the bill discontentedly. He was not satisfied to receive no more than Oliver. "I think," he said to our hero, "you ought to buy me a new ball out of your money." Oliver did not reply, but looked toward Mr. Kenyon. "I will buy you a new ball myself," he said. "There is no call for Oliver to buy one, unless he wants one for his own use." "If you will excuse me, sir," said Oliver respectfully, "I will get ready to go to school." "Certainly, Oliver." Roland and his father were left alone. "It seems to me you've taken a great fancy to Oliver all at once," said Roland. "What makes you think so?" "You take his part against me. Didn't you tell him yesterday to go after my ball?" "Yes." "To-day you blame me for not going myself. You reward him for his impudence besides by giving him five dollars." Mr. Kenyon smiled. "So my conduct puzzles you, does it?" he inquired complacently. "Yes, it does. I should think Oliver was your son instead of me." "Have I not treated you as well as Oliver?" "I think you ought to treat me better, considering I am your own son," grumbled Roland. "I have good reasons for my conduct," said Mr. Kenyon mysteriously. "What are they?" "You are a boy, and it is not fitting I should tell you everything." "You aint afraid of Oliver, are you?" demanded Roland bluntly. Mr. Kenyon smiled pleasantly, showing a set of very white teeth as he did so. "Really, that is amusing," he answered. "What on earth should make me afraid of Oliver?" "I don't see what other reason you can have for backing down as you have." "Listen, Roland. There is more than one way of arriving at a result, but there is always one way that is wiser than any other. Now it would not be wise for me to treat Oliver in such a way as to create unfavorable comment in the village." "What do you care for what people in the village think?" asked Roland bluntly. "Haven't you got the money?" "Yes." "And Oliver hasn't a cent?" "He has nothing except what I choose to give him." "Good!" said Roland with satisfaction. "I hope you don't mean to give him as much as you do me," he added. "Not in the end. Just at present I may." "I don't see why you should." "Then you must be content to take my word for it, and trust to my judgment. In the end you may be assured that I shall look out for your interests, and that you will be far better off than Oliver." With this promise Roland was measurably satisfied. The thing that troubled him was that Oliver seemed to have triumphed over him in their recent little difference. Perhaps, could he have fathomed his step-father's secret designs respecting Oliver, he would have felt less dissatisfied. Mr. Kenyon was never more to be dreaded than when he professed to be friendly. CHAPTER VII. ROLAND'S DISCOMFITURE. On the way to school Oliver overtook Frank Dudley. "Well, Oliver, how's the weather at home?" asked Frank. "Cloudy, eh?" "No; it's all clear and serene." Frank looked astonished. "Didn't Mr. Kenyon blow you up, then?" he asked. "Not a bit of it. He gave me a five-dollar bill without my asking for it." "What's come over him?" asked Frank in amazement. "His mind isn't getting affected, is it?" Oliver laughed. "Not that I know of," he said. "I don't wonder you ask. I never saw such a change come over a man since yesterday. Then he wanted Roland to flog me. Now he is like an indulgent parent." "It's queer, decidedly. I hope, for your sake, it'll hold out." "So do I. Roland doesn't seem to fancy it, though. He tried hard to revive the quarrel of yesterday, but without success." "He's an amiable cub, that Roland." "Do you speak thus of your future brother-in-law?" "Carrie would sooner be an old maid a dozen times over than give any encouragement to such a fellow." All of which was pleasant for Oliver to hear. Mr. Kenyon was not through with his surprises. Two weeks before, Roland had a new suit of clothes. Oliver's envy had been a little excited, because he needed new clothes more than his step-brother, but he was too proud to give expression to his dissatisfaction or to ask for a similar favor. On the way home from school, in company with Frank Dudley, Oliver met Mr. Kenyon. "Are you just coming home from school, Oliver?" asked his step-father pleasantly. "Yes, sir." "I have told Mr. Crimp, the tailor, to measure you for a new suit of clothes. You may as well call in now and be measured." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, in a tone of satisfaction. What boy ever was indifferent to new clothes? "Have you selected the cloth, sir?" he asked. "No; you may make the selection yourself. You need not regard the price. It is best to get a good article." Mr. Kenyon waved his hand, and smiling pleasantly, walked away. "Look here, Oliver," said Frank, "I begin to think you have misrepresented Mr. Kenyon to me. Such a man as that tyrannical! Why, he looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth." "I don't know what to make of it myself, Frank. I never saw such a change in a man, If he'll keep on treating me like this I shall really begin to like him. Will you come to the tailor's with me?" "Willingly. It'll be the next thing to ordering a suit for myself." The tailor's shop was near by, and the boys entered, with their school-books in their hands. Oliver, with his friend's approval, selected a piece of expensive cloth, and was measured for a suit. As they left the shop they fell in with Roland, who, cane in hand, was walking leisurely down the main street, cherishing the complacent delusion that he was the object of general admiration. "Hallo, Frank!" he said, by way of greeting. To Oliver he did not vouchsafe a word. Frank Dudley nodded. "Are you out for a walk?" he added. "Yes." "Have you been into Crimp's?" "Yes." "Been ordering new clothes?" enquired Roland, with interest, for he was rather a dandy, and was as much interested in clothes as a lady. "I haven't. Oliver has." Roland arched his brows in displeasure. "Have you ordered a suit of clothes?" he enquired. "I have," answered Oliver coldly. "Who authorized you to do it?" "It is none of your business," said Oliver, justly provoked at the other's impertinence. "It is my father's business," said Roland. "I suppose you expect to pay for them." "The bill won't be sent to you, at any rate. You may be assured of that. Come on, Frank." The two boys walked off, leaving Roland in front of the tailor's shop. "I'll go in and see what he's ordered," thought he. "If it's without authority I'll tell my father, and he'll soon put a spoke in his wheel." "Good-evening, Crimp," said he consequentially. Considering the tailor quite beneath him he dispensed with any title. "Good-evening," returned the tailor. "Oliver has ordered a suit here, hasn't he?" "Yes; he just ordered it." "Will you show me the cloth he selected?" "If you wish." Mr. Crimp displayed the cloth. Roland was enough of a judge to see that it was high priced. "It's nice cloth. Is it expensive?" "It's the best I have in stock." Roland frowned. "Is it any better than the suit you made me a short time since?" "It is a little dearer." "Why didn't you show me this, then? I wanted the best." "Because it has come in since." "Look here, Crimp," said Roland, "you'd better wait till you hear from my father before you begin on this suit." "Why should I?" "I don't believe he will allow Oliver to have such a high-priced suit." Mr. Crimp had had orders from Mr. Kenyon that very afternoon to follow Oliver's directions implicitly, but he did not choose to say this to Roland. The truth was, he was provoked at the liberty the ill-bred boy took in addressing him without a title, and he didn't see fit to enlighten him on this point. "You must excuse me," he said. "Oliver has ordered the suit, and I shall not take such a liberty with him as to question his order." "I rather think my father will have something to say about that," said Roland. "I presume you expect him to pay your bill." "The bill will be paid; I am not afraid of that. Why shouldn't it be?" "You may have to depend on Oliver to pay it himself." "Well, he has money enough, or ought to have," said the tailor significantly. "His mother left a large property." Roland did not like the turn the conversation was taking, and stalked out of the shop. "Crimp is getting impudent," he said to himself. "If there was another good tailor in the village I would patronize him." However, Roland had one other resource, and this consoled him. "I'll tell my father, and we'll see if he don't put a stop to it," he thought. "Oliver will find he can't do just as he likes. I wish Crimp would make the suit, and then father refuse to pay for it. It would teach him a lesson." Roland selected the supper-table for the revelation of what he supposed to be Oliver's unauthorized conduct. "I met Oliver coming out of Crimp's this afternoon," he commenced. Oliver did not appear alarmed at this opening. He continued to eat his toast in silence. As no one said anything, Roland continued: "He had just been ordering a new suit of clothes." "Did you find any cloth to suit you, Oliver?" asked Mr. Kenyon. "Yes, sir, I found a very nice piece." "I should think it was nice. It was the dearest in Crimp's stock!" said Roland. "How do you know?" asked Oliver quickly. "Crimp told me so." "Then you went in and enquired," said Oliver, his lip curling. "Yes, I did." "I am glad you selected a good article, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon quietly. "It will wear longer." Roland stared at his father in open-mouthed amazement. He so fully anticipated getting Oliver into hot water that his father quite disconcerted him. "His suit is going to be better than mine," he grumbled, in a tone of vexation. "That is your own fault. Why didn't you select the same cloth?" asked his father. "It is some new cloth that has just come in." "You can make it up next time," said Mr. Kenyon; "your suit seems to me to be a very nice one." This was all the satisfaction Roland got. The next day he met Mr. Crimp in the street. "Well, does your father object to Oliver's order?" he asked with a smile. Roland was too provoked to notice what he regarded as an impertinent question. CHAPTER VIII. A DANGEROUS LETTER. There are some men who seem to be utterly destitute of principle. These are the men who in cold blood show themselves guilty of the most appalling crimes if their interest requires it. They are more detestable than those who, a prey to strong passion, are hurried into the commission of acts which in their cooler moments they deeply regret. To the first class belonged Mr. Kenyon, who, as we have already seen, had committed his wife to the horrible confinement of a mad-house that he might be free to spend her fortune. Hitherto he had not injured Oliver, though he had made his life uncomfortable; but the time was coming when our hero would be himself in peril. It was because he foresaw that Oliver might need to be removed that he began to treat him with unusual indulgence. "Should anything happen," he said to himself, "this will disarm suspicion." The time came sooner than he anticipated. Action was precipitated by a most unlooked for occurrence, which filled the soul of the guilty husband with terror. One day he stopped at the post-office to enquire for letters. "There is no letter for you, Mr. Kenyon, but here is one for Oliver. Will you take it?" Mr. Kenyon was curious to learn with whom his step-son corresponded, and said: "Yes, I will take it." It was put into his hands. No sooner did he scan the handwriting and the postmark than he turned actually livid. It was in the handwriting of his wife, whom all the world supposed to be dead, and it was postmarked Charleston. "Good Heavens! What a narrow escape!" he ejaculated, the perspiration standing in large drops on his brow. "Suppose Oliver had received this letter, I might have been lynched. I must go home and consider what is to be done. How could Dr. Fox be so criminally--idiotically careless as to suffer such a letter to leave his establishment?" Mr. Kenyon hurried home, much perturbed. On the way he met Roland, who could not help observing his father's agitation. "What is the matter, father?" he enquired carelessly, for he cared very little for anyone but himself. "I have a sick headache," said his father abruptly. "I am going home to lie down." Roland made no further enquiries, and Mr. Kenyon gained the house without any other encounter. He went up to his own room and locked himself in. Then he took out his pocket-knife and cut open the envelope. The letter was as follows: MY DEAR OLIVER: This letter is from your unhappy mother, who is languishing in a private mad-house, the victim of your step-father's detestable machinations. Oh, Oliver, how can I reveal to you the hypocrisy and the baseness of that man, whom in an evil hour I accepted as the successor of your dear father. It was not because I loved him, but rather because of his importunity, that I yielded my assent to his proposals. I did not know his character then. I did not know, as I do now, that he only wanted to secure my property. He professed himself to be wealthy, but I have reason to think that in this, as in other things, he deceived me. When we came South he pretended that it was on account of his health, and I unsuspectingly fell into the snare. I need not dwell upon the details of that journey. Enough that he lured me here and placed me under the charge of a Dr. Fox, a fitting tool of his, under the plea that I was insane. I am given to understand that on his return to the North Mr. Kenyon represented me as dead. Such is his art that I do not doubt his story has been believed. Perhaps you, my dearest son, have mourned for me as dead. If this be so, my letter will be a revelation. I have been trying for a long time to get an opportunity to write you, but this is the first time I have met with success. I do not yet know if I can get it safely to the mail, but that is my hope. When you receive this letter consult with friends whom you can trust, and be guided by their advice. Do what you can to rescue me from this living death. Do not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Kenyon if you can avoid it. He is capable of anything. My dear son, my paper is exhausted, and I dare not write more, at any rate, lest I should be interrupted and detected. Heaven bless you and restore you to my longing sight. Your loving mother, MARGARET CONRAD. Mr. Kenyon's face darkened, especially when his attention was drawn to the signature. "Conrad! So she discards my name!" he muttered. "Fortunately the object of this accursed letter will not be attained, nor will Oliver have an opportunity of making mischief by showing it to the neighbors." Mr. Kenyon lighted a candle and deliberately held the dangerous letter in the flame till it was consumed. "There," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "that peril is over. But suppose she should write another?" Again his face wore an expression of nervous apprehension. "I must write to Dr. Fox at once," he mused, "and warn him to keep close guard over his patient. Otherwise I may have to dread an explosion at any time." He threw himself into an easy chair and began to think over the situation. The man was alert and watchful. Danger was at hand, and he resolved to head it off at any hazard. Meanwhile Oliver had occasion to pass the post-office on his way home from school. Thinking there might be a letter or paper for his step-father, he entered and made enquiry. "Is there anything for us, Mr. Herman?" he said. "No," said the postmaster, adding jocularly: "Isn't one letter a day enough for you?" "I have received no letter," answered Oliver, rather surprised. "I gave a letter to Mr. Kenyon for you this morning." "Oh, I haven't been home from school yet," said Oliver. "I suppose it is waiting for me there." "Very likely. It looked to be in a lady's handwriting," added the postmaster, disposed to banter Oliver, who was a favorite with him. "I can't think who can have written it, then," said our hero. At first he thought it might be from an intimate boy friend of about his own age, but the postmaster's remark seemed to render that unlikely. We all like to receive letters, however disinclined we may be to answer them. Oliver was no exception in this respect. His desire to see the letter was increased by his being quite unable to conjecture who could have written to him in a feminine handwriting. As soon, therefore, as he reached home, he enquired for Mr. Kenyon. "He's in his room, Mr. Oliver," said the servant. "Did he leave any letter for me, Maggie?" "I didn't hear of any, Mr. Oliver." "Then he's got it upstairs, I suppose." Oliver went up the stairs and knocked at Mr. Kenyon's door. The latter had now recovered his wonted composure, and called out to him to enter. "I heard you had a letter for me, Mr. Kenyon," said Oliver abruptly. Again Mr. Kenyon looked disturbed. He had hoped that Oliver would hear nothing of it, and that no enquiry might be made. "Who told you I had a letter for you?" "The postmaster." Mr. Kenyon saw that it was useless to deny it. "Yes, I believe there was one," he said carelessly. "Where could I have put it?" He began to search his pockets; then he looked into the drawers of his desk. "I don't remember laying it down," he said slowly. "In fact, I don't remember seeing it since I got home. I may have dropped it in the road." "Won't you oblige me by looking again, sir?" asked Oliver, disappointed. Mr. Kenyon looked again, but, of course, in vain. "It may turn up," he said at length. "Not that it was of any importance. It looked like a circular." "Mr. Herman told me it was in feminine handwriting," said Oliver. "Oho! that accounts for your anxiety!" said Mr. Kenyon, with affected jocularity, "Come, I'll look again." But the letter was not found. Oliver did not fail to notice something singular in his step-father's manner. "Has he suppressed my letter?" he asked himself, as he slowly retired from the room. "What does it all mean?" "He suspects me," muttered Mr. Kenyon, "He is in my way, and I must get rid of him." CHAPTER IX. OLIVER'S MOTHER. It is time to introduce Oliver's mother, who was suffering such cruel imprisonment within the walls of a mad-house. It was by a subterfuge she had first been induced to enter the asylum of Dr. Fox. Her husband had spoken of it as a boarding-school under the charge of an old friend of his. "I think, my dear," he said, as they dismounted at the gate, "that you will be interested to look over the institution, and I know it will afford my friend great pleasure to show it to you." "I dare say I shall find it interesting," she answered, and they entered. Dr. Fox met them at the door. He had received previous notice of their arrival, and a bargain had been struck between Mr. Kenyon and the doctor. A meaning look was exchanged between them which Mrs. Kenyon did not notice. "I have brought my wife to look over your establishment, doctor," said Mr. Kenyon. "I don't think it is worth looking at," said the doctor, "but I shall be very glad to show it. Will you come upstairs?" They were moving up the main staircase when a loud scream was heard from above, proceeding from one of the insane inmates. "What is that?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, stopping short and turning pale. Mr. Kenyon bit his lip. He feared that his wife would suspect too soon the character of the institution. But Dr. Fox was prepared for the question. "It is poor Tommy Briggs," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "He is in the sick-ward." "But what is the matter with him?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, shuddering as another wild shriek was borne to her ears. "He has fits," answered the doctor. "Ought he to be here, then?" "He has them only at intervals, say once a month. To-morrow he will be all right again." Mrs. Kenyon accepted this explanation without suspicion. "How old is he?" she asked. "Fifteen." "About the age of Oliver," she remarked, turning to her husband. "Or Roland." "What a misfortune it must be to have a boy so afflicted! How I pity his poor mother!" "Come up another flight, please," said Dr. Fox. "We will begin our examination there." They went up to the next story. Dr. Fox drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and applying one to the door opened it. "Do you keep them locked in?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, surprised. "This is one of the dormitories," answered the doctor, who never lost his self-possession. "Come in, please." It was a large square room. In one corner was a bed, surrounded by curtains. In the opposite corner was another bed--a cot. "Sit down one moment, Mrs. Kenyon," said the doctor. "I want to call a servant." He left the room, and Mr. Kenyon followed him. The two men regarded each other with a complacent smile. "Well, it's done," said the doctor, rubbing his hands. "She walked into the trap without any suspicion or fuss." "You'd better lock the door," said Mr. Kenyon nervously. The doctor did so. "Now," said he, "if you will follow me downstairs we will attend to the business part of the matter." "Willingly," said Kenyon. The business referred to consisted of the payment of three months' board in advance. "Now, Dr. Fox," said his new patron, "you may rely upon punctual payment of your bills. On your part, I depend on your safe custody of my wife as long as her mind remains unsound." "And that will be a long time, I fancy," said the doctor, laughing. Mr. Kenyon appreciated the joke, and laughed too. "I must leave you now," he said. "I hope you won't have much trouble with her." "Oh, have no anxiety on that score," said the doctor nonchalantly. "I am used to such cases; I know how to manage." The two men shook hands, and Mr. Kenyon left the asylum a free man. "So far, well," he said, when he was in the open air. "At last--at last, I am rich! And I mean to enjoy my wealth!" Mrs. Kenyon remained in the seat assigned her for two or three minutes. Then she began to wonder why her husband and the doctor did not return. "It's strange they leave me here so long," she said to herself. Then she rose and went to the door. She tried to open it, but it resisted her efforts. "What does this mean?" she asked herself, bewildered. She turned, and was startled by seeing a tall woman, in a long calico robe, in the act of emerging from the curtained bed. The woman had long hair, which, unconfined, descended over her shoulders. Her features wore a strange look, which startled and alarmed Mrs. Kenyon. "How did you get into my room?" asked the woman sharply. "Is this your room?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, unable to remove her eyes from the strange apparition. "Yes, it is my audience chamber," was the reply. "Why are you here?" "I hardly know," said Mrs. Kenyon hurriedly. "I think there must be some mistake. I would go out if I could, but the door is locked." "They always lock it," said the other composedly. "Do you live here?" asked Mrs. Kenyon nervously. "Oh, yes, I have lived here for five hundred years, more or less." "What!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon, terror-stricken. "I said more or less," repeated the woman sharply. "How can I tell within fifty years? Do you know who I am?" "No." "You have often heard of me," said the other complacently. "The whole world has heard about me. I am Queen Cleopatra." Mrs. Kenyon knew where she was now. She realized it with a heart full of horror. But what could it mean? Could Mr. Kenyon have left her there intentionally? In spite of all she had learned about it she could hardly credit it. "What place is this, tell me?" she implored. "I'll tell you," said the woman, "but you mustn't tell," she added, with a look of cunning. "I've found it all out. It's a place where they send crazy people." "Good Heaven!" "They are all crazy here--all but me," continued Cleopatra, to call her by the name she assumed. "I am only here for my health," she continued. "That's what the doctor tells me, though why they should keep me so long I cannot understand. Sometimes I suspect----" "In Heaven's name, what?" The woman advanced toward Mrs. Kenyon, who shrank from her instinctively, and whispered: "They want to separate me and Mark Antony," she said. "I am convinced of it, though whether it's Cæsar or my ministers who have done it I can't tell. What do you think?" she demanded, fixing her eyes searchingly upon Mrs. Kenyon. "I don't know," answered Mrs. Kenyon, shrinking away from her. "You needn't be afraid of me," said Cleopatra, observing the movement. "I am not crazy, you know. I am perfectly harmless. Are you crazy?" "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon with a shudder. "They all say so," said Cleopatra shrewdly, "but they are all crazy except me. Do you hear that?" There was another wild shriek, proceeding from a room on the same floor. "Who is it?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, in alarm. "It's crazy Nancy," answered Cleopatra. "She thinks she's the wife of Henry VIII., and she is always afraid he will have her executed. It's queer what fancies these people have," added Cleopatra, laughing. "How unconscious she is of her infirmity!" thought Mrs. Kenyon. "I hope she's never violent." "Is there a bell here?" she asked. "What for?" "I wish to ring for the doctor and my husband." "Ho! ho! Do you think they would notice your ringing?" "Do you think they mean to leave me here?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, with a gasp of horror. "To be sure they do. The doctor told me this morning he was going to give me a nice, agreeable room-mate." The full horror of her situation was revealed to the unfortunate woman, and she sank upon the floor in a swoon. CHAPTER X. THE ROYAL LUNATIC. When Mrs. Kenyon recovered from her swoon, she saw Dr. Fox bending over her. "You are recovering," he said. "You mustn't give way like this, my good madam." It all came back to her--her desertion, and the terrible imprisonment which awaited her. "Where is my husband--where is Mr. Kenyon?" she demanded imperatively. Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "I wish you to send him here at once, or to take me to him." "Quite impossible, my dear madam. He has gone." "Mr. Kenyon gone, and left me here!" "It is for your own good, my dear madam. I hope soon to restore you to him." It was as she expected, and the first shock being over, she took the announcement calmly. But her soul was stirred with anger and resentment, for she was a woman of spirit. "This is all a base plot," she said scornfully. "Has Mr. Kenyon--have you--the assurance to assert that my mind is disordered?" "Unhappily there is no doubt of it," said the doctor, in a tone of affected regret. "Your present excitement shows it." "My excitement! Who would not be excited at being entrapped in such a way? But I quite comprehend Mr. Kenyon's motives. How much does he pay you for your share in this conspiracy?" "He pays your board on my usual terms," said Dr. Fox composedly. "I have agreed to do my best to cure you of your unhappy malady, but I can do little while you suffer yourself to become so excited." His tone was significant, and contained a menace, but for this Mrs. Kenyon cared little. She had been blind, but she was clear-sighted now. She felt that it was her husband's object to keep her in perpetual imprisonment. Thus only could his ends be attained. She was silent for a moment. She perceived that craft must be met with craft, and that it was best to control her excitement. She would speak her mind, however, to avoid being misunderstood. "I will not judge you, Dr. Fox," she said. "Possibly Mr. Kenyon may have deceived you for his own purposes. If you are really skilled in mental diseases you will soon perceive that I am as sane as you are yourself." "When I make that discovery I will send you back to your husband," said the doctor with oily suavity. "I shall never return to my husband," said Mrs. Kenyon coldly. "I only ask to be released. I hope your promise is made in good faith." "Certainly it is; but, my dear madam, let me beg you to lay aside this prejudice against your husband, who sincerely regrets the necessity of your temporary seclusion from the world." Mrs. Kenyon smiled bitterly. "I understand Mr. Kenyon probably better than you do," she said. "We won't discuss him now. But if I am to remain here, even for a short time, I have a favor to ask." "You may ask it, certainly," said the doctor, who did not, however, couple with the permission any promise to grant the request. "Or, rather, I have two requests to make," said Mrs. Kenyon. "Name them." "The first is, to be supplied with pens, ink, and paper, that I may communicate with my friends." "Meaning your husband?" "He is not my friend, but I shall address one letter to him." "Very well. You shall have what you require. You can hand the letters to me, and I will have them posted." "You will not read them?" "It is our usual rule to read all letters written from this establishment, but in your case we will waive the rule, and allow them to go unread. What is your second request?" "I should like a room alone," said Mrs. Kenyon, glancing at Cleopatra, who was sitting on the side of the bed listening to the conversation. "I am sorry that I can't grant that request," said the doctor. "The fact is, my establishment is too full to give anyone a single room." "But you won't keep me in the same room with a----" "What do you call me?" interrupted Cleopatra angrily. "Do you mean to say I am crazy? You ought to feel proud of having the Queen of Egypt for a room-mate. I will make you the Mistress of the Robes." All this was ludicrous enough, considering the shabby attire of the self-styled queen, but Mrs. Kenyon did not feel in a laughing humor. She did not reply, but glanced meaningly at the door. "I am sure you will like Cleopatra," he said, adding, with a wink unobserved by the Egyptian sovereign, "she is the only sane person in my establishment." Cleopatra nodded in a tone of satisfaction. "You hear what he says?" she said, turning to Mrs. Kenyon. The latter saw that it was not wise to provoke one who would probably be her room-mate. "I don't object to her," she said; "but to anyone. Give me any room, however small, so that I occupy it alone." "Impossible, my dear madam," said her keeper decisively. "I can assure you that Cleopatra, though confined here for political reasons," here he bowed to the royal lunatic, "never gives any trouble, but is quite calm and patient." "Thank you, doctor," said Cleopatra. "You understand me. Did you forward my last letter to Mark Antony?" "Yes, your Majesty. I have no doubt he will answer it as soon as his duties in the field will permit." "Where is he now?" "I think he is heading an expedition somewhere in Asia Minor." "Very well," nodded Cleopatra. "As soon as a letter comes, send it to me." "At once," said the doctor. "You must look after this lady, and cheer her up." "Yes, I will. What is your name?" "My name used to be Conrad. You may call me that." She shrank from wearing the name of the man who had confined her in this terrible asylum. "That isn't classical. I will call you Claudia--may I?" "You may call me anything you like," said Mrs. Kenyon wearily. "When will you send me the paper and ink?" she asked. "They shall be sent up at once." Ten minutes later, writing materials were brought. Anxious to do something which might lead to her release, she sat down and wrote letters to two gentlemen of influence with whom she was acquainted, giving the details of the plot which had been so successfully carried out against her liberty. Cleopatra watched her curiously. Presently she said: "Will you let me have a sheet of your paper? I wish to write a letter to Mark Antony." "Certainly," said Mrs. Kenyon, regarding her with pity and sympathy. The other seated herself and wrote rapidly, in an elegant feminine hand, which surprised Mrs. Kenyon. She did not know that the poor lady had once been classical teacher in a prominent female seminary, and that it was a disappointment in love which had alienated her mind and reduced her to her present condition. "Shall I read you the letter?" she enquired. "If you like." It was a very well written appeal to her imaginary correspondent to hasten to her and restore her to her throne. "I thought," said Mrs. Kenyon cautiously, "that Mark Antony died many centuries ago." "Quite a mistake, I assure you. Who could have told you such nonsense, Claudia?" demanded Cleopatra sharply. "You are quite sure, then?" "Of course. You will begin to say next that Cleopatra is dead." "I thought so." "That is because I have remained here so long in concealment. The world supposes me dead, but the time will come when people will learn their mistake. Have you finished your letters?" "Yes." "When they send us our supper you can send them to the doctor." "Will he be sure to post them?" asked Mrs. Kenyon, with a natural suspicion. "Of course. Doesn't he always send my letters to Mark Antony?" This was not as satisfactory as it might have been. "Have you ever received any answers?" asked Mrs. Kenyon. "Here is a letter from Mark Antony," said Cleopatra, taking a dirty and crumpled note from her pocket. "Read it, Claudia." This was the note: FAIR CLEOPATRA: I have read your letter, my heart's sovereign, and I kiss the hand that wrote it. I am driving the enemy before me, and hope soon to kneel before you, crowned with laurels. Be patient, and soon expect your captive, MARK ANTONY. "Is it not a beautiful letter?" asked Cleopatra proudly. "Yes," said Mrs. Kenyon, feeling it best to humor her delusion. CHAPTER XI. HOW THE LETTER WAS MAILED. Several months passed, and Mrs. Kenyon remained in confinement. She was not badly treated, except in being vigilantly guarded, and prevented from making her escape. Dr. Fox always treated her with suavity, but she felt that though covered with velvet his hand was of iron, and that there was little to hope for from him. He never made any objection to her writing letters, but always insisted on their being handed to him. It was not long before she began seriously to doubt whether the letters thus committed to him were really mailed, since no answers came. One day she asked him abruptly: "Why is it, Dr. Fox, that I get no answers to my letters?" "I suppose," he answered, "that your friends are afraid you may be excited, and your recovery retarded, by hearing from them." "Has my--has Mr. Kenyon reported that I am insane?" "Undoubtedly." "False and treacherous!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Why was I ever mad enough to marry him?" Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "Really," he said, "I couldn't pretend to explain your motives, my dear madam. Women are enigmas." "Are my letters regularly mailed, Dr. Fox?" asked Mrs. Kenyon searchingly. "How can you ask such a question? Do you not commit them to me?" "So does Cleopatra," said Mrs. Kenyon, who had fallen into the habit of addressing her room-mate by the name she assumed. "Do you forward her letters to Mark Antony?" "Does she doubt it?" asked the doctor, bowing to the mad queen. "No, doctor," replied Cleopatra promptly. "I have the utmost faith in your loyalty, and it shall be rewarded. I have long intended to make you Lord High Baron of the Nile. Let this be the emblem." In a dignified manner Cleopatra advanced toward Dr. Fox, and passed a bit of faded ribbon through his button-hole. "Thanks, your Majesty," said the doctor. "Your confidence is not misplaced. I will keep this among my chief treasures." Cleopatra looked pleased, and Mrs. Kenyon impatient and disgusted. "He deceives me as he does her, without doubt. It is useless to question him further." From this time she sedulously watched for an opportunity to write a letter and commit it to other hands than the doctor's. But, that he might not suspect her design, she also wrote regularly, and placed the letters in his hands. One day the opportunity came. A young man, related to Cleopatra, visited the institution. He understood very well the character of his aunt's aberration, but was surprised to be told that the quiet lady who bore her company was also crazy. "What is the nature of her malady?" he enquired of the doctor. "Is she ever violent?" "Oh, no." "She seems rational enough." "So she is on all points except one." "What is that?" "She thinks her husband has confined her here in order to enjoy her property. In point of fact she has no property and no husband." "That is curious. Why, then, does she require to be confined?" "Probably she will soon be released. She has improved very much since she came here." "I am glad my aunt has so quiet a companion." "Yes, they harmonize very well. They have never disagreed." During one of Mr. Arthur Holman's visits Mrs. Kenyon managed to slip into his hands a sealed letter. "Will you have the kindness," she asked quickly, "to put this into the post-office without informing the doctor?" "I will," he answered readily. "Poor woman!" he thought to himself. "It will gratify her, and her letter will do no harm." "I shall have to be indebted to your kindness for a postage-stamp," she said. "I cannot obtain them here." "Oh, don't mention it," he said. "You will be sure not to mention this to the doctor?" said Mrs. Kenyon earnestly. "On my honor as a gentleman." "I believe you," she said quietly. This was the letter, directed to Oliver, which found its way into the hands of Mr. Kenyon, and occasioned him so much uneasiness. CHAPTER XII. OLIVER'S JOURNEY. The more Oliver thought about it, the stranger it seemed to him that the letter intended for him should have been lost. In spite of Mr. Kenyon's plausible explanations, he felt that it had been suppressed. But why? He could conceive of no motive for the deed. He had no secret correspondent, nor had he any secret to conceal. He was quite at sea in his conjectures. He could not help showing by his manner the suspicion he entertained. Mr. Kenyon did not appear to notice it, but it was far from escaping his attention. He knew something about character reading, and he saw that Oliver was very determined, and, once aroused, would make trouble. "There is only one way," he muttered, as he furtively regarded the grave look on the boyish face of his step-son. "There is only one way, and I must try it!" He felt that there was daily peril. Any day another letter might arrive at the post-office, and it might fall this time into Oliver's hands. True, he had received a letter from Dr. Fox, in which he expressed his inability to discover how the letter had been mailed without his knowledge, but assuring Mr. Kenyon that it should not happen again. "I shall not hereafter allow your wife the use of writing materials," he said. "This will remove all danger." Still Mr. Kenyon felt unsettled and ill at ease. In spite of all Dr. Fox's precautions, a letter might be written, and this would be most disastrous to him. "Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon one evening, "I have to go to New York on business to-morrow; would you like to go with me?" "Yes, sir," said Oliver promptly. To a country boy, who had not been in New York more than half a dozen times in the course of his life, such a trip promised great enjoyment, even where the company was uncongenial. "We shall probably remain over night," said his step-father. "I don't think I can get through all my business in one day." "All the better, sir," said Oliver. "I never stopped over night in New York." "Then you will enjoy it. If I have a chance I will take you to the theatre." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, forgetting for the moment his prejudice against his step-father. "Is Roland going?" he asked. "No," answered Mr. Kenyon. Oliver stared in surprise. It seemed strange to him that he should be offered an enjoyment of which Roland was deprived. "I can't undertake to manage two boys at a time," said Mr. Kenyon decisively. "Roland will have to wait till the next time." "That's queer," thought Oliver, but he did not dwell too much on the thought. He was too well satisfied with having been the favored one, for this time at least. Roland was not present when his father made this proposal, but he soon heard of it. His dissatisfaction may well be imagined. What! Was he, Mr. Kenyon's own son, to be passed over in favor of Oliver? He became alarmed. Was he losing his old place, and was Oliver going to supplant him? To his mind Oliver had of late been treated altogether too well, and he did not like it. He rushed into his father's presence, his cheeks pale with anger. "What is this I hear?" he burst out. "Are you going to take Oliver to New York, and leave me at home?" "Yes, Roland, but----" "Then it's a mean shame. Anyone would think he was your son, and not I." "You don't understand, Roland. I have an object in view." "What is it?" asked Roland, his curiosity overcoming his anger. "It will be better for you in the end, Roland. You don't like Oliver, do you?" "No. I hate him." "You wouldn't mind if he didn't come back, would you?" "Is that what you mean, father?" asked Roland, pricking up his ears. "Yes. I am going to place him in a cheap boarding-school where he will be ruled with a rod of iron. Of course Oliver doesn't understand that. He thinks only that he is going to take a little trip to New York. Your presence would interfere with my plans, don't you see?" "That's good," chuckled Roland with malicious merriment. "Do they flog at the school he's going to?" "With great severity." "Ho! ho! He'll get more than he bargains for. I don't mind staying at home now, father." "Hope you'll have a good time, Oliver," said Roland, with a chuckle, when Oliver and his father were on the point of starting. "How lonely I'll feel without you!" Oliver thought it rather strange that Roland should acquiesce so readily in the plan which left him at home, but it soon passed away from his mind. CHAPTER XIII. MR. KENYON'S PLANS FOR OLIVER. Soon after they were seated in the cars, bound for New York, Mr. Kenyon remarked: "Perhaps you are surprised, Oliver, that I take you with me instead of Roland." Oliver admitted that he was surprised. "The fact is," said Mr. Kenyon candidly, "I don't think Roland treats you as well as he should." Oliver was more and more surprised. "I don't complain of Roland," he said. "I don't think he likes me, but perhaps that is not his fault. We are quite different." "Still he might treat you well." "Don't think of that, Mr. Kenyon; Roland has never done me any serious harm, and if he proposed to do it, I am able to take care of myself." Oliver did not say this in an offensive tone, but with manly independence. "You are quite magnanimous," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am just beginning to appreciate you. I own that I used to have a prejudice against you, and it is possible I may have treated you harshly; but I have learned to know you better. I find you a straightforward, manly young fellow." "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, very much astonished. "I am afraid you do me more than justice. I hope to retain your good opinion." "I have no doubt you will," said Mr. Kenyon, in a quiet and paternal tone. "You have probably noticed that my manner toward you has changed of late?" "Yes, sir, I have noticed the change, and been glad to see it." "Of course, of course. Now, I have got something to tell you." Oliver naturally felt curious. "I want to tell you why I have brought you to New York to-day. You probably thought it was merely for a pleasant excursion." "Yes, sir." "I have another object in view. Noticing as I have the dislike--well, the incompatibility between you and Roland, I have thought it best to make separate arrangements for you." Now Oliver was strangely interested. What plan had Mr. Kenyon formed for him? "I intend you to remain in the city. How does that suit you?" There are not many boys of Oliver's age to whom such a prospect would not be pleasing. He answered promptly: "I should like it very much." "No doubt Roland will envy you," said Mr. Kenyon. "I am sure he would prefer the city to our quiet little country village. But I cannot make up my mind to part with him. He is my own son, and though I endeavor to treat you both alike, of course that makes some difference," said Mr. Kenyon, in rather an apologetic tone. "Of course it does," said Oliver, who did not feel in the least sensitive about his step-father's superior affection for Roland. "Where am I to live in the city?" he asked next. "There are two courses open to you," said Mr. Kenyon. "You might either go to some school in the city or enter some place of business. Which would you prefer?" Had Oliver been an enthusiastic student, he would have decided in favor of school. He was a good scholar for his age, but, like all boys, he fancied a change. It seemed to him that he would like to obtain a business position, and he said so. His step-father anticipated this, and wished it. Had Oliver decided otherwise, he would have exerted his influence to have him change his plan. "Perhaps you are right," said Mr. Kenyon meditatively. "A bright, smart boy like you, is, of course, anxious to get to work and do something for himself. Besides, business men tell me that it is always best to begin young. How old are you?" "Almost sixteen," answered Oliver. "I was only fourteen when I commenced business. Yes, I think you are right." "Is it easy to get a position in the city?" asked Oliver, getting interested. "Not unless you have influence; but I think I have influence enough to secure you one." "Thank you, sir." "In fact, I know of a party who is in want of a boy--an old acquaintance of mine. He will take you to oblige me." "What business is he in?" "He has a gentlemen's furnishing store," answered Mr. Kenyon. "Do you think that business is as good as some other kinds?" said Oliver dubiously. "It is a capital business," said his step-father emphatically. "Pays splendid profits." "Who is the gentleman you refer to?" enquired Oliver, with natural interest. "Well, to be frank with you, it is a nephew of my own. I set him up in business three years ago, and he has paid back every cent of my loan with interest out of the profits of his business. I can assure you it is a paying business." "I would judge so, from what you say," returned Oliver thoughtfully. Somehow he felt disappointed to learn that the employer proposed to him should be a relation of his step-father. This, however, was not an objection he could very well express. "Suppose I should not like business," he suggested, "could I give it up and go to school?" "Certainly," answered Mr. Kenyon. "Bear in mind, Oliver, that I exercise no compulsion over you. I think you are old enough now to be judge of your own affairs." "Thank you, sir." The conversation which we have reported took some time. After it was over Mr. Kenyon devoted his attention to the morning papers, and Oliver was sufficiently amused looking out of the window and examining his fellow-passengers. Presently they reached the city. Leaving the cars, they got into a horse-car, for distances are great in New York. Oliver looked out of the car windows with a lively sense of satisfaction. How much gayer and more agreeable it would be, he thought, to be in business in a great city like New York than to live in a quiet little country village where nothing was going on. This was a natural feeling, but there was another side to the question which Oliver did not consider. How many families in the great, gay city are compelled to live in miserable tenements, amid noise and vicious surroundings, who, on the same income, could live comfortably and independently in the country, breathing God's pure air, and with nothing to repel or disgust them? "New York is rather a lively place, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon, who read his young companion's thoughts. "I think you will like to live here." "I am sure I shall," said Oliver eagerly. "I should think you would prefer it yourself, Mr. Kenyon." "Perhaps I may remove here some day, Oliver. I own that I have thought of it. Roland would like it better, I am sure." "Yes, sir, I think he would." "Where is the store you spoke of, Mr. Kenyon?" he queried, after a pause. "Are we going there now?" "Yes; we will go there in the first place. We may as well get matters settled as soon as possible. Of course, you won't have to go to work immediately. You can take a little time to see the city--say till next Monday." "Thank, you, sir. I should prefer that." "We get out here," said Mr. Kenyon after a while. They were on the Third Avenue line of cars, and it was to a shop on the Bowery that Mr. Kenyon directed his steps. It was by no means a large shop, but the windows were full of articles, labelled with cheap prices, and some even were displayed on the sidewalk. This is a very common practice with shops on the Bowery and Third Avenue, as visitors to New York need not be reminded. On a sign-board over the door the name of the proprietor was conspicuously displayed thus: EZEKIEL BOND, Cheap Furnishing Store. "This is the place, Oliver," said Mr. Kenyon. "Ezekiel Bond is my nephew." "It seems rather small," commented Oliver, feeling a little disappointed. "You mustn't judge of the amount of business done by the size of the shop. My nephew's plan is to avoid a large rent, and to replenish his stock frequently. He is a very shrewd and successful man of business. He understands how to manage. The great thing is to make money, Oliver, and Ezekiel knows how to do it. There are many men with large stores, heavy stocks, and great expenses who scarcely make both ends meet. Now, my nephew cleared ten thousand dollars last year. What do you say to that?" "I shouldn't think it possible to have such a large trade in such a small place," answered Oliver, surprised. "It is a fact, though. That's a nice income to look forward to, eh, Oliver?" "Yes, sir." While this was going on they were standing in front of the window. "Now," said Mr. Kenyon, "come in and I will introduce you to my nephew." CHAPTER XIV. A STORE IN THE BOWERY. The store was crowded with a miscellaneous collection of cheap articles. That such a business should yield such large profits struck Oliver with surprise, but he reflected that it was possible, and that he was not qualified to judge of the extent of trade in a city store. A tall man, pock-marked, and with reddish hair, stood behind the counter, and, with the exception of a young clerk of nineteen, appeared to be the only salesman. This was Ezekiel Bond. "How are you, Ezekiel?" said Mr. Kenyon affably, advancing to the counter. "Pretty well, thank you, uncle," said the other, twisting his features into the semblance of a smile. "When did you come into town?" "This morning only." "That isn't Roland, is it?" "Oh, no; it is my step-son, Oliver Conrad. Oliver, this is my nephew, Ezekiel Bond." "Glad to see you, Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel, putting out his hand as if he were a pump-handle. "Do you like New York?" "I haven't seen much of it yet. I think I shall." "Ezekiel," said Mr. Kenyon, "can I see you a few minutes in private?" "Oh, certainly. We'll go into the back room. Will Mr. Conrad come, too?" "No; he can remain with your clerk while we converse." "John, take care of Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel. "All right, sir." John Meadows was a Bowery boy, and better adapted for the store he was in than for one in a more fashionable thoroughfare. "The boss wants me to entertain you," he remarked, when they were alone. "How shall I do it?" "Don't trouble yourself," said Oliver, smiling. "I'd offer you a cigarette, only the boss don't allow smoking in the store." "I don't smoke," said Oliver. "You don't! Where was you brung up?" asked John. "In the country." "Oh, that accounts for it. Mean ter say you've never puffed a weed?" "I never have." "Then you don't know what 'tis to enjoy yourself. Who's that man you came in with?" "My step-father." "I've seen him here before. He's related to my boss. I don't think any more of him for that." "Why not?" asked Oliver, rather amused. "Don't you like Mr. Bond?" "Come here," said John. Oliver approached the counter, and leaning over, John whispered mysteriously: "He's a file!" "A what?" "A file, and an awful rasping one at that. He's as mean as dirt." "I am sorry to hear that, for Mr. Kenyon wants me to begin business in this store." John whistled. "That's a go," he said. "Are you going to do it?" "I suppose I shall try it. If I don't like it I can give it up at any time." "Then I wish I was you. I don't like it, but I can't give it up, or I might have to live on nothing a week. I don't see what the boss wants an extra hand for. There aint enough trade to keep us busy." "Mr. Kenyon tells me Mr. Bond has made money." "Well, I am glad to hear it. The boss is always a-complainin' that trade is dull, and he must cut me down. If he does I'll sink into a hungry grave, that's all." "How much do you get?" asked Oliver, amused by his companion's tone. "Eight dollars a week; and what's that to support a gentleman on? I tell you what, I haven't had a new necktie for three months." "That is hard." "Hard! I should say it was hard. Look at them shoes!" And John, bounding over the counter, displayed a foot which had successfully struggled out of its encasement on one side. "Isn't it disgraceful that a gentleman should have to wear such foot-cases as them?" "Won't Mr. Bond pay you more?" asked Oliver. "I guess not. I asked him last week, and he lectured me on the dulness of trade. Then he went on for to show that eight dollars was a fortune, and I'd orter keep my carriage on it. He's a regular old file, he is." "From what you say, I don't think I shall get very high pay," said Oliver. "It's different with you. You're a relation. You'll be took care of." "I'm not related to Mr. Bond," said Oliver, sensible of a feeling of repugnance. "If it depends on that, I shall expect no favors." "You'll get 'em, all the same. His uncle's your step-father." "Where do you live?" "Oh, I've got a room round on Bleecker Street. It's about big enough for a good-sized cat to live in. I have to double myself up nights so as not to overflow into the entry." "Why don't you get a better room?" "Why don't I live on Fifth Avenue, and set up my carriage? 'Cause it can't be done on eight dollars a week. I have to live accordin' to my income." "That's where you are right. How much do you have to pay for your room?" "A dollar and a half a week." "I don't ask from curiosity. I suppose I shall have to get a place somewhere." "When you get ready, come to me. I'll find you a place." Here an old lady entered--an old lady from the country evidently, in a bombazine dress and a bonnet which might have been in fashion twenty years before. She was short-sighted, and peered inquisitively at Oliver and John. "Which of you youngsters keeps this store?" she enquired. "I am the gentleman, ma'am," said John, with a flourish. "Oh, you be! Well, I'm from the country." "Never should have thought it, ma'am. You look like an uptown lady I know--Mrs. General Buster." "You don't say," returned the old lady, evidently feeling complimented. "I'm Mrs. Deacon Grimes of Pottsville." "Is the deacon well?" asked John, with a ludicrous assumption of interest. "He's pooty smart," answered Mrs. Grimes, "though he's troubled sometimes with a pain in the back." "So am I," said John; "but I know what to do for it." "What do you do?" "Have somebody rub me down with a brick-bat." "The deacon wouldn't allow no one to do that," said the old lady, accepting the remedy in good faith. "Can I sell you a silk necktie this morning, ma'am?" asked John. "No; I want some handkerchers for the deacon; red silk ones he wants." "We haven't any of that kind. Here's some nice cotton ones, a good deal cheaper." "Will they wash?" asked Mrs. Grimes cautiously. "Of course they will. We import 'em ourselves." "Well, I don't know. If you'll sell 'em real cheap I'll take two." Then ensued a discussion of the price, which Oliver found very amusing. Finally the old lady took two handkerchiefs and retired. "Is that the way you do business?" asked Oliver. "Yes. We have all sorts of customers, and have to please 'em all. The old woman wanted to know if they would wash. The color'll all wash out in one washing." "I am afraid you cheated her, then." "What's the odds? She wasn't willing to pay for a good article." "I don't believe I can do business that way," thought Oliver. Just then Mr. Kenyon returned with Ezekiel Bond from the back room in which they had been conferring. "It's all settled, Oliver," he said. "Mr. Bond has agreed to take you, and you are to begin work next Monday morning." Oliver bowed. The place did not seem quite so desirable to him now. "I will be on hand," he answered. When Mr. Kenyon and he had left the store, the former said: "Every Saturday evening Mr. Bond will hand you twelve dollars, out of which you will be expected to defray all your expenses." "The other clerk told me he only got eight." "Part of this sum comes from me. I don't want you to be pinched. You have been brought up differently from him. I hope you'll like my nephew." "I hope I shall," said Oliver, but his tone implied doubt. CHAPTER XV. JOHN'S COURTSHIP. Oliver didn't go back to his native village. Mr. Kenyon sent on his trunk, and thus obviated the necessity. Our hero took up his quarters at a cheap hotel until, with the help of John Meadows, he obtained a room in St. Mark's Place. The room was a large square one, tolerably well furnished. The price asked was four dollars a week. "That is rather more than I ought to pay just for a room," said Oliver. "I'll tell you how you can get it cheaper," said John Meadows. "How?" "Take me for your room-mate. I'll pay a dollar and a half toward the rent." Oliver hesitated, but finally decided to accept John's offer. Though his fellow-clerk was not altogether to his taste, it would prevent his feeling lonely, and he had no other acquaintances to select from. "All right," he said. "Is it a bargain?" said John, delighted. "I'll give my Bleecker Street landlady notice right off. Why, I shall feel like a prince here!" "Then this is better than your room?" "You bet! That's only big enough for a middling sized cat, while this----" "Is big enough for two large ones," said Oliver, smiling. "Yes, and a whole litter of kittens into the bargain. We'll have a jolly time together." "I hope so." "Of course," said John seriously, "when I get married that'll terminate the contract." "Do you think of getting married soon?" asked Oliver, surprised and amused. "I'll tell you about it," said John, with the utmost gravity. "Last month I had my fortune told." "Well?" "It was told by Mme. Catalina, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; so, of course, she wasn't a humbug." "Does that make any difference--being the seventh daughter?" "Of course it does. Well, she told me that I should marry a rich widow, and ever after live in luxury," said John, evidently elated by his prospects. "Did you believe her?" "Of course I did. She told things that I knew to be true about the past, and that convinced me she could foretell the future." "Such as what?" "She told me I had lately had a letter from a person who was interested in me. So I had. I got a letter from Charlie Cameron only a week before. Me and Charlie went to school together, so, of course, he feels interested in me." "What else?" "She said a girl with black eyes was in love with me." "Is that true?" John nodded complacently. "Who is it?" "I don't know her name, but I've met her two or three times on the street, and she always looked at me and smiled." "Struck with your looks, I suppose," suggested Oliver. John stroked an incipient mustache and stole a look into the glass. "Looks like it," he said. "If she were only a rich widow you wouldn't mind cultivating her acquaintance?" "I wish she were," said John thoughtfully. "You haven't any widow in view, have you?" "Yes, I have," said John, rather to Oliver's surprise. "Who is it?" "Her husband used to keep a lager-beer saloon on Bleecker Street, and now the widow carries it on. I've enquired about, and I hear she's worth ten thousand dollars. Would you like to see her?" "Very much," answered Oliver, whose curiosity was excited. "Come along, then. We'll drop in and get a couple of glasses of something." Following his guide, or rather side by side, Oliver walked round to the saloon. "Does she know you admire her?" enquired Oliver. "I don't," said John. "I admire her money." "Would you be willing to sell yourself?" "For ten thousand dollars? I guess I would. That's the easiest way of getting rich. It would take me two hundred years, at eight dollars a week, to make such a fortune." They entered the saloon. Behind the counter stood a woman of thirty-five, weighing upward of two hundred pounds. She looked good-natured, but the idea of a marriage between her and John Meadows, a youth of nineteen, seemed too ridiculous. "What will you have?" she asked, in a Teutonic accent. "Sarsaparilla and lager!" answered John. Frau Winterhammer filled two mugs in the most business-like manner. She evidently had no idea that John was an admirer. In the same business-like manner she received the money he laid on the counter. John smacked his lips in affected delight. "It is very good," he said. "Your lager is always good, Mrs. Winterhammer." "So!" replied the good woman. "That's so!" repeated John. "Then perhaps you comes again," said the frau, with an eye to business. "Oh, yes; I'll be sure to come again," said John, with a tender significance which was quite lost upon the matter-of-fact lady. "And you bring your friends, too," she suggested. "Yes; I will bring my friends." "Dat is good," said Mrs. Winterhammer, in a satisfied tone. Having no excuse for stopping longer the two friends went out. "What do you think of her, Oliver?" asked John. "There's a good deal of her," answered Oliver, using a non-committal phrase. "Yes, she's rather plump," said John. "I don't like a skeleton, for my part." "She doesn't look much like one." "She's good-looking; don't you think so?" enquired John, looking anxiously in his companion's face. "She looks pleasant; but, John, she's a good deal older than you." "She's about thirty." "Nearer forty." "Oh, no, she isn't. And she's worth ten thousand dollars! Think, Oliver, how nice it would be to be worth ten thousand dollars! I wouldn't clerk it for old Bond any more, I can tell you that." "Would you keep the saloon?" "No, I'd let her keep that and I'd set up in something else. We'd double the money in a short time and then I'd retire and go to Europe." "That's all very well, John; but suppose she won't have you?" John smiled--a self-satisfied smile. "She wouldn't reject a stylish young fellow like me--do you think she would? She'd feel flattered to get such a young husband." "Perhaps she would," said Oliver, who thought John under a strange hallucination. "You must invite me to the wedding whenever it comes off, John." "You shall be my groomsman," answered John confidently. A week later John said to Oliver after supper: "Oliver, I'm goin' to do it." "To do what?" "I'm goin' to propose to the widder to-night." "So soon!" "Yes; I'm tired of workin' for old Bond; I want to go in for myself." "Well, John, I wish you good luck, but I shall be sorry to lose you for a room-mate." "Lend me a necktie, won't you, Oliver? I want to take her eye, you know." So Oliver lent his most showy necktie to his room-mate, and John departed on his important mission. About half an hour later John rushed into the room in a violent state of excitement, his collar and bosom looking as if they had been soaked in dirty water, and sank into a chair. "What's the matter?" asked Oliver. "I've cast her off!" answered John in a hollow voice. "She is a faithless deceiver." "Tell me all about it, Jack." John told his story. He went to the saloon, ordered a glass of lager, and after drinking it asked the momentous question. Frau Winterhammer seemed surprised, said "So!" and then called "Fritz!" A stout fellow in shirt-sleeves came out of a rear room, and the widow said something to him in German. Then he seized John's arms, and the widow deliberately threw the contents of a pitcher of lager in his face and bosom. Then both laughed rudely, and John was released. "What shall you do about it, John?" asked Oliver, with difficulty refraining from laughing. "I have cast her off!" he said gloomily, "I will never enter the saloon again." "I wouldn't," said Oliver. Oliver would have felt less like laughing had he known that at that very moment Ezekiel Bond, prompted by Mr. Kenyon, was conspiring to get him into trouble. CHAPTER XVI. THE CONSPIRACY. Oliver did not find his work in the store very laborious. During some parts of the day there was little custom, and therefore little to do. At such times he found John Meadows, though not a refined, at any rate an amusing companion. With his friendly help he soon got a general idea of the stock and the prices. He found that the former was generally of an inferior quality, and the customers belonged to the poorer classes. Obtaining a general idea of the receipts, he began to doubt Mr. Kenyon's assurance of the profits of the business. He intimated as much to his fellow-clerk. "The old man sold you," he said. "Bond doesn't take in more than twenty thousand dollars a year, and there isn't more than a tenth profit." "You are sure of that, John?" "Yes." "Then Mr. Kenyon has deceived me. I wonder what for." "Does he love you very much?" "Who?" "Old Kenyon." "Not enough to hurt him," said Oliver, with a smile. "Then he wanted to get rid of you, and made you think this was a splendid opening." "I don't know but you are right," returned Oliver thoughtfully. "He seemed very kind, though." "He's an old fox. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on him." "I didn't enjoy myself much at home. I would just as soon be here. I don't like this store particularly, but I like New York." "Lots goin' on here all the time. Don't you want to go out in a torchlight procession to-night? I can get you the chance." "No, I think not." "I like it. I've been out ever so many times. Sometimes I'm a Democrat and sometimes I'm a Republican. It makes no difference to me so long as I have fun." Three weeks passed without developing anything to affect our hero's fortunes. About this time Ezekiel Bond received the following note from his uncle: I think you may as well carry out, without any further delay, the plan on which you agreed when Oliver entered your employment. I consider it desirable that he should be got rid of at once. As soon as anything happens, apprise me by letter. B. KENYON. Ezekiel Bond shrugged his shoulders when he received this letter. "I can't quite understand what Uncle Benjamin is driving at," he said to himself. "He's got the property, and I can't see how the boy stands in the way. However, I am under obligations to him, and must carry out his wishes." Ten minutes later he entered the store from the back room, and said to Oliver: "Have you any objection to going out for me?" "No, sir," answered Oliver with alacrity. He was glad to escape for a time from the confinement of the store and breathe the outside air. John Meadows would have rebelled against being employed as an errand boy, but Oliver had no such pride. "Here is a sealed letter which I wish carried to the address marked on it. Be careful of it for it contains a twenty-dollar bill. Look out for pick-pockets." "Yes, sir." Oliver put the letter in his coat pocket, put on his hat, and went out into the street. The distance was about a mile, but as trade was dull at that hour, he decided to walk, knowing that he could easily be spared from the store. The note was addressed to a tailor who had been making a business coat for Mr. Bond. Oliver entered the tailor's shop and inquired for James Norcross, the head of the establishment. An elderly man said: "That is my name," and opened the letter. He read it, and then turned to Oliver. "Where is the money!" he demanded. "What money?" asked Oliver, surprised. "Your employer writes me that he encloses twenty dollars--the amount due me--and wishes me to send back a receipt by you." "Well, sir?" "There is no money in the letter," said the tailor, looking sharply at Oliver. "I don't understand it at all, sir," said Oliver, disturbed. "Has the letter gone out of your possession?" "No, sir. I put it in my pocket and it has remained there." "How, then, could the money be lost?" "I think Mr. Bond may have neglected to put it in. Shall I go back and ask him about it?" Again Mr. Norcross looked in Oliver's face. Certainly there was no guilt expressed there, only concerned surprise. "Perhaps you had better," he said. "You saw me open the letter?" "Yes, sir." "Then you can bear witness that there was nothing in it. Report this to Mr. Bond, and ask him to send me up the money to-morrow at latest, as I need it to help meet a note." "I will, sir. I am sorry there has been any mistake about it." "Mr. Bond must certainly have forgotten to put in the bill. I presume he has found out his mistake by this time," thought Oliver. He had no suspicion that there was no mistake at all--that it was a conspiracy against his own reputation, instigated by Mr. Kenyon, and artfully carried out by Ezekiel Bond. CHAPTER XVII. OLIVER LOSES HIS PLACE. Oliver re-entered the store and went up to Mr. Bond, who was standing behind the counter awaiting his return. "Have you brought back the receipt?" asked his employer, before he had a chance to speak. "No, sir." "Why not?" demanded Bond, frowning. "There was some mistake, Mr. Bond. The letter you gave me contained no money." "Contained no money! What do you mean?" exclaimed the storekeeper. Oliver briefly related the circumstances, repeating that the letter contained no money. "Do you mean to tell me such an unblushing falsehood," demanded Ezekiel Bond, "expecting me to believe it?" "Mr. Bond," said Oliver, with dignity, "it is just as I say. There was no money in the letter." "Silence!" roared Bond, working himself up into a premeditated excitement. "I tell you I put the money in myself. I think I ought to know whether there was any money in it." "It is very strange, sir. I saw Mr. Norcross open the letter. If he had taken any bill out, I should have seen it." "I presume you would," sneered Bond. "I dare say he did find the letter empty." Oliver looked puzzled. He was not yet prepared for an accusation. He attributed Mr. Bond's anger to his annoyance at the loss of twenty dollars. He kept silent, but waited to hear what else his employer had to say. "I can understand this strange matter," continued Ezekiel, with another sneer. "I am not altogether a fool, and I can tell you why no bill was found." "Why, sir?" "Because you opened the letter and took the money out before you reached the tailor's." He was about to say more, but Oliver interrupted him by an indignant denial. "That's a lie, sir!" he said hotly. "I don't care who says it." "Do you mean to tell me I lie?" exclaimed Ezekiel Bond, purple with rage. "If you charge me with stealing the money, I do!" said Oliver, his face flaming with just indignation. "You hear that, John Meadows?" said Ezekiel, turning to his other clerk. "Did you ever hear such impudence?" John Meadows was not a coward nor a sneak, and he had not the slightest belief in Oliver's guilt. To his credit, he dared manfully to avow it. "Mr. Bond," he answered, "I don't believe Oliver would do such a thing. I know him well, and I've always found him right side up with care." "Thank you, John," said Oliver gratefully. "I am glad there is one who believes I am not a thief." "You don't believe he is guilty because you are honest yourself, John," said Mr. Bond, willing to gain over his older clerk by a little flattery. "But how can it be otherwise? I put the money very carefully in the envelope. Oliver put it in his pocket, and when he hands the letter to Mr. Norcross it is empty." "Are you sure you put the money in, sir?" asked John. "Am I sure the sun rose this morning?" retorted Mr. Bond. "Of course, I am certain; and I am morally certain that Oliver took the money. Hark, you! I will give you one chance to redeem yourself," he continued, addressing our hero. "Give me back the money and I will forgive you this time." "Mr. Bond," said Oliver indignantly, "you insult me by speaking in that way! Once for all, I tell you that I don't know anything about the money, and no one who knows me will believe your charge. You may search me if you want to." "It would do no great good," said Bond sarcastically. "You have had plenty of chances to dispose of the money. You could easily pass it over to some confederate." "Mr. Bond," said Oliver, "I see that you are determined to have people believe me guilty. I think I understand what it all means. It is a conspiracy to destroy my reputation. You know there was no money in the letter you sent by me." "Say that again, you young rascal, and I will give you a flogging!" shouted Ezekiel Bond, now really angry, for he was conscious that Oliver spoke the truth, and the truth is very distasteful sometimes. "I don't think you will," retorted our hero undauntedly; "there are policemen in the city, and I should give you in charge." "You would, would you? I have a great mind to have you arrested for theft." "Do, if you like. I am willing to have the matter investigated." It was evident that in attempting to frighten Oliver Mr. Bond had undertaken a difficult job. He would really have liked to give Oliver in charge, but he knew very well that he could prove nothing against him. Besides, he would be exceeding the instructions which Mr. Kenyon had given him, and this he did not venture to do. There was, however, one way of revenge open to him, and this was in strict accordance with his orders. "I will spare you the disgrace of arrest," he said, "not for your own sake, but for the sake of my esteemed uncle, who will be deeply grieved when he hears of this occurrence. But I cannot consent any longer to retain you in my employment. I will not ask my faithful clerk, John Meadows, to associate with a thief." "I don't care to remain in your employment, Mr. Bond. I would not consent to, until you retracted your false charge. As to you, John," he continued, turning to John Meadows, with a smile, "I hope you are not afraid to associate with me." "I guess 'twon't hurt me much," said John courageously. "I think Mr. Bond has made a great mistake in suspecting you." "You judge him by yourself," said Mr. Bond, who chose not to fall out with John. "You may do as you please, but I can no longer employ a suspicious character." "Good-morning, Mr. Bond," said Oliver proudly. "I will lose no time in relieving you of my presence. John, I will see you to-night." "One word more," said his employer. "I shall deem it my duty to acquaint my uncle with my reasons for dismissing you. I know it will grieve him deeply." "I think he will manage to live through it," said Oliver sarcastically. "I shall also send him an account of the occurrence, and he may believe whichever of us he pleases." Oliver took his hat and left the store. "I fear he is a hardened young rascal, John," Bond remarked to his remaining clerk, with a hypocritical sigh. "My uncle warned me that I might have trouble with him, when he first placed him here." "I never saw anything bad in him, Mr. Bond," said John. "I am sorry he is gone." "He has deceived you, and I am not surprised. He is very artful--exceedingly artful!" repeated Ezekiel, emphasizing the adverb by prolonging its pronunciation. "I don't mind the loss of the money so much as I do losing my confidence in him. So young, and such a reprobate! It is sad--sad!" "He does it well," thought John. "What a precious old file he is, to be sure! I don't believe old Kenyon is any better, either. They come of the same stock, and it's a bad one." Before the store closed for the day, Ezekiel said: "Shall you see Oliver to-night?" "I expect to, sir." "Then I will trouble you to give him this money--six dollars. I owe him for half a week, and it was at that rate my uncle requested me to pay him. Twelve dollars a week! Why, he might have grown rich on that, if he had remained honest." "I wish you would give me the same chance, Mr. Bond," said John. "I can't rub along very well on eight." "Don't ask me now, just after I have been robbed of twenty dollars. I can't afford it." "I wish I could get another place," thought John. "I should like to work for a man I could respect, even if he didn't pay me any more." CHAPTER XVIII. OLIVER, THE OUTCAST. Without much hope of obtaining sympathy or credence, Oliver wrote to his step-father an account of the charge which Mr. Bond had brought against him, and denied in the most positive terms its truth. "There," he said to himself as he posted the letter, "that is all I can do. Mr. Kenyon must now decide which he will believe." Until he should hear from his step-father he decided not to form any plans for the future. One thing he was decided upon, not to return home. Since his mother's death (for he supposed her dead) it was no home for him. He had been in the city long enough to become fond of city life, and he meant to remain there. If Mr. Kenyon chose to assist him to procure another situation, he would accept his proffered aid, otherwise he would try to earn his own living. Two days later he received a letter, which he at once perceived to be in his step-father's handwriting. He tore it open eagerly and began to read. His lip curled with scorn before he had read far. These were the material portions of the letter: The same mail brought me letters from you and Mr. Bond. I need not say how grieved I am to hear that you have subjected yourself to a criminal charge. The circumstances leave no doubt of your guilt. Unhappy boy! how, with the liberal allowance you received, could you stoop to so mean, so dishonorable a theft? My nephew writes me that with brazen effrontery you denied your guilt, though it was self-evident, and treated his remonstrances with the most outrageous insolence. It is well, indeed, that your poor mother did not live to see this day. "How dare he refer to my mother!" exclaimed Oliver indignantly, when he came to this passage. He went on with the letter: I didn't expect that my well-meant and earnest effort to start you on a business career would terminate in this way. I confess I am puzzled to know what to do with you. I cannot take you home, for I do not wish Roland corrupted by your example. Here Oliver's lip curled again with scorn. Nor can I recommend you to another place. Knowing you to be dishonest, I should feel that I was doing wrong to give you a good character. I will not tell your old acquaintances here of your sad wickedness. I have too much consideration for you. I have only told Roland, hoping that it may be a warning to him, though I am thankful that he at least is incapable of theft. After anxious consideration, I have decided that you have forfeited all claim to any further help from me. I cast you off, and shall leave you henceforth to shift for yourself. You cannot justly complain, for you must be sensible that you have brought this upon yourself. I intended, sooner or later, to buy an interest for you in my nephew's business,--that is, if you behaved properly,--but all this is at an end now. I enclose twenty dollars to help you along until you can get something to do. I advise you to enlist on some ship as cabin-boy. There you will be out of reach of temptation, and may, in time, lead a useful, though humble career. I need not say with how much grief I write these words. It pains me to cast you off, but I cannot own any connection with a thief. Roland is also grieved by the news. Hoping that you may live to see the error of your ways, I subscribe myself, BENJAMIN KENYON. Oliver read this letter with indignation and amazement. Was it possible that Mr. Kenyon, while in the possession of a large property left him by his mother, could thus coolly cast him off, and leave him to support himself? He wrote the following reply: MR. KENYON: I have received your harsh and unjust letter. I am innocent, and you know it. Of the large property which my mother left, you send me twenty dollars, and keep the remainder. I shall keep and use the money, for it is justly mine. Sometime you will repent defrauding an orphan. I don't think I shall starve, but I shall not soon forget your treachery. Some day--I don't know when--I will punish you for it. OLIVER CONRAD. CHAPTER XIX. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE. Mr. Kenyon shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, when he read Oliver's letter. "So the young cub is showing his claws, is he?" he said to himself. "I fancy he will find it harder to punish me than he supposes. Where will he get the power? Money is power, and I have the money." "Yes," he continued, his sallow face lighting up with exultation, "I have played boldly for it, and it is mine! Who shall dispute my claim? My wife is in a mad-house, and likely to remain there, and now Oliver is disposed of. I wish he would go to sea, and never be heard of again. But at any rate I am pretty safe so far as he is concerned." Oliver did not expect to terrify Mr. Kenyon with his threats. He, too, felt his present want of power; but he was young, and he could wait. Indeed, the question of punishing his step-father was not the one that first demanded his attention. He had but twenty dollars in the world, and no expectations. He must find work of some kind, and that soon. Now, unluckily for Oliver, the times were hard. There were thousands out of employment, and fifty applications where there was one vacancy. Day after day he answered advertisements without effect. Only once he had a favorable answer. This was in a great dry-goods house. "Yes," said the superintendent, who was pleased with his appearance and manners, "we will take you, if you like to come." Oliver brightened up. His sky seemed to be clearing. "Perhaps you will object to the pay we give," said the superintendent. "I don't expect much," said our hero, who thought he would accept for the present, if he were only offered six dollars. "We will pay you two dollars a week for the first six months." "Two dollars a week!" exclaimed Oliver in dismay. "For the first six months. Then we will raise you to four if you do well." "Then I can't come," said Oliver despondently. "I shall have to live on my salary, and I couldn't possibly live on two dollars a week." "I am sorry," said the superintendent; "but as we can get plenty of boys for two dollars, we cannot break our rule." Oliver went out, rather indignant. "No wonder boys are tempted to steal," he thought, "when employers are so mean." It was getting rather serious for him. His money had been dwindling daily. "John," he said to his room-mate one evening, "I must give up this room at the end of the week." "Are you out of funds?" "I have but fifty cents left in the world." "I can't keep the room alone. When is our week up?" "To-morrow evening." "I will take my old room. I know it is still vacant. What will you do?" "I don't know. I haven't money enough to take any room." "I wish I had some money to lend you; I'd do it in a minute," said John heartily. "I know you would, John, but you have hard work scraping along yourself." "I'll tell you what I can do. Come to my little room, and we'll take turns sleeping in the bed. It is only eighteen inches wide, or we could both occupy it at a time." "I'll come round and sleep on the floor, John. I won't deprive you of your bed. I wish I knew what to do." "Perhaps Mr. Bond would take you back." "No, he wouldn't. I am convinced that there was a conspiracy to get rid of me. I might try my hand at selling papers." "You are too much of a gentleman to go into the street with the ragged street boys." "My gentility won't supply me with board and lodging. I mustn't think of that." "Something may turn up for you to-morrow, Oliver." "It won't do to depend on that. If I can turn up something, that will be more to the purpose. However, this is our last night in this room, and I won't worry myself into a sleepless night. I will get my money's worth out of the bed." Oliver was not given to dismal forebodings or to anticipating trouble, though he certainly might have been excused for feeling depressed under present circumstances. He slept soundly, and went out in the morning, active and alert. He took a cheap breakfast--a cup of coffee and some tea-biscuit--for ten cents. He rose from the table with an appetite, but he didn't dare to spend more money. As it was, he had but forty cents left. About one o'clock, after applying at several stores for employment, but ineffectually, he found himself standing at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. A tall gentleman, with a dignified air, probably seventy years of age, accosted him as he stood there. "My young friend," he said, "will you dine with me?" Oliver looked at him in astonishment to see if he was in earnest. "I do not wish to dine alone," said the other. "Be my guest unless you have dined." "No, sir, I have not dined; but I am a stranger to you." "Very true; we shall get acquainted before dinner is over." "Then I will accept your invitation with pleasure, sir. It is the more acceptable because I am out of a situation and have very little money." "You are well dressed." "Very true, sir. My dress is deceptive, however." "All that is irrelevant. Come, if you please." So Oliver followed his new acquaintance to Delmonico's restaurant. They selected a small table, and a waiter approached to receive orders. "I hope you are hungry," said the old gentleman. "Pray do justice to my invitation." Oliver smiled. "I can easily do that, sir," he said. "I made but a light breakfast." "So much the better. What kind of soup will you have?" Oliver selected turtle soup, which was speedily brought. It is unnecessary to enter into an elaborate description of the dinner. It is enough that Oliver redeemed his promise, and ate heartily; his new acquaintance regarding him with approval. "Will you have some wine?" he asked. "No, sir," replied Oliver. "You had better try some champagne." "No, thank you." "At least you will take some coffee?" "Thank you, sir." The coffee was brought, and at length the dinner was over. "Thank you, sir," said Oliver, preparing to leave his hospitable entertainer. "You have been very kind. I will bid you good-day." "No, no, come home with me. I want to have a talk with you." Oliver reflected that his new acquaintance, who had been so mysteriously kind, might be disposed to furnish him with some employment, and thought it best to accept the invitation, especially as his time was of little value. Twenty minutes' walk brought them to the door of a fine brown-stone house on a street leading out of Fifth Avenue. The old gentleman took out a latch-key, opened the front door, and signed to Oliver to follow him upstairs. He paused before a front room on the third floor. Both entered. The room was in part an ordinary bed-chamber, but not wholly. In one corner was a rosewood case containing a number of steel instruments. The old gentleman's face lighted up with strange triumph, and he locked the door. Oliver thought it singular, but suspected no harm. "Now, my young friend," said the old man, "I will tell you why I brought you here." "If you please, sir." "I am a physician, and am in search of a hidden principle of nature, which I am satisfied can only be arrived at by vivisection." "By what, sir?" exclaimed Oliver, whom the feverish, excited air of the old man began to startle. "I propose to cut you up," said the old man composedly, selecting an ugly looking instrument, "and watch carefully the----" "Are you mad, sir?" exclaimed Oliver, aghast. "Do you wish to murder me?" "You will die in behalf of science," said the old doctor calmly. "Your death, through my observations, will be a blessing to the race. Be good enough to take off your coat." Oliver was horror-struck. The door was locked, and the old man stood between him and escape. It was evident that he was in the power of a maniac. "Is my life to end thus?" he asked himself, in affright. CHAPTER XX. A TERRIBLE SITUATION. "Be good enough to remove your coat," said the old man with a politeness hardly consistent with his fearful purpose. "Sir," said Oliver, hoping that he might be accessible to reason, "you have no right to experiment upon me without my permission." "I should prefer your permission," said the old doctor. "I can't give it," said Oliver hastily. "My young friend," said the old man, with an air of superior wisdom, "you do not appreciate the important part you are invited to take in the progress of scientific discovery. You will lose your life, to be sure, but what is a single life to the discovery of a great truth! Your name will live for ages in connection with the great principle which I shall have the honor of discovering." "I would rather live myself," said Oliver bluntly. "Science may be all very well, but I prefer that somebody else should have the privilege of dying to promote it." "They all say so," said the old man musingly. "No one has the noble courage to sacrifice himself for the truth." "I shouldn't think they would," retorted Oliver. "Why don't you experiment on yourself?" "I would willingly, but there are two impediments. I cannot at once be operator and subject. Besides, I am too old. My natural force is abated, while you are young, strong, and vigorous. Oh, yes," and he looked gloatingly at our hero, "you will be a capital subject." "Look here," said Oliver desperately, "I tell you I won't be a subject." "Then I must proceed without your permission," said the old doctor calmly. "I have already waited too long. I cannot let this opportunity slip." "If you kill me you will be hanged!" exclaimed Oliver, the perspiration starting from every pore. "I will submit cheerfully to an ignominious death, if time is only given me to complete and announce my discovery," said the old man composedly. Evidently he was in earnest. Poor Oliver did not know what to do. He determined, however, to keep the old man in conversation as long as possible, hoping that help might yet arrive, and the struggle--for he meant to fight for his life--be avoided. "Did you have this in view when you invited me to dine with you?" he asked. "Surely I did." "Why did you select me rather than someone else?" "Because you are so young and vigorous. You are in the full flush of health." Now this is a very pleasant assurance in ordinary cases, but under the circumstances Oliver did not enjoy the compliment. A thought struck him. "You are mistaken," he said. "I am not as well as I look. I have--heart disease." "I can hardly believe it," said the old man. "Heart disease does not go with such a physique." "I've got it," said Oliver. "If you want a perfectly healthy subject, you must apply to someone else." "I will test it," said the old man, approaching. "If you really are subject to disease of the heart, you will not answer my purpose." "Put down that knife, then," said Oliver. The doctor put it down. Oliver shuddered while the relentless devotee of science placed his hand over his heart, and waited anxiously his decision. It came. "You are mistaken, my young friend," he said. "The movement of your heart is slightly accelerated, but it is in a perfectly healthy state." "I don't believe you can tell," said Oliver desperately, "just by holding your hand over it a minute." "Science is unerring, my young friend," said the old man calmly. "But we waste time. Take off your coat and prepare yourself for the operation." The crisis had come, the old man approached with his dangerous weapon. At this supreme moment Oliver espied a bell-knob. He sprang to it, and rang a peal that echoed through the house, and was distinctly heard even in the chamber where they were standing. "What did you do that for?" demanded the old man angrily. "I am not going to stay here to be murdered!" exclaimed Oliver. "I give you warning that I will resist you with all my strength." "You would foil me, would you?" exclaimed the maniac, now thoroughly excited. "It must not be." Oliver hurriedly put a chair between himself and the old man. At that moment steps were heard on the staircase, and someone tried the door. "Help!" shouted Oliver, encouraged by what he heard. "What is the matter?" demanded a voice outside. "Father, what are you doing?" The old man looked disgusted and mortified. "Go away!" he said querulously. "Who is there with you?" "No one." "It's a lie!" said Oliver, in a loud voice. "I am a boy who has been lured in here by this old man, who wants to murder me." "Open the door at once, father," said the voice outside sternly. The old man was apparently overawed and afraid to refuse. He advanced sullenly and turned the key. The door was at once opened from outside. A man in middle life entered. He took in the situation at a glance. "You are at your tricks again, sir," he said sternly to the old man. "Put down that knife." The old man obeyed. "Don't be harsh, Samuel," he said, in an apologetic tone. "You know that I am working in the interests of science." "Don't try to impose on me with such nonsense. What were you going to do with that boy?" "I wished to experiment upon him." "You were going to murder him, and the law would have exacted the penalty had I not interfered." "I would have submitted, if I could have only demonstrated the great principle which----" "The great humbug! Promise me that you will never again attempt any such folly, or I shall be compelled to send you back to the hospital." "Don't send me there, Samuel!" said the old man, shuddering. "Then take care you do not make it necessary. Young man, come with me." It may be imagined that Oliver gladly accepted the invitation. He followed his guide downstairs, and into the parlor, which was very handsomely furnished. "What is your name?" enquired the other. "Oliver Conrad." "How came you with my father?" Oliver told the story briefly. "I am very much mortified at the imposition that has been practised upon you, and alarmed at the thought of what might have happened but for my accidental presence at home. Of course you can see for yourself that my father is insane." "Yes, sir, I can see it now; but I did not suspect it when we first met." "I suppose not. In fact, he is not generally insane. He is rather a monomaniac." "It seems a dangerous kind of monomania." "You are right; it is. Unless I can control him at home, I must send him back to the hospital. He has been an eminent physician, and until two years ago was in active practice. His delusion is connected with his profession, and is therefore less likely to be cured. I am surprised that you accepted a stranger's invitation to dine." "I will tell you frankly, sir," said Oliver, "that I am out of employment, and have but forty cents in the world. You could hardly expect me to decline a dinner at Delmonico's under the circumstances." "To be sure," said the other thoughtfully. "Wait here one minute, please." He left the room, but returned in less than five minutes. He handed a sealed envelope to Oliver. "I owe you some reparation for the danger to which you have been exposed. Accept the enclosure, and do me the favor not to mention the events of to-day." Oliver thanked him and made the promise requested. When he was in the street he opened the envelope. To his amazement, it proved to contain one hundred dollars in bills! "Shall I take this!" he asked himself. Necessity answered for him. "It is a strange way of earning money," he thought. "I shouldn't like to go through it again. On the whole, however, this is a lucky day. I have had a dinner at Delmonico's, and I have money enough to last me ten weeks at least." CHAPTER XXI. ROLAND IS SURPRISED. Oliver was walking along Broadway in very good spirits, as he well might, after such an extraordinary piece of good fortune, when all at once he became sensible that his step-brother, Roland, was approaching him. His first impulse was to avoid the meeting by crossing the street; but, after all, why should he avoid Roland? He had done nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly, Roland was not his friend, but he had been his companion so long that there was something homelike in his face. Roland recognized him at the instant of meeting. "Oliver!" he exclaimed in surprise. "How are you, Roland?" said Oliver composedly. Roland colored and looked embarrassed. "Are you still in the city?" he asked. "You see I am." "My father told me you were going to sea." "He advised me to go to sea, but I have not followed his advice." "I should think you would." "Why should you think I would? Do you think of going to sea?" "Of course not." "Then why should I?" "It must be rather awkward for you to stay in New York. Are you not afraid of being arrested?" "Arrested!" repeated Oliver haughtily. "What do you mean?" "You know well enough what I mean. On account of the money you stole from my cousin." "Say that again and I will knock you over!" "You wouldn't dare to--in the public street!" said Roland, startled. "Don't depend on that. If you insult me, I will." "I was only repeating what my father told me." "Your father chose to tell you a lie," said Oliver contemptuously. "Didn't you lose your place? Tell me that." "I did lose my place, or rather left it of my own accord." "Wasn't there a reason for it?" insisted Roland triumphantly. "There was a charge trumped up against me," said Oliver--"a false charge. Probably your father and your cousin were at the bottom of it. But that isn't what I care to talk about. Is there anything new in Brentville?" "Carrie Dudley is very well," said Roland significantly. "I am glad to hear it." "I called there last evening. I had a splendid time," said Roland. If Roland expected to excite Oliver's jealousy, he was not likely to succeed. Our hero knew too well Carrie Dudley's real opinion of his step-brother to feel the least fear on the subject. "I should like to see Frank and Carrie," said Oliver quietly. "They are the only persons I regret in Brentville." "No love lost between us," returned Roland at once, applying the remark to himself. "Probably not," said Oliver, with a smile. "Have you got another place?" enquired Roland curiously. "Not yet." "I suppose you will find it hard, as you can't bring any recommendation." "I wouldn't accept one from Mr. Bond," said Oliver haughtily. "How do you get along then?" "Pretty well, thank you." "I mean, how do you pay your expenses?" persisted Roland. "You have no income, you know." "I ought to have," blazed out Oliver indignantly. "My mother left a hundred thousand dollars, which you and your father have coolly appropriated." "My father has no money that is not his own," retorted Roland, "and that is more than----" "Stop there, Roland, or I may forget myself," interrupted Oliver sternly. There was a menace in his tone which startled Roland, and he thought it best not to complete his sentence. "I must be going," said Roland. "Have you dined?" He asked the question chiefly out of curiosity. "I dined at Delmonico's," replied Oliver, in a matter-of-fact tone, enjoying Roland's amazement. "You did!" exclaimed Roland, well aware how expensive Delmonico's famous restaurant is. "Yes; I had a capital dinner." "I don't believe it. You are joking," said Roland incredulously. "What makes you say that?" "You can't afford to dine at such a place, a boy in your position. I don't believe you have five dollars in the world." Now was the time for Oliver to confound his incredulous enemy. He took out the roll of bills he had recently received and displayed it to Roland, letting him see five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills. "I am not quite reduced to beggary, as you see," he said. "How did you get all that money?" gasped Roland. "I don't choose to tell you. I will only say this, that I have made more money since I left Mr. Bond's than I made while I was in his employment--three times over." "You have?" ejaculated Roland, who was beginning to feel some respect for the boy who could make so much money, even though he disliked him. "I thought you hadn't got a place," he said, after a moment's thought. "No more I have," replied Oliver. "I am my own employer." "In business for yourself, hey?" Oliver nodded. "Well, good-morning. I'll tell Frank Dudley I have seen you." "I wish you would." He looked after Oliver, as he walked away, with the same feeling of wonder. "How can a boy earn so much money?" he thought. "Oliver must be smart. I thought he'd be a beggar by this time." In his secret heart Roland had never credited the charge of theft brought against Oliver. He didn't like him, and was ready enough to join in the charge of dishonesty fabricated by his father and Mr. Bond, but really he knew Oliver too well to believe it. Otherwise he might have suspected that Oliver's supply of money was dishonestly obtained. He concluded that his step-brother must be doing some business of a very profitable character. With a hundred dollars in his pocket, Oliver felt justified in re-engaging the room he had in the morning resolved to leave. He managed to see John Meadows at the time of his leaving the store, and enquired if he had yet hired his old room. "No," said John, "I am just going round there. Will you go with me?" "It won't be necessary," said Oliver. "We had better remain where we are." John stared. "But how will we pay the rent?" he asked. "You have nothing." "Haven't I? I made a hundred dollars to-day." John whistled. "Come, now, you're gassin'," he said. "Does that look like gassing?" said Oliver, displaying a roll of bills. "Good gracious! where did you get it!" Oliver smiled. "I thought you would be surprised," he answered. "I'll tell you the story when we get home," he said. "Now let us go and tell our landlady we have changed our minds and will keep the room." "I'm glad we can," said John Meadows. "I felt bad about going back to my old room, and I felt anxious about you, too." "I think I shall get along," said Oliver hopefully. "Perhaps there is more money to be made where you made your money to-day." "I think not. At any rate, I don't care to earn any more the same way." The same evening Oliver strayed into a prominent hotel on Broadway. He was alone, his room-mate having retired early on account of fatigue. In the smoking-room he saw, sitting by himself, a tall, bronzed, rather roughly dressed man, evidently not a dweller in cities, but having all the outward marks of a frontiersman. Something in Oliver attracted this man's attention, and led him to address our hero. "Young man," he said, "do you live in New York?" "Yes, sir." "Then, perhaps you can recommend me to a quiet house where I can obtain a lodging. I aint used to fine hotels; they don't suit me." "I can recommend the house where I am living," said Oliver. "It is quiet and comfortable, but not stylish." "Style aint for me," said the stranger. "If it's where you live, I'll like it better. I like your looks and would like to get acquainted with you." "Then," said Oliver, "I'll call here to-morrow morning and accompany you to the house. It would be too late to-night to make a change." "That will do," said the stranger. "I will be here at nine o'clock. If you don't see me enquire for Nicholas Bundy." CHAPTER XXII. OLIVER ADOPTS A NEW GUARDIAN. Mrs. Hill, Oliver's landlady, was glad to obtain another lodger. She had a vacant square room which she was willing to let for five dollars a week. Oliver reported this to Nicholas Bundy at the hotel the next morning. "If the price is too high," he added, with an involuntary glance at the stranger's shabby appearance, "perhaps Mrs. Hill will take less." "I am willing to pay five dollars," said Nicholas promptly. "If you recommend it I have no doubt it will suit me." When Mr. Bundy presented himself to the landlady, she, too,--for necessity had made her sharp-sighted and experience had made her suspicious,--evidently felt the same distrust as to his pecuniary status. "Would you mind paying weekly in advance?" she asked doubtfully. A smile lighted up his rough features. "No, ma'am," he said; "that'll suit me just as well." He drew out a large pouch, which appeared to be full of gold pieces, and drew therefrom an eagle. "That'll pay for two weeks," he said, as he placed the coin in her hand. The display of so much gold and his willingness to pay for his room two weeks in advance at once increased the lady's respect for him. "I shall try to make your room comfortable for you," she said. "There's a sofa I can put in, and I've got an extra rocking-chair." The stranger smiled. "I'm afraid you'll spoil me," he said. "I'm used to roughing it, but you may put 'em in. When my young friend here comes to see me, he can sit on either." A shabby-looking trunk and a heavy wooden box were deposited in the room before sunset. "Now I'm at home," said Nicholas Bundy, with satisfaction. "You'll come and see me often, won't you, Oliver?" He had already begun to call our hero by his Christian name, and evidently felt quite an interest in him. "I can promise that," said Oliver, "for I am a gentleman of leisure just now." "How is that?" asked Bundy quickly. "I have lost my situation, and have all my time at my own disposal." "How do you pay your way, then?" enquired Nicholas. "I have money enough on hand to last me about ten weeks, or, with rigid economy, even longer. Before that time passes, I hope to get another situation." "How much does it cost you to live?" "About ten dollars a week." "Suppose I employ you for about a week," proposed Bundy. "Is it any work I am fit for?" asked Oliver. "If so, I say yes, and thank you." "It is something you can do. You must know that it is twenty years since I have set foot in New York, and it's grown beyond my knowledge. I want to go about and see for myself what changes have taken place in it. Will you go with me?" "Yes, Mr. Bundy, I will go with you, and charge nothing for it." "That won't do," said the stranger. "I shall insist on paying you ten dollars a week." "But it seems like robbing you." "Don't you trouble yourself about that. You think I am poor, perhaps?" "You don't look as if you were rich," said Oliver, hesitating. "No, I suppose not," said Mr. Bundy slowly. "I don't look it, but I am worth fifty thousand dollars--in fact, more." Oliver looked surprised. "You wonder that I am so rough-looking--that I don't wear fine clothes, and sport a gold watch and chain. It aint in my way, boy. I've been used to roughing it so long that it wouldn't come nat'ral for me to change--that's all." "I am glad you are so well off, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver heartily. "Thank you, boy. It's well off in a way, I suppose, but it takes more than money to make a man well off." "I suppose it does," assented Oliver, but he privately thought that a man with so much money was "well off" after all. "Suppose, after twenty years' absence, you came back to your old home and found not a friend left,--that you were alone in the world, and had no one to take the least interest in you,--is that being well off?" "That is very nearly my own situation," said Oliver. "I have a step-father, but he has cast me off." "Did you care for him?" "He never gave me cause to." "Then you don't miss him?" "He has all my mother's property,--property that should be mine,--and he cast me off with twenty dollars." "He must be a mean skunk," said Mr. Bundy indignantly. "Tell me more about it." Upon this Oliver told his story. Mr. Bundy listened with sympathizing interest. At one point he smote the table with his hard fist and exclaimed: "The rhinoceros! I'd like to hammer him with my fist!" "I should pity him if you did, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver smiling. When the story was ended Nicholas took the boy's hand in his, while his rough features worked with friendly emotion. "You've been treated bad, Oliver," he said, "but don't mind it, boy. Nicholas Bundy'll be your friend. He won't see you want. You shan't suffer as long as I have an ounce of gold." "Thank you, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver gratefully. "I may need your help, but, remember, I have no claim on you." "You have as much claim as anyone. Look upon me as your guardian, and don't be anxious about the future. I, too, have been wrongly used, and some day I'll tell you the story." Two days later, as they sat on the deck of a Staten Island steamer, Nicholas Bundy told Oliver his story. "Twenty years ago," he said, "I was a clerk in a store in New York. I was a spruce young man then--you wouldn't think it, but I was. I was earning a moderate salary, and spending it nearly all as I went along. About this time I fell in love with a young girl of sweet face and lovely disposition, and she returned my love. I've been battered about since, and the years have used me hard, but I wasn't so then. Well, I had a fellow-clerk, by name Jones,--Rupert Jones,--who took a fancy to the same girl. But he found she liked me better, and would say nothing to him, and he plotted my ruin. He was an artful, scheming villain, but I didn't know it then. I thought him to be my friend. That made it the easier for him to succeed in his fiendish plot. I needn't dwell upon details, but there was a sum of money missing by our employers, and through this man's ingenuity it was made to appear that I took it. It was charged upon me, and my denial was disbelieved. My employers were merciful men, and they wouldn't have me arrested. But I was dismissed in disgrace, and I learned too late that he did it. I charged him with it, and he laughed in my face. 'Addie won't marry you now!' he said. Then I knew his motive. I am glad to say he made nothing by it. I resigned all claim to my betrothed, but though she consented to this, she spurned him. "Well, my career in New York was ended. I had a little money, and, after selling my watch, I secured a cheap passage to California. I made my way direct to the mines, and at once began work. I had varying luck. At times I prospered; at times I suffered privation. I made my home away from the coast in the interior. At last, after twenty years, I found myself rich. Then I became restless. I turned my money into gold and sailed for New York. Here I am, and I have just one purpose in view--to find my old enemy and to punish him if I get the chance." "I can't blame you," said Oliver. "He spoiled your life." "Yes, he robbed me of my dearest hopes. I have suffered for his sin, for I have no doubt he took the money himself." "Do you know where he is now?" "No; he may be in this city. If he is, I will find him. This is the great object of my life, and you must help me in it." "I?" "Yes. I will take care of you. You shall not want for anything. In return, you can be my companion, my assistant, and my friend. Is it a bargain?" "Yes," said Oliver impulsively. "So be it, then. If you ever get tired of your engagement I will release you from it; but I don't think you will." "Do you know, or have you any idea, where this man is--this Rupert Jones?" "I have heard that such a man is living on Staten Island. I saw his name in the New York Directory. That is why I wished to come here to-day." "We are at the first landing," said Oliver. "Shall we land?" "Yes." The two passed over the gang-plank upon the pier, and the boat went on its way to the second landing. CHAPTER XXIII. MR. BUNDY IS DISAPPOINTED, AND OLIVER MEETS SOME FRIENDS. The village lay farther up on the hill. Oliver and his companion followed the road, looking about them enquiringly. "Suppose you find this man, what will you do?" asked Oliver curiously. He had an idea that Nicholas Bundy might pull out a revolver and lay his old enemy dead at his feet. This, in a law-abiding community, might entail uncomfortable consequences, and he might be deprived of his new friend almost as soon as the friendship had begun. "I will punish him," said Nicholas, his brow contracting into a frown. "You won't shoot him?" "No. I shall bide my time, and consider how best to ruin him. If he is rich, I will strip him of his wealth; if he is respected and honored, I will bring a stain upon his name. I will do for him what he has done for me." The provincialisms which at times disfigured his speech were dropped as he spoke of his enemy, and his face grew hard and his expression unrelenting. "How he must hate this man!" thought Oliver. They stepped into a grocery store on the way, and here Mr. Bundy enquired for Rupert Jones. "Do you know any such man?" he asked. "Oh, yes; he trades here." Nicholas Bundy's face lighted up with joy. "Is he a friend of yours?" "No," he replied hastily. "But I want to see him; that is, if he is the man I mean. Will you describe him?" The grocer paused, and then said: "Well, he is about thirty-five years old, and----" "Only thirty-five?" repeated Nicholas in deep disappointment. "I don't think he can be any more. He has a young wife." "Is he tall or short?" "Quite tall." "Then it is not the man I mean," said Bundy. "Oliver, come." As they left the store he said: "I thought it was too good news to be true. I must search for him longer; but I have nothing else to do. There are many Joneses in the world." "Yes, but Rupert Jones is not a common name," said Oliver. "You say right, boy, Rupert is not a common name. That is what encourages me. Well, shall we go back?" "I think as we are over here we may as well stay a while," said Oliver. "The day is pleasant and we can look upon it as an excursion." "Just as you say, Oliver. There is no more to be done to-day. Have you never been here before?" "No." "I used to come over when I was a clerk. I often engaged a boat at the Battery and rowed down here myself." "That must have been pleasant." "If you like rowing we can go back to the ferry pier and engage a boat for an hour." "I should like that very much." "I shall like it also. It is long since I did anything at rowing." They engaged a stout row-boat, and rowed out half a mile from shore. Oliver knew something about rowing, as there was a pond in his native village, where he had obtained some practice, generally with Frank Dudley. What was his surprise when bending over the oar to hear his name called. Looking up, he recognized Frank and Carrie Dudley and their father. "Why, it's Oliver!" exclaimed Frank joyfully. "Where have you come from, Oliver?" "From the shore." "I mean, how do you happen to be here?" "Only an excursion, Frank. What brings you here? And Carrie, too. I hope you are well, Carrie." "All the better for meeting you, Oliver," said Carrie, smiling and blushing. "I have been missing you very much." Oliver was pleased to hear this. What boy would not be pleased to hear such a confession from the lips of a pretty girl? "I thought Roland would make up for my absence," he said slyly. "He told me when we met the other day what pleasant calls he had at your house." "The pleasure is all on his side, then," said Carrie, tossing her head. "I hate the sight of him." "Poor Roland! He is to be pitied!" "You needn't pity him, Oliver," said Frank. "He loses no opportunity of trying to set us against you. But he hasn't succeeded yet." "And he won't!" chimed in Carrie, with emphasis. This conversation scarcely occupied a minute, though it may seem longer. Meanwhile Dr. Dudley and Nicholas Bundy were left out of the conversation. Oliver remembered this, and introduced them. "Dr. Dudley," he said, "permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Bundy." "I am glad to make the acquaintance of any friend of yours, Oliver. We are just going in. Won't you and Mr. Bundy join us at dinner in the hotel?" Nicholas Bundy did not in general take kindly to new friends, but he saw that Oliver wished the invitation to be accepted, and he assented with a good grace. The boat was turned, and they were soon on land again. "Who is this man, Oliver?" asked Frank in a low tone. "He is a new acquaintance, but he has been very kind to me, and I have needed friends." "Is it true that your step-father has cast you off? Roland has been spreading that report." "It is true enough." "What an outrage!" exclaimed Frank indignantly. "But, at least, he makes you an allowance out of your mother's property?" "He sent me twenty dollars, and let me understand that I was to expect no more of him." "What an old rascal!" "I hate him!" said Carrie. "I would like to pull his hair." "That's a regular girl's wish," said Frank, laughing. "Perhaps you can make it do by pulling Roland's, sis." "I will, when he next says anything against Oliver." "Look here, Oliver," said Frank, lowering his voice, "if you are in want of money, I've got five dollars at home that I can let you have as well as not. I'll send it in a letter." "I've got three dollars, Oliver," said Carrie eagerly. "You'll take that, too, won't you?" Oliver was moved by these offers. "You are true friends, both of you," he said; "but I have been lucky, and I shall not need to accept your kindness just yet. I have nearly a hundred dollars in my pocket-book, and Mr. Bundy is paying me ten dollars a week for going around with him. But, though I don't need it, I thank you all the same." "He looks rough," said Carrie, stealing a look at the tall, slouching figure walking beside her father; "but if he is kind, I shall like him." "He has done more than I have yet told you. He has promised to provide for me as long as I will stay with him." "He's a good man," said Carrie impulsively. "I'm going to thank him." She went up to Nicholas Bundy and took his rough hand in hers. "Mr. Bundy," she said, "Oliver tells me you have been very kind to him. I want to thank you for it." "My little lady," said Nicholas, surprised and pleased, "if I'd been kind, that would pay me; but I've only been kind to myself. I'm alone in the world. I've got no wife nor child, nor a single relation, but I've got enough to keep two on, and as long as Oliver will stay with me he shall want for nothing. He's company to me, and that's what I need." "I wish you were his step-father instead of Mr. Kenyon." "What sort of a man is Mr. Kenyon?" asked Nicholas of Dr. Dudley. "He is a very unprincipled schemer, in my opinion," was the reply. "He has managed to defraud Oliver of his mother's property and cast him penniless on the world." "He is a scoundrel, no doubt; but I am not sorry for what he has done," replied Mr. Bundy. "But for him I should be a solitary man. Now I have a young friend to keep me company. Let the boy's inheritance go? I will provide for him!" They dined together, and then Dr. Dudley and his family were obliged to return. "Shall I give your love to Roland?" asked Frank. "I think you had better keep it yourself, Frank," and Oliver pressed his hand warmly. "You needn't tell Roland that I am prospering, nor his father, either. I prefer, at present, that they should not know it." They parted, with mutual promises to write at regular intervals. CHAPTER XXIV. ANOTHER CLUE. Nicholas Bundy was disappointed by his first failure, but by no means discouraged. "There are many Joneses in the world," he said, "but Rupert is an uncommon name. I didn't think there'd be more than one with that handle to his name. If he's alive I'll find him." "Why don't you enquire of somebody that knew him?" asked Oliver. "The thing is to find such a one," said Bundy. "There's been many changes in twenty years." "Don't you know of some tradesman that he used to patronize, Mr. Bundy?" "The very thing!" exclaimed the miner, for so I shall sometimes designate Mr. Bundy. "There's one man that may tell me about him." "Who is that?" "He kept a drinking-place down near Fulton Ferry. He may be living yet. I'll go and see him." So one morning Nicholas Bundy, accompanied by Oliver, took the Third Avenue cars and went downtown. They got out near the Astor House, and made their way to the old place, which Bundy remembered well. To his great joy he found it--a little shabbier, a little dirtier, but in other respects the same. They entered. Behind the bar stood a man of nearly sixty, whose bloated figure and dull red face indicated that he appreciated what he sold to others. "What will you have, gentlemen?" he asked briskly. Nicholas Bundy surveyed his countenance attentively. "Are you Jacob Spratt?" he asked. "Yes," answered the bartender. "Do you know me?" "I knew you twenty years ago," answered the miner. "I don't remember you." "You once knew me well." "I have seen many faces in my time. I can't remember so many years back." "Do you recall the name of Nicholas Bundy?" "Ay, that I do. You used to come here with a man named Jones." "Yes--Rupert Jones. Can you tell me where he is now?" Jacob shook his head. "He left New York not long after you did," he answered. "He went to Chicago." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes, and I'll tell you why. He came here one evening and says: 'Jacob, I'm going away. You won't see me for a long time--I'm going to Chicago.'" "Did he tell you why he was going there?" "He said he was going there as an agent for a New York house--that he had a good chance." "You have never seen him since?" "No," said Jacob. Then he added meditatively: "Once I thought I saw him. There was a man I met in the street looking as like him as two peas, makin' allowance for the years he was older. I went up to him and called him by name, but he colored up and looked annoyed, and told me I was quite mistaken; that his name wasn't Jones, but something else--I don't remember what now. Of course I axed his pardon and walked on, but he was the very picture of Rupert Jones." "Then you feel sure that he went to Chicago?" "Yes, he told me so, and that was the last time I saw him. If he had stayed in the city he would have kept on comin' to my place, or I should have met him somewhere." Nicholas Bundy thanked the old man for his information, and ordered glasses of lemonade for himself and Oliver. "Won't you have something stronger, Mr. Bundy?" asked the barkeeper insinuatingly. Bundy shook his head. "I've given up liquor," he said. "I'm better off without it, and so will the boy be. What do you say, Oliver?" "I agree with you, sir," said Oliver promptly. "Lucky for me all don't think so," said Spratt. "It 'ould ruin my business." When they left the bar-room Nicholas Bundy turned to his young companion. "Oliver," he said, "will you go with me to Chicago?" "I shall be glad to go," said Oliver promptly. "Then we will start in two or three days, as soon as I have made some business arrangements." "Mr. Bundy," said Oliver honestly, "it will cost you considerable to pay my expenses. I should like very much to go, but do you think it will pay you to take me?" "You're considerate, boy, but don't trouble yourself about that. You are company to me, and I'm willing to pay your expenses for that, let alone the help you may give me." "Thank you, Mr. Bundy. Then I will say no more. What day do you think you will start?" "To-day is Tuesday. We will start on Saturday. Can you be ready?" Oliver laughed. "There won't be much getting ready for me," he said. "All my business arrangements can be made in half an hour." Bundy smiled. Our hero's good spirits seemed to enliven his own. He was not only getting used to Oliver's company, but sincerely attached to him. CHAPTER XXV. MAKING ARRANGEMENTS. Nicholas Bundy went downtown the next morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not invite Oliver to accompany him. "Perhaps you have some places to visit," he said. "If so, take the day to yourself. I shall not need you." He proceeded to the office of a well-known broker in the vicinity of Wall Street, and, entering, looked around him. His rusty appearance did not promise a profitable customer, and he had to wait some time before any attention was paid him. Finally a young clerk came to him and enquired carelessly: "Can we do anything for you this morning?" "Are you one of the proprietors?" asked Nicholas. "No," answered the young man, smiling. "I should like to see your employer, then." "I can attend to any little commission you may have," said the young man pertly. "Who told you my commission was a little one, young man?" "It seems large to him, I suppose," thought the clerk, again smiling. "If it's only a few hundred dollars----" he commenced. "I want to consult your employer about the investment of fifty thousand dollars in gold," said Nicholas deliberately. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the young man, his manner entirely altered. "I will speak to Mr. Hamlin at once." Though the broker was engaged with another person he waited upon Nicholas without delay, inviting him to take a seat in his private office. "Are you desirous of obtaining large interest, Mr. Bundy?" he asked. "No, sir; I want something solid, that won't fly away. I've worked for my money and don't want to lose it." "Precisely. Then I can recommend you nothing better than Government bonds. They pay a fair interest and the security is unquestionable." "Government bonds will suit me," said the miner. "You may buy them." The purchase was made and Nicholas enquired: "What shall I do with them? I don't want to carry them around with me. Is there any place of safety where I can leave them while I am absent on a journey?" "Yes, sir; you want to place them with a safe deposit company. I will give you a note to one that I can recommend." This advice seemed good to Mr. Bundy. He presented himself at the office of the company and deposited the bonds, receiving a suitable certificate. "One thing more," he said to himself, "and my arrangements will be made." He visited the office of a lawyer and dictated his will. It was very brief, scarcely ten lines in length. This also he deposited with the safe deposit company. "Oliver," he said, in the evening, "I've got through my business sooner than I expected. Can you start to-morrow?" "Yes, sir." "Then we'll go. We'll pay our landlady to the end of the month, so that she can't complain. One thing more, Oliver, I want to tell you. I've left the bulk of my property, in bonds, and my will with the Safe Deposit Company, No.---- Broadway. If anything happens to me you are to go there and call for the will. Whatever there is in it I want you to see carried out." "All right, sir." The next day they started for Chicago. CHAPTER XXVI. WHO RUPERT JONES WAS. Just before leaving New York Oliver wrote a letter to Frank Dudley, announcing the plan he had in view. My new guardian, Mr. Bundy, goes to Chicago on business [he wrote] and I am to go with him. I don't know how long we shall be away. I shall be well provided for, and expect to have a good time. I may write you from the West. Remember me to Carrie, and believe me to be your affectionate friend, OLIVER CONRAD. "So Oliver is going to Chicago," said Frank Dudley to Roland Kenyon, on the afternoon of the same day. Roland looked surprised. "How do you know?" he asked. Frank showed him the passage quoted above. "He doesn't send his love to you," said Frank mischievously. "I don't care for his love," returned Roland, tossing his head. "I'm glad he is going to a distance." "Why?" "So he needn't disgrace the family." "Are you really afraid of that?" asked Frank, in rather a sarcastic tone. "Yes; he's a bad fellow, and you'll find it out sooner or later." "I don't agree with you; I think Oliver a fine, manly fellow." "Oh, I know you have always stuck up for him!" said Roland, annoyed. "You are deceived--that is all." "Carrie is deceived, too, then," said Frank, knowing that this would tease Roland. "She has just as high an opinion of Oliver as I have." "She'll find him out sometime," said Roland, and walked moodily away. Reaching home, he told his father the news. "Oliver gone to Chicago!" repeated Mr. Kenyon, with evident pleasure. "I am glad of it. I hope he'll never come back to annoy us." "I hope so, too." "But I am afraid he will get out of money and write for help." "He's found some flat who has taken a fancy to him, and is paying his expenses. Very likely he'll get tired of him, though." "Who is it?" asked Mr. Kenyon, with some curiosity. "It's a rough sort of a man. Frank Dudley met him one day at Staten Island. An old miner from California, I believe, named Bundy." "What!" exclaimed his father hastily and in visible agitation. "What is the man's name?" "Bundy." "What is his first name?" "Nicholas, I believe." "Is it possible?" exclaimed Mr. Kenyon, moved in some unaccountable manner. "How strange the boy should have fallen in with him!" "Why, do you know him, father?" asked Roland, whose turn it was now to be surprised. "I have heard of him," answered Mr. Kenyon, in an embarrassed voice; "not lately--years ago." "What sort of a man is he?" asked Roland, who was endowed with a full share of curiosity. "His character was bad," answered his father briefly. "He was discharged from his place for dishonesty. I knew very little of him." "Then he's good company for Oliver," said Roland, shrugging his shoulders. "They are well matched. I'll tell Frank Dudley what sort of a guardian his dear friend has chosen." "I desire you will do nothing of the kind," said his father hastily. "Why not?" asked Roland, in surprise. "I don't care to have it known that I ever heard of the man. Frank Dudley might write to Oliver what I have said, and then it would get to the ears of this man Bundy. I have nothing against him, remember. In fact I am grateful to him for taking the boy off my hands. If we are wise, we shall say nothing to separate them." "I see," said Roland. "I guess you're right, father. I'd like to tell Frank, but I won't." * * * * * "How strange things turn out in this world!" said Kenyon to himself, when Roland had left him. "Of all men in the world Oliver has drifted into the care of the man who hates me most. It is fortunate that I have changed my name. He will never suspect that the step-father of the boy he is befriending is the man he once knew as--Rupert Jones." CHAPTER XXVII. A STARTLING TELEGRAM. Meanwhile, in her Southern prison-house, Mrs. Kenyon languished in hopeless captivity. There was only one thing to add to her unhappiness, and that was supplied by the cruel ingenuity of her unprincipled husband. Tell her [wrote Mr. Kenyon to Dr. Fox] that her son Oliver is dead. He has just died of typhoid fever, after a week's illness. We did all we could to save him, but the disease obtained too great headway to be resisted, and he finally succumbed to it. "If she's not insane already that may make her so," he said to himself cunningly. "I shall not tell even Dr. Fox that the story is false. If he believes it he will be the more likely to persuade her of it." Dr. Fox did believe it. Had it been an invention he supposed Mr. Kenyon would have taken him into his confidence. So he made haste to impart the news to his patient. Essentially a coarse-minded man, he was not withheld, as many would have been, by a feeling of pity or consideration, but imparted it abruptly. "I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, entering the room where she was confined. "What is it?" she asked quickly. "Your son Oliver is dead!" She uttered one cry of deep suffering, then fixed her eyes upon the doctor's face. "You say this to torment me," she said. "It is not true." "On my honor, it is true," he answered; and he believed what he said. "When did you learn it? Tell me all you know, in Heaven's name! Would you drive me mad?" Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders. "I only got the letter this morning," he said. "It was from Mr. Kenyon." "May I see the letter?" Reflecting that it contained nothing of a private nature, Dr. Fox consented, and put the letter into her hands. It carried conviction to the grief-stricken woman. "I have nothing to live for now," she said mournfully. "My poor Oliver! So young to die!" "Who's dead?" enquired Cleopatra, advancing to where they stood. "My boy Oliver." "Is that all? I thought it might be Mark Antony. Dr. Fox, have you received a letter from Antony lately?" "No, your Majesty. If I had I would immediately have informed you." The effect of this news was, for a time, to plunge Mrs. Kenyon into a fit of despondency. Freedom no longer had for her the old attractions. What was life to her now that her boy was dead? Mr. Kenyon heard with pleasure of the effect produced by his cruel message. "Why don't she die, or grow mad?" he said to himself. "I shall never feel safe while she is still alive. What would the world say if it should discover that my wife is not dead, but confined in a mad-house?" Still, he felt moderately secure. All his plans thus far had succeeded. He had won the hand of a wealthy widow, he had put her out of the way; he had cast off her son, appropriated her property, and there seemed to lie before him years of luxury and self-indulgence. In the midst of this pleasant day-dream there came a rude awakening. One day, as he was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, complacently scanning a schedule of bonds and bank shares, a servant entered. "Please, sir; here's a telegram. Will you sign the book? The boy is waiting." He took the book and signed it calmly. He was expecting a telegram from his broker, and this was doubtless the message looked for. He tore open the envelope and read: Your wife has escaped. We have no clue yet to her whereabouts. FOX. He turned actually livid. "What's the matter, sir?" asked the servant, alarmed by his appearance. "Is it bad news?" He had his wits about him, and realized the importance of assigning a reason for his emotion. "Yes, Betty, I have lost five thousand dollars!" "Shure the master must care a sight about his money!" thought Betty. "He looked just like a ghost." Mr. Kenyon sent a message to Dr. Fox, exhorting him to spare no pains to capture the fugitive. Not content with this, he followed the telegram, taking the next train southward. CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD NANCY'S HUT. Mrs. Kenyon's depression and apparent submission to her fate had relaxed the vigilance of her keepers. Still, it is doubtful if she would have escaped but for the help of her insane room-mate. Late one evening Cleopatra, with a cunning expression, showed her a key. "Do you know what this is?" she asked. "It is a key." "It is the key of this door." "How did you get it?" Upon this point the queen would give no information. But she lowered her voice and whispered: "Mark Antony is waiting for me outside. He is going to carry me away." It was useless to question her delusion, and Mrs. Kenyon contented herself with asking: "Do you mean to leave this house?" "Yes," said Cleopatra. "Antony expects me. Will you go with me? I will make you one of my maids of honor." "Do you think we can get out?" asked Mrs. Kenyon dubiously. "The outer door is locked." "I know where to find the key. Time presses. Will you go?" Believing in the death of her son, Mrs. Kenyon had supposed herself indifferent to liberty, but now that the hope of escape was presented a wild desire to throw off the shackles of confinement came to her. What her future life might be she did not care to ask; but once to breathe the free air, a free woman, excited and exhilarated her. "Yes; I will go," she said quickly. "Come!" The two women dressed themselves hurriedly, softly they opened the door of their room, went downstairs, and from under the mat in the unlighted hall Cleopatra stooped down and drew out the key of the outer door. "See!" she said exultantly. "Quick! Open the door!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenyon nervously. The key turned in the lock with a grating sound which she feared might lead to discovery, but fortunately it did not. A moment and they stood on the outside of their prison-house. Now Mrs. Kenyon assumed the lead. "Come," she said. "Do you know where to find Mark Antony?" asked Cleopatra. "Yes; follow me." They did not venture to take the highway. The chances of discovery were too great. Neither knew much about the country, but Mrs. Kenyon remembered that a colored woman, sometimes employed at the asylum, lived in a lonely hut a mile back from the road. This woman--old Nancy--she had specially employed by permission of Dr. Fox, and to her hut she resolved to go. Cleopatra, no longer self-reliant, followed her confidingly. Just on the verge of a wood, with no other dwelling near at hand, dwelt the old black woman. It was a rude cabin, dark and unpainted. Cleopatra looked doubtfully at it. "Where are you going?" she asked, standing still. "Antony is not here." It was not a time to reason, nor was the assumed queen a person to reason with. There was no choice but to be positive and peremptory. "No," she answered, "Antony is not here, but here he will meet you. It is a poor place, but his enemies lie in wait for him, and he wishes to see you in secret." This explanation suited Cleopatra's humor. She nodded her head in a satisfied way and said: "I know it. Augustus would murder my Antony if he could." "Then you must not expose him to danger. Come with me." Mrs. Kenyon advanced, not without some misgivings, since Nancy was unaware of her visit. She could hear the old woman snoring, and was compelled to knock loudly. At last old Nancy heard, and awoke in a great fright. "Who's there?" she called out, in a quavering voice. "It's I, Nancy. It's Mrs. Kenyon." This only seemed to alarm the old woman the more. She was superstitious, like most of her race, and straightway fancied that it was some evil spirit who had assumed Mrs. Kenyon's voice. "Go away, you debbil!" she answered, in tremulous accents. "I know you. You's an evil sperrit. Go away, and leave old Nancy alone." Had her situation been less critical, Mrs. Kenyon would have been amused at the old woman's alarm, but in the dead of night, a fugitive from the confinement of a mad-house, she was in no mood for amusement. "Don't be frightened, Nancy," she said, "I have escaped from the asylum with Cleopatra, and we want you to hide us for to-night. I will give you ten dollars if you will open your door and help us." Now, avarice was a besetting weakness in old Nancy's character, and though Mrs. Kenyon did not know it, she had unwittingly made the right appeal to the old woman. Ten dollars was an immense sum to Nancy, who counted her savings by the smallest sums. She drew back the bolt, and opened her door, not wholly without fear that her first suspicions might be correct, and her nocturnal visitors turn out to be emissaries of Satan. "Are you sure you aint bad sperrits?" she asked, through a narrow crevice. "Don't be foolish, Nancy. You know me well enough, and Cleopatra, too. Open the door wider, and let us in." Reassured in a degree by the testimony of her eyes, Nancy complied and the two entered. "Laws, missus, it's you shure nuff," she said, "and Clopatry, too." (This was as near as she ever got to the name of the royal Egyptian.) "Who'd a thought to see you this time o' night?" "We've run away, Nancy. You won't let Dr. Fox know?" "I reckon not, missus. He's a drefful mean man, the old doctor is. I won't give you up to him nohow." Luckily for Mrs. Kenyon old Nancy had some months before had a quarrel with Dr. Fox about some money matter in which she felt he had cheated her. So she was glad of this opportunity to do him an ill turn. "Is Antony here, Nancy?" asked Cleopatra, looking about her with an air of expectation. Nancy was about to reply in the negative, when she caught a significant look from Mrs. Kenyon, and altered her intended answer. "He aint here yet, missus, but I expect him in the morning sure." "Likely he's her man," thought Nancy, who was entirely unacquainted with that episode in Roman history in which Cleopatra figured. "Likely he's her man, though she do look old to have one." The cabin consisted of one room on the ground floor, but overhead was a loft covered with straw, and used partly as a lumber-room by the old woman. A pallet filled with straw lay in one corner of the lower room, this being old Nancy's bed, from which she had hastily risen when she heard the knocking at the outer door. "Lie down there, honeys," she said with generous hospitality, proposing to resign her own bed to her unexpected guests. But the position was too exposed for Mrs. Kenyon. Looking up she espied the loft and said: "No, Nancy, we would rather go up there. Then if Dr. Fox comes for us he won't discover us." To this arrangement both Nancy and Cleopatra assented, and a rude ladder was brought into requisition. When they had reached the loft Cleopatra looked around her with discontent. "Am I to lie here?" she asked. "Yes; we will lie down together." "But this is no fit couch for a great queen," she complained. "What will Mark Antony--what will my courtiers say?" "They will praise you for sacrificing your royal state for your lover," answered Mrs. Kenyon, who was quick-witted, and readily understood the warped mind she had to deal with. "Then I will be content," said Cleopatra, evidently pleased with the suggestion, "if you think Antony will approve." "There is no doubt of it. He will love you better than ever." Cleopatra reclined upon the straw, and was soon in a profound slumber. Mrs. Kenyon was longer awake. She was anxious and troubled, but at length she, too, yielded to sleep. She awoke to find old Nancy bending over her. "Don't be frightened, honey," she said; "but the old doctor is ridin' straight to the door. Don't you move or say a word, and I'll send him off as wise as he came." Nancy had scarcely got downstairs and drawn the ladder after her, when the smart tap of a riding-whip was heard on the outer door. Mrs. Kenyon trembled in anxious suspense. CHAPTER XXIX. DR. FOX IN PURSUIT. Opening the outer door, old Nancy counterfeited great surprise at seeing Dr. Fox mounted on horseback, waiting impatiently to have his summons answered. "Lor' bress us!" she exclaimed, holding up both hands, "what bring you on here so airly, Massa Fox?" "Nancy, have you seen anything of Mrs. Kenyon and Cleopatra?" asked the doctor abruptly. "How should I see them?" asked Nancy. "I haven't been to the 'sylum sence las' week." "They have run away," explained Dr. Fox. "Run away! Good Lor'! What they gone and run away for?" "Out of pure cussedness, I expect," returned the doctor in a tone of disgust. "Then you haven't seen them?--they haven't passed this way?" "Not as I knows on. They wouldn't come to old Nancy. She couldn't help 'em." "I was hoping you might have seen them," said Dr. Fox, disappointed. "I don't know where to look for them." "How did they get away?" asked Nancy, fixing her round, bead-like eyes on the doctor, with an appearance of curiosity. "I can't stop to talk," said Dr. Fox impatiently. "I must search for them, though I don't know where." "I hope you'll find 'em, Massa Fox," said Nancy, rolling her eyes. A sudden idea struck Dr. Fox. For a small sum he could enlist Nancy on his side, he thought. "Look here, Nancy," he said, "these foolish woman may yet come this way. If they do, let me know in some way, so that I can catch them, and I'll give you--let me see--I'll give you five silver dollars." "Will you really, Massa Fox?" exclaimed Nancy, in affected delight. "Oh, golly, how rich I'll be!" "Of course you don't get it unless you earn it, Nancy." "Oh, I'll work for it; I will, sure, Massa Fox." "If they come here, manage to lock them up in your cabin, and then come to me." "You may 'pend on me, Massa Doctor. Oh, yes, you may 'pend on me." "That secures her co-operation," thought the deluded doctor. "Five dollars is a fortune to her." He would not have felt quite so confident if he had heard Nancy's soliloquy after his departure. "Mean old hunks!" she exclaimed. "So he thinks he's gwine to buy old Nancy for five dollars! He's mighty mistaken, I reckon, I won't give up the poor darlings for no such money." No doubt the ten dollars she had received from Mrs. Kenyon had its effect; but, to do old Nancy justice, she had a good heart, and, fond as she was of money, would not have sold the secret of those who put confidence in her, even if there had been no money paid her for keeping it. Mrs. Kenyon, hidden in the loft, heard the conversation with anxiety, lest Nancy should yield to the temptation and betray her place of concealment. When the colloquy was over, and Dr. Fox had ridden away, she felt relieved. "Thank you, Nancy," she said gratefully, peering over the edge. "You are indeed a good friend to me." "I sent Massa Fox off with a flea in his ear," said Nancy, her portly form shaken by a broad laugh. "I shall not forget your kindness, Nancy." "Is Clopatry awake?" asked Nancy. "Yes," said a smothered voice from the straw. "Is Antony come?" "Aint seen no gemman of that name, Miss Clopatry." "I hope he hasn't forgotten his appointment," said the queen anxiously. "What does he look like, in case I see him, Miss Clopatry?" "He looks like a prince," said Cleopatra. "He has an air of command. He's a general, you know." "You couldn't tell me what color hair he's got!" said the practical Nancy. "I don't know much about princes." Cleopatra looked perplexed. She had never thought particularly about the personal appearance of her hero. "I expect it's black," she said; "but he'll ask for me. You'll know him by that." "All right, Miss Clopatry. If I see him, I'll send him right along. Now, what'll you have for breakfast?" "Anything you have, Nancy. We don't want to put you to too much trouble." "Oh, Lor', Mis' Kenyon, you needn't be afeared. What do you say, now, to some eggs and hoe-cake?" "I would like some," said Cleopatra, brightening up. "Can I come down, Nancy?" "Just as you please, Miss Clopatry." "I think we may venture," said Mrs. Kenyon. "Dr. Fox will not be likely to come back at present." The two ladies went down the ladder rather awkwardly, not being used to such a staircase. In fact, Cleopatra lost her footing, and fell in a very unqueenly attitude on the earthen floor. She was picked up, however, without having sustained any serious injury. After breakfast Mrs. Kenyon held a consultation with Nancy as to the course she had better pursue. "Better stay here till night, Mis' Kenyon," advised the old woman, "and then I'll take you through the woods to Scranton, where the railroad is. Ef you go now, the doctor'll come cross you and take you back." "Where do the cars go, Nancy? To Charleston?" "No, Miss Kenyon. They go down souf to Georgia." Until then Mrs. Kenyon had had no fixed plan, except it had occurred to her that it would be best to go to Charleston. But a moment's reflection satisfied her that she would be more likely to be sought after there than farther south. Dr. Fox would hardly think of following her to Georgia. "That plan will suit me, Nancy," she said, after a short pause. "I don't much care where I go, as long as I increase the distance between me and that horrible mad-house." "Will Clopatry go with you?" asked Nancy, indicating the queen with a jerk of her finger. "I will ask her." The plan was broached to Cleopatra, but it met with unexpected opposition. "I can't go away from Antony," she said. "He is to meet me here. You said he was." This was true, and it was found impossible to remove the impression from her mind. Mrs. Kenyon looked at Nancy in perplexity. "What shall we do?" she asked. "Let her stay," said Nancy. "You can go with me. You aint goin' to be caught so easy if you are alone." Mrs. Kenyon realized the force of this consideration. Cleopatra was really insane, and her insanity could hardly be concealed from those whom they might encounter in their flight. Dr. Fox would, of course, post notices of their escape, and Cleopatra's appearance and remarks would, in all probability, make the success of their plans very dubious. "You are right, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon; "but it seems selfish to go away and leave Cleopatra here." "The doctor didn't treat her bad, did he?" asked Nancy in a whisper. "No." "Then it won't do her any harm if she does get took back. It's different with you. Jest let her stay here as long as she wants to. When she finds her man don't come, she'll go back likely herself." This was finally agreed to. During the day there were no more visitors, much to the relief of Mrs. Kenyon. At nightfall old Nancy and Mrs. Kenyon set out on their journey. The latter was disguised in an old gown belonging to her hostess, her gown stuffed out to like ample proportions, while a huge bonnet, also belonging to Nancy, effectually concealed her face. "You look like my sister, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "Lor', I'd never know you!" "I'll pass for your sister, Nancy, if any enquiry is made." Nancy nodded acquiescence. "That'll do," she said, in a satisfied tone. "Now, bid good-by to Miss Clopatry, and we'll go." Cleopatra was quite willing to be left. She was quite persuaded that Antony would come for her during the evening, and urged Mrs. Kenyon to hurry him in case they met him. For two miles Nancy and her companion travelled through the woods, until they came to the bank of a river. "We must go 'cross here, Mis' Kenyon," she said. "There is a boat just here. Get in and I'll row you across." Mrs. Kenyon got into the boat, and Nancy was about to put off, when a horseman rode up rapidly. "Halt, there!" he shouted. "Who have you got with you, Nancy?" Mrs. Kenyon's heart stood still with sickening fear, for the voice was that of Dr. Fox. CHAPTER XXX. HOW DR. FOX WAS FOOLED. Nancy was not likely to turn pale, even if she had been frightened. Really, however, she was not frightened, having considerable nerve. "Is that you, Massa Fox?" she replied composedly, pushing the boat off at the same time. "Where did you come from?" "Who have you got with you?" demanded the doctor, in a peremptory tone. "Lor', doctor, what's the matter? It's my sister Chloe from 'cross the river. She cum over to see me yes'day, and I'm agwine to take her home." Dr. Fox surveyed the pretended sister critically, and was inclined to believe the story. The dress, the stuffed form, and general appearance certainly resembled Nancy. But he was not satisfied. "Are you sure that you haven't got one of my runaways in the boat with you?" he asked suspiciously. Nancy's fat sides shook with laughter. "One of them crazy critters!" she exclaimed. "Chloe, he thinks you're a crazy critter run away from his 'sylum. Won't Dinah laugh when you tell her!" Mrs. Kenyon possessed an admirable talent for mimicry, though she had not exercised it much of late years. Now, however, the occasion seemed to call for an effort in that direction, and she did not hesitate. She burst into a laugh, rich and hearty, so like Nancy's that the latter was almost startled, as if she heard the echo of her own amusement. No one who heard it would have doubted that it was the laugh of a negro woman. The laugh convinced Dr. Fox. He no longer entertained any doubt that it was really Nancy's sister. "It's all right, Nancy," he said apologetically. "I see I am mistaken. If you see either of the runaways let me know," and he turned his horse from the bank. Not a word passed between Nancy and her passenger till they had got beyond earshot of the pursuer. Then Nancy began: "You did dat well, Mis' Kenyon. Ef I hadn't knowed I'd have thought it was ole Chloe herself. Where did you learn dat laugh?" "I think I might make a pretty good actress, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon, smiling. "I knew something must be done as Dr. Fox's suspicions were aroused. But I didn't dare to speak. I was not so sure of my voice." "Lor', how we fooled Massa Fox!" exclaimed Nancy, bursting once more into a rollicking laugh. "So we did," said Mrs. Kenyon, echoing the laugh as before. "You almost frighten me, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy. "I didn't think no one but a nigger could laugh like dat. Are you sure you aint black blood?" "I think not, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon. "I don't look like it, do I?" "No, Mis' Kenyon; you're as white as a lily; but I can't understand dat laugh nohow." Presently they reached the other shore, and Nancy securely fastened the boat. "How far is it to the depot, Nancy?" asked the runaway. "Only 'bout a mile, Mis' Kenyon. Are you tired?" "Oh, no; and if I were, I wouldn't mind, so long as I am escaping from that horrible asylum. I can't help thinking of that poor Cleopatra. I wish she might be as fortunate as I, but I am afraid she will be taken back." "She an' you's different, Mis' Kenyon. She's crazy, an' you aint." "Then you think I can be trusted out of the doctor's hands?" "How came you there, anyway, Mis' Kenyon?" asked Nancy curiously. "It is too long a story to tell, Nancy. It is enough to say that I was put there by a cruel enemy, and that since I have been confined I have met with a great loss." "Did you lose your money, Mis' Kenyon?" asked Nancy sympathetically. "It was worse than that, Nancy. My only boy is dead." "Dat's awful; but brace up, Mis' Kenyon. De Lor' don't let it blow so hard on de sheep dat's lost his fleece." "I feel that I have very little to live for, Nancy," continued Mrs. Kenyon, in a tone of depression. "Don't you take it so much to heart, Mis' Kenyon. I've had three chil'en myself, an' I don't know where they is." "How does that happen, Nancy?" "When we was all slaves dey was sold away from me, down in Alabama, I reckon, and I never expec' to see any of 'em ag'in." "That is very hard, Nancy," said Mrs. Kenyon, roused to sympathy. "So it is, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy, wiping her eyes; "but I hope to see 'em in a better land." Then Nancy, pausing in her rowing, began to sing in an untrained but rich voice a rude plantation hymn: "We'se all a-goin', We'se all a-goin', We'se all a-goin', To de Promised Land. "We shall see our faders. We shall see our moders, We shall see our chil'en, Dead an' gone before us, In de Promised Land. "Don't you cry, poor sinner, Don't you cry, poor sinner, We'se all a-goin To de Promised Land." "It makes me feel better to sing them words, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy; "for it's all true. De Lord will care for us in de Promised Land." "I am glad you have so much faith, Nancy," said her companion. "Your words cheer me, in spite of myself. For the first time, I begin to hope." "Dat's right, Mis' Kenyon," said Nancy, heartily. "Dat's de way to talk." They were walking while this conversation took place, and soon they reached the station--a small rude hut, or little better. A man with a flag stood in front of it, while a gentleman and lady were standing just in the door-way. Mrs. Kenyon had on the way disencumbered herself of the gown and other disguises which she had worn in the boat, and appeared a quiet, lady-like figure, who might readily be taken for a Southern matron, with a colored attendant. "When will the next train start, sir?" she asked, addressing the flagman. "In five or ten minutes." "Going South?" "Yes, ma'am." "Can I get a ticket of you?" "The ticket agent is away. You will have to buy one on board the train." "Very well, sir." They went into the small depot and waited till the train arrived. Then Mrs. Kenyon bade a hurried good-by to Nancy, pressed another piece of gold into her not unwilling hand, and was quickly on her way. As the train started she breathed a sigh of relief. "At last I feel that I am free!" she said to herself. "But where am I going and what is to be my future life?" They were questions which she could not answer. The future must decide. Nancy bent her steps toward her humble home, congratulating herself on the success with which their mutual plans had been carried out. "I wonder how Miss Clopatry is gettin' along," she reflected. We can answer that question. Dr. Fox, on his way back, thought he would again visit Nancy's cottage. The two refugees might possibly be in the neighborhood, although he no longer suspected Nancy's connivance with them. He was destined to be gratified and at the same time disappointed. As he approached the house he caught sight of Cleopatra looking out of the window. "Is that you, Antony?" she called. Dr. Fox's face lighted up with satisfaction. "There they are! I've got them!" he exclaimed, and quickened his horse's pace. "Open the door, Cleopatra!" he ordered. She meekly obeyed. He peered round for her companion, but saw no one else. "Where is Antony?" asked Cleopatra. "Where is Mrs. Kenyon?" he demanded sternly. "Gone away with Nancy," answered Cleopatra simply. Dr. Fox swore fearfully. "Then it was she!" he exclaimed, "after all; and I have been preciously fooled. I'd like to wring Nancy's neck!" "Where is Antony?" asked Cleopatra anxiously. "He is at the asylum, waiting to see you," said the doctor. "Come with me, and don't keep him waiting!" That was enough. Poor Cleopatra put on her bonnet at once, and went back with the doctor, only to weep unavailing tears over the disappointment that awaited her. "I'd rather it was the other one," muttered Dr. Fox. "Who would have thought she was so cunning? Where did she get that laugh? I'd swear it was a nigger!" For three months Nancy was not allowed any work from the asylum, but she contented herself with the fifteen dollars in gold which Mrs. Kenyon had given her. CHAPTER XXXI. MRS. KENYON FINDS FRIENDS. Mrs. Kenyon thought it best to put two hundred miles between herself and Dr. Fox. She left the cars the next morning at a town of about three thousand inhabitants, which we will call Crawford. "Is there a hotel here?" she enquired of the depot-master. "Yes, ma'am." "Is it far off?" "About three-quarters of a mile up in the village." "Can I get a carriage to convey me there?" "Certainly, ma'am," answered the depot-master briskly. My son drives the depot carriage. There it is, near the platform. "Peter!" he called. "Here's a lady to go to the hotel. Have you a check for your trunk, ma'am?" Mrs. Kenyon was rather embarrassed. She had no luggage except a small bundle which she carried in her hand, and this, she feared, might look suspicious. She had a trunk of clothing at the asylum, but of course it was out of the question to send for this. "My luggage has been delayed," she said; "it will be sent me." "Very well, ma'am." Mrs. Kenyon got into the carriage and was soon landed at the hotel. It might be called rather a boarding-house than a hotel, as it could hardly accommodate more than a dozen guests. It was by no means stylish, but looked tolerably comfortable. In Mrs. Kenyon's state of mind she was not likely to care much for luxury, and she said to herself wearily: "This will do as well as any other place." She enquired the terms of board, and found them very reasonable. This was a relief, for she had but two hundred dollars with her, and a part of this must be expended for the replenishing of her wardrobe. This she attended to at once, and, though she studied economy, it consumed about one-half of her scanty supply. Four weeks passed. Mrs. Kenyon found time hanging heavily upon her hands. She appeared to have no object left in life. Her boy was dead, or at least she supposed so. She had a husband, but he had proved himself her bitterest foe. She had abstained from making acquaintances, because acquaintances are apt to be curious, and she did not wish to talk of the past. There was one exception, however. One afternoon when out walking, a pretty little girl, perhaps four years of age, ran up to her, crying: "Take me to mamma. I'm so frightened!" She was always fond of children, and her heart opened to the little girl. "What is the matter, my dear?" she asked soothingly. "I've lost my mamma," sobbed the little girl. "How did it happen, my child?" "I went out with nurse, and I can't find her." By enquiry Mrs. Kenyon ascertained that the little girl had run after some flowers, while the careless nurse, not observing her absence, had gone on, and so lost her. "What is your name, my little dear?" she asked. "Florette." "And what is your mamma's name?" "Her name is mamma," answered the child, rather surprised. "Don't you know my mamma?" Then it occurred to Mrs. Kenyon that the child was the daughter of a Mrs. Graham, a Northern visitor, who was spending some weeks with a family of relatives in the village. She had seen the little girl before, and even recalled the house where her mother was staying. "Don't cry, Florette," she said. "I know where mamma lives. We will go and find mamma." The little girl put her hand confidingly in that of her new friend, and they walked together, chatting pleasantly, till suddenly Florette, espying the house, clapped her tiny hands, and exclaimed joyfully: "There's our house. There's where mamma lives." Mrs. Graham met them at the door. Not having heard of the little girl's loss, she was surprised to see her returning in the care of a stranger. "Mrs. Graham," said Mrs. Kenyon, "I am glad to be the means of restoring your little girl to you." "But where is Susan--where is the nurse?" asked Mrs. Graham, bewildered. "I lost her," said little Florette. "I found the little girl crying," continued Mrs. Kenyon, "and fortunately learned where you were staying. She was very anxious to find her mamma." "I am very much indebted to you," said Mrs. Graham warmly. "Let me know who has been so kind to my little girl." "My name is Conrad, and I am boarding at the hotel," answered Mrs. Kenyon. She had resumed the name of her first husband, not being willing to acknowledge the tie that bound her to a man that she had reason to detest. Mrs. Graham pressed her so strongly to enter the house that she at length yielded. In truth she was longing for human sympathy and companionship. Always fond of children, the little girl attracted her, and for her sake she wished to make acquaintance with the mother. This was the beginning of friendship between them. Afterward Mrs. Kenyon, or Conrad, as we may now call her, called, and, assuming the nurse's place, took Florette to walk. She exerted herself to amuse the child, and was repaid by her attachment. "I wish you'd come and be my nurse," she said one day. "I hope you will excuse Florette," said Mrs. Graham apologetically. "She is attached to you, and is too young to know of social distinctions." "I am very much pleased to think that she cares for me," said Mrs. Conrad, looking the pleasure she felt. "Do you really like me, then, Florette?" The answer was a caress, which was very grateful to the lonely woman. "It does me good," she said to Mrs. Graham. "I am quite alone in the world, and treasure more than you can imagine your little girl's affection." "I am sure she has suffered," thought Mrs. Graham, who was of a kindly, sympathetic nature. "How unhappy I should be if I, too, were alone in the world!" Mr. Graham was a merchant in Chicago, where business detained him and prevented his joining his wife. She was only to stay a few weeks, and the time had nearly expired when little Florette was taken sick with a contagious disease. The mercenary nurse fled. Mrs. Graham's relations, also concerned for their safety, left the sorrow-stricken mother alone in the house, going to a neighboring town to remain till the danger was over. Human nature was unlovely in some of its phases, as Mrs. Graham was to find out. But she was not without a friend in the hour of her need. Mrs. Conrad presented herself, and said: "I have heard of Florette's sickness, and I have come to help you." "But do you know the danger?" asked the poor mother. "Do you know that her disease is contagious, and that you run the risk of taking it?" "I know all, but life is not very precious to me. I love your little daughter, and I am willing to risk my life for her." Mrs. Graham made no further opposition. In truth, she was glad and encouraged to find a friend who was willing to help her--more especially one whom the little girl loved nearly as much as herself. So these two faithful women watched by day and by night at the bedside of little Florette, relieving each other when nature's demand for rest became imperative, and the result was that Florette was saved. The crisis was safely past, and neither contracted the disease. When Florette was well enough, Mrs. Graham prepared to set out for her Northern home. "How lonely I shall feel without you," exclaimed Mrs. Conrad, with a sigh. "Then come with us," said Mrs. Graham. "Florette loves you, and after what has passed I look upon you as a sister. I have a pleasant home in Chicago, and wish you to share it." "But I am a stranger to you, Mrs. Graham. How do you know that I am worthy?" "The woman who has nursed my child back from death is worthy of all honor in my household." "But your husband?" "He knows of you through me, and we both invite you." Mrs. Conrad made no further opposition. She had found friends. Now she had something to live for. By a strange coincidence, she and Oliver reached Chicago the same day. CHAPTER XXXII. MR. DENTON OF CHICAGO. In due time, Nicholas Bundy and Oliver arrived at Chicago. They took up their residence at a small hotel, and Mr. Bundy prepared to search for some trace of Rupert Jones. He couldn't find the name in the directory, but after diligent search ascertained that such a man had been in business in Chicago ten years before. Where he went or what became of him could not immediately be learned. Time was required, and it became necessary to prolong their stay in the city. Mr. Bundy did not care to make acquaintances. With Oliver he was not lonely. But one evening, while sitting in the public room, a stranger entered into conversation with him. "My dear sir," he said to Mr. Bundy, "I perceive that you smoke. Won't you oblige me by accepting one of my cigars? I flatter myself that you will find it superior to the one you are smoking." If there was one thing that Nicholas Bundy enjoyed it was a good cigar. "Thank you, sir," he said. "You are very obliging." "Oh, don't mention it," said the other. "The fact is I am rather an enthusiast on the subject of cigars. I would like your opinion of this one." Nicholas took the proffered cigar and lighted it. He was sufficient of a judge to see that it was really superior, and his manner became almost genial toward the stranger who had procured him this pleasure. "It is capital," he said. "Where can I get more like it?" "Oh, I'll undertake that," said the other. "How many would you like?" "A hundred to begin with." "You shall have them. By the way, do you remain long in the city?" "I can't tell. It depends upon my business." "Why do you stay at a hotel? You would find a boarding-house more comfortable and cheaper." "Do you know of a good one?" "I can recommend the one where I am myself living. There is a chamber next to my own that is vacant, if you would like to look at it." The proposal struck Nicholas favorably and he agreed to accompany his new acquaintance the next morning to look at it. The house was one of fair appearance, with a tolerably good location. The chamber referred to by Denton (this was the stranger's name) was superior to the room in the hotel, while the terms were more reasonable. "What do you say, Oliver?" asked Mr. Bundy. "Shall we remove here?" "Just as you like, sir. It seems a very pleasant room." The landlady was seen, and the arrangement was made for an immediate removal. She was a woman of middle age, bland in her manners, but there was something shifty and evasive in her eyes not calculated to inspire confidence. Neither Nicholas nor Oliver thought much of this at the time, though it occurred to them afterward. "You'll find her a good landlady," said Denton, who seemed pleased at the success of the negotiations. "I have been here over a year, and I have never had anything to complain of. The table is excellent." "I am not likely to find fault with it," said Nicholas. "I've roughed it a good deal in my time, and I aint much used to luxury. If I get a comfortable bed, and good plain victuals, it's enough for me." "So you've been a rolling stone, Mr. Bundy," said the stranger enquiringly. "Yes, I have wandered about the world more or less." "They say 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,'" continued Mr. Denton. "I hope you have gathered enough to retire upon." "I have got enough to see me through," said Nicholas quietly. "So have I," said Denton. "Queer coincidence, isn't it? When I was fifteen years old I hadn't a cent, and being without shoes I had to go barefoot. Now I've got enough to see me through. Do you see that ring?" displaying at the same time a ring with an immense colorless stone. "It's worth a cool thousand,--genuine diamond, in fact,--and I am able to wear it. Whenever I get hard up--though there's no fear of that--I have that to fall back upon." Nicholas examined the ring briefly. "I never took a fancy to such things," he said quietly. "I'd as soon have a piece of glass, as far as looks go." "You're right," said Denton. "But I have a weakness for diamonds. They are a good investment, too. This ring is worth two hundred dollars more than I gave for it." "Is it?" asked Nicholas. "Well, all have their tastes. I'd rather have what the ring cost in gold or Government bonds." Denton laughed. "I see you are a plain man with plain tastes," he said. "Well, it takes all sorts of men to make a world, and I don't mind confessing that I like show." The same day they moved into the boarding-house. It was arranged that Oliver, as before, should occupy the same room with his new guardian, and for his use a small extra bed was put in. "We are next-door neighbors," said Denton, "I hope you won't find me an unpleasant neighbor. The fact is, I sleep like a top all night. Never know anything from the minute I lie down till it's time to get up. Are you gentlemen good sleepers?" "I sleep well," said Nicholas. "It's with me very much as it is with you." "Of course you sleep well, my young friend," said the new acquaintance to Oliver. "Boys of your age ought not to wake up during the night." "I believe I am a pretty good sleeper," said Oliver. "Why is he so particular about enquiring whether we sleep well?" thought our hero. He was not particularly inclined to suspicion, but somehow he had never liked Mr. Denton. The man's manner was hearty and cordial, but there was a sly, searching, crafty look which Oliver had occasionally detected, which set him to thinking. Not so with Nicholas. He had seen much of men's treachery, he had suffered much from it also, but at heart he was disposed to judge favorably of his fellow-men, except where he had special reason to know that they were unreliable. "Our neighbor seems very obliging," he said to Oliver, after Denton had left the room. "Yes, sir," answered Oliver. "I wonder why I don't like him." "Don't like him!" repeated. Nicholas in surprise. "No. I can't seem to trust him." "He appears pleasant enough," said Mr. Bundy. "A little vain, perhaps, or he wouldn't wear a thousand dollars on his finger. There wouldn't be many diamonds sold if all were like me." "I wonder what his business is?" "He has never told me. From what he says he probably lives upon his means." Oliver did not continue the conversation. Very likely his distrust was undeserved by the man who inspired it, and he did not feel justified in trying to prejudice Mr. Bundy against him. Finding Nicholas was tired in the evening, Oliver went out after supper by himself. He was naturally drawn to the more brilliantly lighted streets, which, even at ten o'clock in the evening, were gay with foot passengers. Sauntering along, he found himself walking behind two gentlemen, and could not avoid hearing their conversation. "Do you see that man in front of us?" asked one. "The one with the diamond ring?" for the stone sparkled in the light. "Yes; he is the one I mean." "What of him?" "He is one of the most notorious gamblers and confidence men in Chicago." "Indeed! What is his name?" "He has several--Denton, Forbes, Cranmer, and half a dozen others." Naturally Oliver's curiosity was excited by what he heard. Passing the speakers, he scanned the man of whom they had been conversing. It was Denton--the man who had been so friendly to Nicholas Bundy and himself. "I was right in distrusting him," he thought. "He is a dangerous man. Now, what shall I do?" Oliver decided not to tell Mr. Bundy immediately of what he had heard; but, for his own part, he decided to watch carefully, lest Denton might attempt in any way to injure them. CHAPTER XXXIII. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. Oliver and his guardian retired about ten o'clock. Mr. Bundy was not long in going to sleep. Unlike Oliver, he had no care or anxiety on his mind. As we have said, he was not a man to harbor suspicion. With our hero it was different. He knew the real character of Denton, and could not help fancying that he must have some personal object in bringing them to this house, and installing them in a room adjoining his own. Oliver carefully locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. There was but one door, and this led into the hall. "Now," thought our hero, "Denton can't get in except through the keyhole." This ought to have quieted him for the night, but it did not. An indefinable suspicion, which he could not explain, made him uneasy. It was this, probably, that prompted him to go to the closet in which he knew that Nicholas Bundy kept a pistol. At times he placed the pistol under his pillow, but he had not done so to-night, considering it quite unnecessary in a quiet boarding-house. "I don't suppose there's any need of it," thought Oliver; "but I'll take it and put it under my own pillow." Nicholas Bundy was already asleep. He was a sound sleeper and did not observe what Oliver was doing, otherwise he would have asked an explanation. This might have been hard to give, except the chance knowledge he had gained of Denton's character. An hour passed and still Oliver remained awake. At about this time he heard a noise in the adjoining room as of someone moving about. "It is Denton come home," he said to himself. Presently the noise ceased, and Oliver concluded that his disreputable neighbor had gone to bed. He began to be rather ashamed of his suspicions. "Of course he can't get in here, since there is but one door, and that locked," he reflected. "It is foolish for me to lie awake all night. I may as well imitate Mr. Bundy's example and go to sleep." Oliver was himself fatigued, having been about the streets all day, and now that his anxiety was relieved he, too, soon fell into a slumber. But his sleep was neither deep nor refreshing; it was troubled by dreams, or rather by one dream, in which Denton figured. It was this, perhaps, that broke the bonds of sleep. At any rate, he found himself almost in an instant broad awake, with his eyes resting on a figure, clearly seen in the moonlight, standing beside Nicholas Bundy's bed examining the pockets of his coat and pantaloons, which rested on a chair close beside. Immediately all his senses were on the alert. In one swift glance he saw all. The figure was that of Denton, and an opening in the panel between the two rooms showed how he had got in. It was clear that this was a decoy house, especially intended to admit of such nefarious deeds. Denton's back was turned to Oliver, and he was quite unaware, therefore, that the boy had awakened. Bundy lay before him in profound sleep, and from a careless glance he had concluded that the boy also was asleep. "Now," thought Oliver, "what shall I do? Shall I shoot at once?" This course was repugnant to him. He had a horror of shedding blood unless it were absolutely necessary, but at the same time he was bold and resolute, and by no means willing to lie quietly and see his guardian robbed. It was certainly a critical moment, and required some courage to face and defy a midnight robber, who might himself be armed. But Oliver was plucky, and didn't shrink. In a clear, distinct voice he asked: "What are you doing there?" Denton wheeled round and saw Oliver sitting up in bed. He had a black mask over his eyes, and thought he was not recognized. "Confusion!" Oliver heard him mutter, under his breath. "Cover up your head, boy, and don't interfere with me, or I'll murder you!" he said in a low, stern voice. "I want to know what you are doing?" demanded our hero, undaunted. "None of your business. Do as I tell you!" answered Denton, in a menacing tone. "It is my business," said Oliver firmly. "You have no business here, Mr. Denton. Go back into your own room." Denton started, and was visibly annoyed to find that he was recognized after all. "Denton is not my name," he said. "You mistake me for somebody else." "Denton is the name by which we know you," said Oliver. "Whether it is your real name or not I don't know or care. I know you have no business here, and you must leave instantly." Denton laughed, a low, mocking laugh. "You crow well, my young bantam," he said; "but you're a fool, or you would know that I am not a man to be trifled with. Cover up your head, and in five minutes you may uncover it again, and I will do you no harm." "No, but you'll rob Mr. Bundy, and I don't intend you shall do it." "You don't!" exclaimed the ruffian, in a tone of suppressed passion. "Come, I must teach you a lesson!" He sprang toward Oliver's bed, with the evident intention of doing him an injury, but our hero was prompt and prepared for the attack which he anticipated. He seized the pistol and presented it full at the approaching burglar, and said coolly: "Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Denton. This pistol is loaded, and if you touch me I will shoot." Denton stopped short, with a feeling bordering on dismay. It was a resistance he had not anticipated. Indeed, he was so far from expecting any interference with his designs that he had come unprovided with any weapon himself. "The boy's fooling me!" it occurred to him. "I don't believe the pistol is loaded. I'll find out. You must be a fool to think I am afraid of an empty pistol," he said, looking searchingly at the boy's face. "You will find out whether it is loaded or not," said Oliver coolly; "but I wouldn't advise you to try. Just go through the same door you came in at, and I won't shoot." If it had been a man, Denton would have seen that there was no further chance for him to carry out his design; but it angered him to give in to a boy. He felt that it was disgraceful to a man, whose strength could outmatch Oliver twice over. Besides, he had felt Bundy's pocket-book, and he hated to leave the room without it. "I'll bribe the boy," he thought. "Look here, boy," said he; "put down that weapon of yours. I want to speak to you." "Go ahead!" said Oliver. "You haven't laid down your pistol." "And I don't intend to," said Oliver firmly. "I am not in the habit of entertaining company in my chamber at midnight, and I prefer to be on my guard." Denton was enraged at the boy's coolness, but he dissembled the feeling. "Oh, well," he said carelessly, "do as you please. Now, I've got a proposal to make to you." "Go ahead." "I'm very hard up, and I want money." "So I supposed." "The man you're with has plenty of it." "How do you know?" "Confound you, why do you interrupt me? You know it as well as I. Now, I want some of that money." "That is what you came in for." "Yes, that is what I came in for. Now, I'll tell you what I will do. I will take the money out of the pocketbook, and give you half, if you won't interfere. You can tell the old man that a burglar took the whole, and he'll believe you fast enough. So you see you will profit by it as well as I." "You don't know me, Mr. Denton," said Oliver. "I am not a thief, and if I were I wouldn't rob the man that has been kind to me. I've heard all I want to, and you have stayed in this room long enough. If you don't disappear through that panel before I count three, I'll shoot you." With a muttered execration, Denton obeyed, and once more Oliver found himself alone. He got up and looked at his watch. It indicated a quarter to one. What should he do? The night was less than half-spent, and Denton might attempt another entrance. "There is no help for it," thought Oliver. "I must remain awake the rest of the night." CHAPTER XXXIV. DENTON SEES HIS INTENDED VICTIMS ESCAPE. Oliver was rejoiced to see the sunshine entering the window. He felt that his long vigil was over, and the danger was passed. He saw Bundy's eyes open, and he spoke to him. "Are you awake, Mr. Bundy?" "Yes, Oliver; I have slept well, though this is a new place." "I have not slept since midnight," said our hero. "Why not? Are you sick?" asked Bundy anxiously. "No, I was afraid to sleep." Then, in a few words, Oliver sketched the events of the night, and added what he had heard about Denton's character. "The skunk!" exclaimed Bundy indignantly. "But why didn't you wake me up, Oliver?" "I would, if there had been any need of it. I was able to manage him alone." "You're a brave boy, Oliver," said Bundy admiringly. "Not many boys would have shown your pluck." "I don't know about that, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver modestly. "You must remember that I had a pistol in my hand and had no need to be afraid." "It needed a brave heart and steady hand for all that. But now you must get some sleep. I am awake and there is no danger. If that skunk tries to get in he'll get a warm reception." Oliver was glad to feel at liberty to sleep. He closed his eyes and did not open them again till nine o'clock. When he opened his eyes he saw Bundy, already dressed, sitting in a chair beside the window. "Hallo! it's late," he exclaimed; "isn't it, Mr. Bundy?" "Nine o'clock." "Haven't you had your breakfast?" "No; I am waiting for you." "Why didn't you wake me up before? I don't like to keep you waiting." "My boy," said Bundy in an affectionate tone, "it is the least I can do when you lay awake for me all night. I shall not soon forget your friendly devotion." "You mustn't flatter me, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "You may make me vain." "I'll take the risk." "Have you been out?" "Yes; I went out to get a paper, and I have seen our landlady. I gave her warning--told her I should leave to-day." "What did she say?" "She seemed surprised and wanted to know my reasons. I told her that I wasn't used to midnight interruptions. She colored, but did not ask any explanation. I paid her, and we will move to-day back to our old quarters. Now, when you are dressed, we will go and get some breakfast." "Suppose we meet Denton?" "He will keep out of our way. If he don't, I may take him by the collar and shake him out of his boots." "I guess you could do it, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver, surveying the wiry, muscular form of his companion. "I should not be afraid to try," said Nicholas, with a grim smile. After breakfast they arranged to remove their trunks back to their old quarters. "Our stay here has been short, but it has been long enough," said Nicholas. "Next time we will put less confidence in fair words and a smooth tongue." They did not meet Denton, but that gentleman was quite aware of their movements. From the window of his chamber he saw Oliver and his guardian depart, and later he saw their luggage carried away. "So they've given me the slip, have they?" he soliloquized. "Well, that doesn't end it. The old man is worth plucking, and the boy I am paid to watch. Confound the young bantam! I will see that he don't crow so loud the next time we meet. But why does Kenyon take such an interest in him? That's what I don't understand." Denton took from his pocket a letter signed "Benjamin Kenyon," and read carefully the following passage: When you find the boy--and I think you cannot fail with the full description of himself and his companion which I send you--watch his movements. Note especially whether he appears to have any communication with a woman who may claim to be his mother. Probably they will not meet, but it is possible that they may. If so, it is important that I should be apprised at once, I will send you further instructions hereafter. Denton folded the letter, and gave himself up to reflection. "Why don't he take me into his confidence? Why don't he tell me just what he wants, just what this woman and this boy are to him? I suppose I have made a mistake in showing my hand so soon, and incorporating a little scheme of my own with my principal's. But I was so very hard up I couldn't resist the temptation of trying to obtain a forced loan from the old man. If that cursed boy hadn't been awake I should have succeeded, and could then have given my attention to Kenyon's instructions. I wonder, by the way, why he calls himself Kenyon. When I knew him he was Rupert Jones, and he didn't particularly honor the name, either. Well, time will make things clearer. Now I must keep my clue, and ascertain where my frightened birds are flitting to." He went downstairs just as the expressman was leaving the house, and carelessly enquired where he was carrying the luggage. Suspecting no harm, the expressman answered his question, and Denton thanked him with a smile. "So far, so good," he thought. "That will save me some trouble." * * * * * The explanation of Mr. Kenyon's letter is briefly this. His visit South had done no good. He had had an interview with Dr. Fox, in which he had so severely censured the doctor that the latter finally became angry and defiant, and intimated that if pushed to extremity he would turn against Kenyon, and make public the conspiracy in which he had joined, together with Kenyon's motive in imprisoning his wife. This threat had the effect of cooling Mr. Kenyon's excitement, and a reconciliation was patched up. An attempt was made to trace Mrs. Kenyon through old Nancy, but the faithful old colored woman was proof alike against threats, entreaties, and bribes, and steadily refused to give any information as to the plans of the refugee. Indeed, she would have found it difficult to give any information of value, having heard nothing of Mrs. Kenyon since they parted at the railroad station. Nancy would have been as much surprised as anyone to hear of the subsequent escape of her guest to Chicago. Mr. Kenyon's greatest fear was lest Oliver and his mother should meet. He knew the boy's resolute bravery, and feared the effects of his just resentment when he learned the facts of his mother's ill-treatment at the hands of his step-father. These considerations led to his opening communication with Denton, whom he had known years before, when he was Rupert Jones. CHAPTER XXXV. ON THE TRACK. One day Nicholas Bundy entered the apartment occupied jointly by himself and Oliver, his face wearing an expression of satisfaction. Oliver looked up from the book he was engaged in reading. "I've found a clue, Oliver," he exclaimed. "A clue to what, Mr. Bundy?" "To Rupert Jones. I have ascertained that when he left Chicago he settled down at the town of Kelso, about seventy-five miles from Chicago, in Indiana." "What do you propose to do?" "To go there at once. Pack up your carpet-bag, and we will take the afternoon train." "All right, Mr. Bundy." Oliver was by no means averse to a journey. He had a youthful love of adventure that delighted in new scenes and new experiences. At two o'clock they were at the depot, and bought tickets for Kelso. They did not observe that they were watched narrowly by a red-headed man, whose eyes were concealed by a pair of green glasses. Neither did they notice that he too purchased a ticket for Kelso. This man was Denton, who had so skilfully disguised himself with a red wig and the glasses that Oliver, though his eyes casually fell upon him, never dreamed who he was. Denton bought a paper and seated himself just behind Oliver and his guardian, so that he might, under cover of the paper, listen to their conversation. "What business can they have at Kelso?" he soliloquized. Then partially answering his own question, "Rupert Jones once lived there, and their visit must have some connection with him. There's something behind all this that I don't understand myself. Perhaps I shall find out. Jones was always crafty, and, as far as he could, kept his own counsel." Denton did not glean much information from the conversation between Oliver and Bundy. The latter, though he had no suspicion of being watched, did not care to converse on private matters in a public place. He was a man of prudence and kept his tongue under control. I have said that the three passengers bought tickets to Kelso. Kelso, however, was not on the road, and a stage for that place connected with the station at Conway. Through tickets, however, had been purchased, including stage tickets. It was about half-past five when the cars halted at Conway. There was a small depot, and a covered wagon stood beside the platform. Oliver, Bundy, and Denton alighted. "Any passengers for Kelso?" asked the driver of the wagon. "Here are two," said Oliver, pointing to Bundy. "Anyone else?" Denton came forward, and in a low voice intimated that he was going to Kelso. These three proved to be the only passengers. Now, for the first time, Oliver and his guardian looked with some curiosity at their fellow-traveller. "He's a queer-looking customer," thought Oliver. Bundy thought, "Perhaps he lives at Kelso, and can tell us something about it. I may obtain the information I want on the way there. I'll speak to him." "It's a pity we couldn't go all the way by cars," he said. "Yes," said Denton briefly. "Do you know if our ride is a long one?" "Six miles," answered Denton, who had enquired. "May I ask if you live in Kelso?" "No, sir," answered Denton. "Perhaps you can tell me if there is a hotel there?" "I don't know." By this time the stranger's evident disinclination to talk had attracted Oliver's attention. He looked inquisitively at the man with green glasses. "There's something about that man's voice that sounds familiar," he said to himself. "Where can I have seen him before?" Still, the red wig and the glasses put him off the scent. Denton grew uneasy under the boy's fixed gaze. "Does he suspect me!" he thought. "It wouldn't do for me to speak again." When Bundy asked another question, he said: "I hope you'll excuse me, sir, but I have a severe headache, and find it difficult to converse." "Oh, certainly," apologized Bundy. Denton leaned his head against the back of the carriage in support of his assertion. The road was a bad one, jolting the vehicle without mercy. To Oliver it was fun, but Denton evidently did not relish it. At last one jolt came, nearly overturning the conveyance. It dislodged the green spectacles from Denton's nose, and for a moment his eyes were exposed. He replaced them hurriedly, but not in time. Oliver's sharp eyes detected him. "It's Denton!" he exclaimed internally, but he controlled his surprise so far as not to say a word. "He is on our track," thought our hero. "What can be his purpose?" CHAPTER XXXVI. DENTON IS CHECKMATED. Oliver wished to communicate his discovery to Bundy, but Denton's presence interfered. His guardian was not an observant man, and thus far suspected nothing. Before Oliver obtained any opportunity the stage reached its destination. Kelso was a village of moderate size. A small hotel provided accommodation for passing travellers. Here the three stage passengers descended and sought accommodation. The house was almost empty, and no difficulty was experienced. Denton registered his name as Felix Graham, from Milwaukee. He registered first, and for a special reason, that the false name might divert suspicion, if any was entertained. "Do you know our fellow-passenger, Mr. Bundy?" asked Oliver, when they were in the room assigned them, preparing for supper. Bundy looked surprised. "I only know that he is from Milwaukee," he answered. Oliver laughed. "My eyes are sharper than yours, Mr. Bundy," he said. "He is our old acquaintance, Denton, who tried to rob you in Chicago." Nicholas Bundy was amazed. "How do you know?" he asked. "Surely it cannot be. Denton had black hair." "And this man wears a red wig," said Oliver. "Are you sure of this?" asked Nicholas thoughtfully. "I am certain." "When did you recognize him?" "In the stage, when his glasses came off." "What does this mean?" said Bundy, half to himself. "It means that he is on our track," said Oliver coolly. "But why? What object can he have?" "You have asked me too much. Ask me some other conundrum." "Can he hope to rob me again? It must be that." "We will see that he don't." "Possibly he has some other object in view. I should like to know." "I'll tell you how to do it, Mr. Bundy. Will you authorize me to manage?" "Yes, Oliver." "Then I will take pains to mention in his presence before the landlord that we are going back to Chicago in the morning, and wish to engage seats in the stage. If he is following us he will do the same." "A good idea, Oliver." After supper Denton took out a cigar, and began to smoke in the office of the inn. Oliver enquired of the landlord: "When does the stage start in the morning?" "At eight o'clock." "Can I engage two seats in it?" "Yes, sir. Your stay is short." "True, but our business takes little time to transact. Let us have breakfast in time." Denton listened, but made no movement. The next morning when the stage drew up before the door, not only Oliver and Bundy, but Denton also, were standing on the piazza, with their carpet-bags, ready to depart. All got into the stage, and it set out. It had hardly proceeded half a mile when, by previous arrangement, Bundy said suddenly: "Oliver, I believe we must go back. There is one thing I quite forgot to attend to in Kelso." "All right!" said Oliver. "It makes no difference to me." The driver was signalled, and Oliver and Bundy got out. Oliver glanced at Denton. He looked terribly amazed, and seemed undecided whether to get out also. "Good-morning, Mr. Graham," said Oliver, with a great show of politeness. "I am sorry you will have a lonely ride." "Good-by," muttered Denton, and the stage rolled on. "He wanted to get out and follow us back," said Oliver, "but he couldn't think of any excuse." "We have got rid of him," said Bundy; "and now I must attend to the business that brought me here." On his return to the hotel he interviewed the landlord, and asked if he ever heard of a man named Rupert Jones. "I should think so," answered the landlord. "He cheated me out of a hundred dollars." "He did? How?" "By a forged check upon the Bank of Conway. I wish I could get hold of him!" he ended. Nicholas Bundy's eyes sparkled. "What could you do in that case?" he enquired. "What could I do? I could send him to State prison." "Then you have preserved the forged check?" "Yes, I have taken care of that." "Mr. Ferguson," said Nicholas, "will you sell me that check for a hundred and fifty dollars?" "Will you give it?" asked the landlord eagerly. "I will." "What is your object? Is this man a friend of yours?" "No; he's my enemy. I want to get him into my power!" "Then you shall have it for a hundred, and I hope you may catch him." In five minutes the change was effected. One object more Nicholas had in view. He tried to ascertain what had become of Rupert Jones, but in this he was unsuccessful. No one in Kelso had seen or heard of him for years. CHAPTER XXXVII. DENTON'S LITTLE ADVENTURE IN THE CARS. When Denton, to his infinite disgust, saw his scheme foiled by the return of Oliver and Bundy to the inn at Kelso, he was strongly tempted to go back also. But prudence withheld him. It was by no means certain that he had been recognized. Very probably Bundy really went back on account of some slight matter which he had forgotten. Denton was of opinion that his visit to Kelso was not connected with the interest of his employer. Therefore he decided to return to Chicago and await the reappearance of Oliver and Bundy. Undoubtedly they would return to the same hotel where they had been stopping. By the time he took his seat in the car he was in quite a philosophical frame of mind, and reconciled to the turn that events had taken. It would have been well for Mr. Denton if he had become involved in no new adventures, but his lucky star was not in the ascendant. He took a seat beside a stout, red-haired, coarse-featured man, with a mottled complexion, who might have been a butcher or a returned miner, but would hardly be taken for a "gentleman and a scholar." Yet there was something about this man that charmed and fascinated Denton. Not to keep the reader in suspense, it was an enormous diamond breastpin which he wore conspicuously in his shirt-front. Denton knew something about diamonds, and to his practised eyes it seemed that the pin was worth at least five thousand dollars. He only ventured to glance furtively at it, lest he should excite suspicion. The stout man proved to be sociable. "Fine mornin'," he remarked. "It is, indeed," said Denton, who had no objection to cultivating the acquaintance of the possessor of such a gem. "Pleasant for travelling." "Yes, so 'tis. Speakin' of travelling I've travelled some in my time." "Indeed," commented Denton. "Yes, I've just come from Californy." "Been at the mines?" "Well, not exactly. When I fust went out I mined a little, but it didn't pay; so I set up a liquor saloon in the minin' deestrict, an' that paid." "I suppose it did." "Of course it did. You see, them fellers got dry mighty easy, and they'd pay anything for a drink. When they hadn't silver, I took gold-dust, an' that way I got paid better." "You must have made money," said Denton, getting more and more interested. "You bet I did. Why, they used to call me the Rich Red-head. Hallo! why, you're a red-head, too!" Denton was about to disclaim the imputation, when he chanced to think of his red wig, and answered, with a smile: "Queer, isn't it, that two red-heads should come together?" "Your hair's redder than mine," said the stout man with a critical glance. "Perhaps it is," said Denton, who was not sensitive, since the hair belonged to a wig. "So you became rich?" "I went to California without fifty dollars in my pocket," said the other complacently. "Now I can afford to wear this," and he pointed to the diamond. "Dear me! why, what a splendid diamond!" exclaimed Denton, as if he saw it for the first time. "It's a smasher, isn't it!" said the stout man proudly. "May I ask where you got it?" "I bought it of a poor cuss that drunk hisself to death. Gave a thousand dollars for it!" "Why, it must be worth more!" said Denton almost involuntarily. "Of course 'tis. It's worth three thousand easy." And two thousand on top of that, thought Denton. He doesn't know the value of it. "How long have you had it?" he enquired. "Risin' six months." "It's a beautiful thing," said Denton. "Are you going to stop in Chicago, may I ask?" "Maybe I'll stop a day, but I guess not. I live in Vermont--that is, I was raised there. I'm goin' back to astonish the natives. When I left there I was a poor man, without money or credit. Then nobody noticed me. I guess they will now," and he slapped his pockets significantly. "Money makes the man," said Denton philosophically. "So it does, so it does!" answered the stranger. Then, with a loud laugh at his own wit, he added: "And man makes the money, too, I guess. Ho, ho!" Denton laughed as if he thought the joke a capital one. "By George, I never said a better thing!" said the stout man, apparently amazed at his own wit. "Didn't you? Then I pity you," thought Denton. But he only said: "It's a good joke." "So 'tis, so 'tis. Do you live in Chicago?" "Yes; I reside there for the present." "In business, eh?" "No, I have retired from business. I am living on my income," answered Denton with unblushing effrontery. "Got money, hey?" said the stout man respectfully. "I have some," answered Denton modestly. "I am not as rich as you, of course. I can't afford to wear a breastpin worth thousands of dollars." "Kinder gorgeous, aint it?" said the other complacently. "I like to make a show, I do. That's me. I like to have folks say, 'He's worth money.'" "Only natural," said Denton. "What a consummate ass!" he muttered to himself. There was a little more conversation, and then the stout man gaped and looked sleepy. "I didn't sleep much last night," he said. "I guess I'll get a nap if I can." "You'd better," said Denton, an eager hope rising in his breast. "A man can't do without sleep." "Of course he can't. You jest wake me up when we get to the depot." "Have no trouble about that," said Denton quickly. "I'll be sure to let you know." In less than five minutes the stranger was breathing heavily, his head thrown back and his eyes closed beneath the red handkerchief that covered his face. Denton looked at him with glittering eyes. "If I only had that diamond," he said to himself, "my fortune would be made. I'd realize on it and go to Europe till all was blown over." Everything seemed favorable to his purpose. First, he was in disguise. He would not easily be identified as the thief by anyone who noticed his present appearance, since he would, as soon as he reached Chicago, lay aside the glasses and the wig together. Again, the man was asleep and off his guard. True, it was open day, and there were twenty other passengers in the car at the very least. But Denton had experience. He had begun life as a pickpocket, though later he saw fit to direct his attention to gambling and other arts as, on the whole, a safer and more lucrative business. Denton riveted his eyes covetously on the captivating diamond. His fingers itched to get hold of it. Was it safe? A deep snore from the stout man seemed to answer him. "What a fool he is to leave such a jewel in open sight!" thought Denton. "He deserves to lose it." An adroit movement, quick as a flash, and the pin was in his possession. He timed the movement just as the cars reached a way station, and he instantly rose, with the intention of leaving the car. But he reckoned without his host. As he rose to his feet his companion dashed the handkerchief from his face, rose also, and clutched him by the arm. "Not so fast, Mr. Denton," he said, in a tone different from his former one. "You've made a little mistake." "Let go, then!" said Denton. "I am going to get out." "No, you are not. You are going back to Chicago as my prisoner." "Who are you?" demanded Denton, startled. The red-headed man laughed. "I am Pierce, the detective," he said. "We have long wanted to get hold of you, and I have succeeded at last, thanks to the diamond pin. By the way, the diamond is false--a capital imitation, but not worth over ten dollars. You may as well give it up." "Is this true?" asked Denton, his face showing his mortification. "You can rely upon it." "I'll buy it of you. I'll give you twenty dollars for it." "Too late, my man. You must go back with me as a prisoner. Suppose we take off our wigs. My hair is no more red than yours." He removed his wig, and now, in spite of his skin, which had been stained, Denton recognized in him a well-known detective, whose name was a terror to evil-doers. "It's all up, I suppose," he said bitterly. "I don't mind the arrest so much as the being fooled and duped." "It's diamond cut diamond--ha! ha!" said the detective--"or, we'll say, red-head _versus_ red-head." When Denton reached Chicago he became a guest of the city--an honor he would have been glad to decline. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE MEETING AT LINCOLN PARK. For weeks Oliver and his mother had lived in the same city, yet never met. Each believed the other to be dead; each had mourned for the other. No subtle instinct led either to doubt the truth of the sad reports which, for base ends, Mr. Kenyon had caused to be circulated. But for her unhappy domestic troubles, Mrs. Conrad (for she had assumed the name of her first husband) was happily situated. Mrs. Graham was bound to her by the devoted care which she had taken of the little Florette. Indeed, the bereaved woman had come to love the little girl almost as if she were her own, and had voluntarily assumed the constant care of her, though regarded as a guest in the house. Mr. Graham was very wealthy, and his house, situated on the Boulevard, was as attractive as elegance and taste, unhampered by a regard for expense, could make it. A spacious, well-appointed chamber was assigned to Mrs. Conrad, and she lived in a style superior to which she had been accustomed. Surely it was a fortunate haven into which her storm-tossed bark had drifted. If happiness could be secured by comfort or luxury, then she would have been happy. But neither comfort nor luxury can satisfy the heart, and it was the heart which, in her case, had suffered a severe wound. One day, as Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Conrad sat together, the little Florette in the arms of the latter, Mrs. Graham said: "I am afraid you let that child burden you, Mrs. Conrad. She never gives you a moment to yourself." Mrs. Conrad smiled sadly. "I don't wish to have a moment to myself. When I am alone, and with nothing to occupy me, I give myself up to sad thoughts of the happiness I once enjoyed." "I understand," said Mrs. Graham gently, for she was familiar with Mrs. Conrad's story. "I can understand what it must be to lose a cherished son." "If he had only been spared to me I believe I could bear without a murmur the loss of fortune, and live contentedly in the deepest poverty." "No doubt; but would that be necessary? Certainly your husband has no claim to the fortune, which he withholds from you." "I suppose not." "If you should make the effort you could doubtless get it back." "Probably I could." "You had better let me ask Mr. Graham to select a reliable lawyer whom you could consult with reference to it." Mrs. Conrad shook her head. "Let him have it," she said. "I care nothing for money. As long as you, my dear friend, are content to give me a home I am happier here than I could be with him." "My dear Mrs. Conrad, it would indeed grieve me if anything should take you from us, even if to your own advantage. You see how selfish I am? But I can't bear to think that that brutal husband of yours is enjoying your money, and thus reaping the benefit of his bad deeds." "Sometimes I feel so," Mrs. Conrad admitted. "If Oliver were alive I should feel more like asserting my rights, but now all ambition has left me. If I should institute proceedings I should be compelled to return to New York, where everything would remind me of my sad loss. No, my dear friend, your advice is no doubt meant for the best, but I prefer to leave Mr. Kenyon in ignorance of my whereabouts and to keep away from his vicinity. You don't want me to go away, Florette, do you?" "Don't doe away," pleaded the little girl, putting her arms round Mrs. Conrad's neck. "You little darling!" said Mrs. Conrad, returning the embrace. "I have something to live for while you love me." "I love you so much," said the child. "I don't know but what I shall become jealous," said Mrs. Graham playfully. "Go and tell your mamma that you love her best," said Mrs. Conrad. She felt that a mother's claim was first, beyond all others. Nothing would have induced her to come between Florette and the affection which she owed to her mother. Little Florette ran to her mother and climbed in her lap. "I love you best, mamma," she said, "but I love my other mamma, too." "And quite right, my dear child," said Mrs. Graham, with a bright smile. "It was but in jest, Mrs. Conrad. No mother who deserves her child's love need fear rivalry. Florette's heart is large enough and warm enough to love us both." Mrs. Conrad rejoiced in the liberty to love Florette and to be loved by her, and if ever she forgot her special cause of sorrow it was when she had the little girl in her arms. "I have a favor to ask of you, Mrs. Conrad," said Mrs. Graham, a little later. "It is granted already." "This afternoon I want to pay some calls. Will you be willing to go out with Florette?" "Most certainly. I shall be glad to do so." "I am sorry I cannot place the carriage at your disposal, as I should like to use it myself." "Oh, we can manage without it. Can't we, Florette?" "Let us yide in the horse-cars," said the little girl. "I like to yide in the cars better than in mamma's carriage." "It shall be as you like, Florette," said Mrs. Conrad. Florette clapped her little hands. Accustomed to ride in the carriage, it was a change and variety to her to ride in the more democratic conveyance, the people's carriage. Mrs. Conrad, intent on amusing her little charge, decided to take her to Lincoln Park, in the northern division of the city. This is a beautiful pleasure-ground, comprising over two hundred acres, with fine trees, miniature lakes and streams, and is a favorite resort for children and their guardians, especially on Saturday afternoons, when there are open-air concerts. It was a bright, sunny day, and even Mrs. Conrad felt her spirits enlivened as she descended from the cars, and, entering the park, mingled with the gay throngs who were giving themselves up to enjoyment. Little Florette wanted to go to the lake, and her companion yielded to her request. It was early autumn. The trees had lost none of their full, rich foliage, and the lawns were covered with soft verdure. Little Florette laughed and clapped her hands with childish hilarity. Mrs. Conrad sat down on the grass, while Florette ran hither and thither as caprice dictated. "Don't go far away, Florette," said Mrs. Conrad. "No, I won't," said the child. But a child's promises are soon forgotten. She ran to the lake, and while standing on the brink managed to tumble in. It was not deep, yet for a little child there was danger. Florette screamed, and Mrs. Conrad, hearing her cry, sprang to her feet in dismay. But Florette found a helper. Oliver had strayed out to Lincoln Park like the rest in search of enjoyment, and was standing close at hand when the little girl fell into the lake. It was the work of an instant to plunge in and rescue the little girl. Then he looked about to find out to whom he should yield her up. His eyes fell upon Mrs. Conrad hastening to her young charge. As yet she had not noticed Oliver. She only saw Florette. Oliver's heart gave a great bound. Could it be his mother--his mother whom he believed dead--or was it only a wonderful resemblance? "Mother!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. At that word Mrs. Conrad turned her eyes upon him. She, too, was amazed, and something of awe crept over her as she looked upon one whom she thought a tenant of the tomb. "Oliver!" she said wistfully, and in an instant he was folded in her arms. "Then it is you, mother, and you are not dead!" exclaimed Oliver joyfully, kissing her. "Did you think me dead, then? Mr. Kenyon wrote me that you were dead." "Mr. Kenyon is a scoundrel, mother; but I can forgive him--I can forgive everybody, since you are alive." "God is indeed good to me. I will never murmur again," ejaculated Mrs. Conrad, with heartfelt gratitude. "But, mother, I don't understand. How came you here--in Chicago?" "Come home with me, Oliver, and you shall hear. My little Florette's clothes are wet, and I must take her home immediately." A cab was hired, for delay might be dangerous. On the way Mrs. Conrad and Oliver exchanged confidences. Oliver's anger was deeply stirred by the story of his mother's incarceration in a mad-house. "I take back what I said. I won't forgive Mr. Kenyon after that!" he said. "He shall bitterly repent what he has done!" CHAPTER XXXIX. THE COMMON ENEMY. Mrs. Graham heartily sympathized in the joy of the mother and son, who, parted by death, as each supposed, had come together so strangely. "You look ten years younger, Mrs. Conrad," she declared. "I never saw such a transformation." "It is joy that has done it, my dear friend. I was as one without hope or object in life. Now I have both." "Your husband has your fortune yet." "I care not for that. Oliver is more to me than money." "Thank you, mother," said Oliver; "but we must be practical, too. I have learned that money is a good thing to have. Mr. Kenyon has been led to wrong us, and make us unhappy, by his greed for money. We will punish him by depriving him of it." "I quite agree with you, Oliver," said Mr. Graham, who was present. "Your step-father should be punished in the way he will feel it the most." "What course would you advise me to pursue, Mr. Graham?" asked Oliver. "I am not prepared with an immediate answer. We will speak of it to-morrow." Learning how much kindness Oliver had received from Nicholas Bundy, Mrs. Conrad invited him to bring his friend with him in the evening, and the invitation was cordially seconded by Mr. Graham. Nicholas was overjoyed to hear of the good fortune of Oliver, but hesitated at first to accept the invitation. "I'm a rough backwoodsman, Oliver," he said. "In my early life I was not so much a stranger to society, but now I shan't know how to behave." "You underrate yourself, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "I can promise you won't feel awkward in my mother's society, and Mrs. Graham is very much like her." Nicholas looked doubtful. "You judge me by yourself, my boy," he answered. "Boys adapt themselves to ladies' society easy, but I'm an old crooked stick that don't lay straight with the rest of the pile." "I don't care what you are, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver, with playful imperiousness; "my mother wants to see you, and come you must!" Nicholas Bundy laughed. "Well, Oliver," he said, "things seem turned round, and you have become my guardian. Well, if it must be, it must, but I'm afraid you'll be ashamed of me." "If I am, Mr. Bundy, set me down as a conceited puppy," said Oliver warmly. "Haven't you been my kind and constant friend?" Nicholas looked pleased at Oliver's warm-hearted persistence. "I'll go, Oliver," he said. "Come to think of it, I should like to see your mother." When Nicholas and Oliver entered the elegant Graham mansion, the former looked a little uneasy, but his countenance lighted up when Mrs. Conrad, her face genial with smiles, thanked him warmly for his kindness to her boy. "I couldn't help it, ma'am," he said. "I've got nobody to care for except him, and I hope you'll let me look after him a little still." "I shall never wish to come between you, Mr. Bundy. I am glad that he has found in you a kind and faithful friend. His step-father, as you know, has been his worst enemy and mine. I hoped he would prove a kind and faithful guardian to my boy, but I have been bitterly disappointed." "He's a regular scamp, as far as I can learn," said Nicholas bluntly. "You haven't got a picture of him, have you? I should like to know how the villain looks." "I have," said Oliver. "This morning, in looking over my carpet-bag, I found an inner pocket, in which was a photograph of Mr. Kenyon. I believe Roland once used the bag, and in that way probably it got in." "Have you the picture here?" asked Mr. Bundy. "Here it is," answered Oliver, drawing it from his pocket. Nicholas took it, and as he examined it his face wore a look of amazement. "Who did you say this was?" he asked. "Mr. Kenyon." "Your step-father?" "Yes." "It is very singular," he remarked, in an undertone, his face still wearing the same look of wonder. "What is very singular, Mr. Bundy?" Oliver asked curiously. "I'll tell you," answered Nicholas Bundy slowly. "This picture, which you say is the picture of your step-father, is the picture of Rupert Jones, my early enemy." Both Oliver and his mother uttered exclamations of surprise. "Can this be true, Mr. Bundy?" "There is no doubt about it, ma'am. It is a face I can never forget. There is the same foxy look about the eyes--the same treacherous smile. I should know that face anywhere, and I would swear to it in any court in the United States." "But the name! My step-father's name is Kenyon." "Names are easily changed, Oliver, my boy. The man's real name is Rupert Jones. I don't care what he calls himself now. He's misused us all. He's been my worst enemy, as well as yours, ma'am, and yours, Oliver. Now, I move we both join forces and punish him." "There's my hand, Mr. Bundy," said Oliver. "He's your husband, ma'am," said Nicholas, "What do you say?" "I was mad to marry him; I will never live with him again. I am out of patience with myself when I think that through my means I have brought misfortune upon my son." "I don't look upon it just that way, ma'am," said Bundy. "But for that, I might never have met Oliver or you, and that would have been a great misfortune. He's played a desperate game, but we've got the trump cards in our hand, and we'll take his tricks." "I fear that he may harm you," said Mrs. Conrad. "He is a bad man." "That is true enough, but I think I shall prove a match for him. I've got a little document in my pocket which I think will check-mate him." "What is that?" "A note which he has forged. I picked it up at Kelso." The next day a consultation was held, and it was decided that Oliver and his mother and Mr. Bundy should go on to New York at once, and that hostilities should be initiated against Mr. Kenyon. During the day a note was received from the city prison, to this effect: I have a secret of importance to your young friend, to divulge. Come and see me. DENTON. "Shall you go, Mr. Bundy?" asked Oliver. "Certainly. It is worth while to strengthen our evidence as much as possible." "May I go with you?" "I wish you would. You are the most interested, and it is proper that you should be present." There was no opposition made on the part of the authorities, and Oliver and Mr. Bundy were introduced into the presence of the prisoner. Denton smiled. "You see I'm hauled up for moral repairs," he said coolly. "Well, it's my luck." "Did you have a pleasant return from Kelso, Mr. Denton?" asked Oliver. "So you recognized me?" "Yes, in spite of your red wig!" "Someone else recognized me, too--a detective. That is why I am here. But let us proceed to business." "Go on." "I can give you information of importance touching this boy's step-father." "Perhaps we know it already." "It is hardly likely. His name is not Kenyon. I can tell you his real name." "It is Rupert Jones," said Bundy. "Where the deuce did you learn that?" asked Denton, astonished. "I recognized his picture. Is that all you have to tell us?" "No. I have been in his employ. As his agent, I dogged you." "Prove that to us, and we will give you a hundred dollars." "Make it a hundred and fifty." "Done!" Denton placed in the hands of Nicholas Bundy his letters of instruction from Mr. Kenyon. "They will help our case," said Nicholas. "I think we shall be able to bring our common enemy to terms." CHAPTER XL. THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS. Mr. Kenyon returned from the South baffled in his enquiries about his wife. Henceforth his life was one unceasing anxiety. He had pretended that his wife was dead, and she might at any time return alive to the village. This would place him in a very disagreeable position. He might, indeed, say that she was insane, and that he had been compelled to place her in an asylum. But everybody would ask: "Why did you not say this before? Why report that your wife was dead?" and he would be unprepared with an answer. Indeed, he feared that the discovery of his conduct would make him legally liable to an unpleasant extent. We already know that he had employed Denton to dog the steps of Oliver and Bundy. All at once Denton ceased to communicate with him. For five days not a word had come to him from Chicago. He naturally felt disturbed. "What has got into Denton? Why doesn't he write to me? Can he have betrayed me?" This is what he said to himself one morning as he sat at his desk in the house which had once been his wife's. "If I could only sell this place even at a sacrifice, I would go to Europe, taking Roland with me," he muttered. "Even as it is, perhaps it will be as well." Mr. Kenyon looked at the morning paper, searching for the advertisement of the Cunard Line. "A steamer sails on Saturday," he read, "and it is now Tuesday. I will go to the city to-morrow and engage passage. In Europe I shall be safe. Then if my wife turns up I need not fear her." At this point a servant--one recently engaged--came to the door of his room and informed him that a gentleman wished to see him. "Do you know who it is?" he enquired. "No, sir. I never saw him before." "Bring him up, then; or, stay--is he in the parlor?" "Yes, sir." "I will see him there." Mr. Kenyon came downstairs quite unprepared for the visitor who awaited him. He started back when his glance fell on Oliver. "Why do you come here?" he demanded with a frown. "That is a strange question to ask, Mr. Kenyon. This is the house where I was born. It was built by my father. It ought to be mine." "Indeed!" answered Kenyon, with a sneer. "You know it as well as I do, sir." "I know that the place is mine, and that you are an intruder." "Upon what do you rest your claim, Mr. Kenyon?" asked our hero. "Upon your mother's will, as you know very well." "I don't believe that my mother would make a will depriving me of my rightful inheritance." "I care very little what you believe. The will has been admitted to probate and is in force. I don't think it will do you any good to dispute it." "Where did my mother die, Mr. Kenyon?" demanded Oliver, looking fixedly at his step-father. "Can he have met his mother?" thought Kenyon, momentarily disturbed. But he inwardly decided in the negative. Of course they might meet some day, but then he would be in Europe and out of harm's reach. "You know very well where she died." "Do you object to tell me?" "I object to answering foolish questions. What is your motive in reviving this melancholy subject?" "I want to ask you to have my mother's remains brought to this town and laid beside the body of my father in our family tomb." "He is still in the dark!" thought Mr. Kenyon. "Impossible!" he answered. "That's true enough," thought Oliver. "Have you any other business?" asked his step-father. "I wish you to give me a fair portion of the property which my mother left." Mr. Kenyon smiled disagreeably. He felt his power. "Really, your request is very modest," he answered, "but it can't be complied with." "Mr. Kenyon, do you think it right to deprive me of all share in my father's property?" "You have forfeited it by your misconduct," said his step-father decisively. Just then the door opened, and Roland entered. "Has he come back?" he demanded disagreeably. "He has favored us with a call, Roland," said Mr. Kenyon. "He thought we might be glad to see him." "I wonder he has the face to show himself in this house," said Roland. "Why?" asked Oliver. "Oh, you know why well enough. You are a common thief." "Roland Kenyon, you will see the time when you will regret that insult, and that very soon," said Oliver, with honest indignation. "Oh, shall I? I'm not afraid of you," retorted Roland. "I permit no threats here," said Mr. Kenyon angrily. "He is safe for the present," said Oliver. "Thank you for nothing," said Roland. "Father, how long are you going to let him stay in the house?" "That is not for your father to say, Roland," said Oliver coolly. "What do you mean, you young reprobate?" demanded the step-father angrily. "If you have come here to make a disturbance, you have come to the wrong place, and selected the wrong man. Will you oblige me by leaving the house?" Oliver sat near the window. He saw, though neither of the others did, that a carriage stood at the gate, and that Nicholas Bundy and a New York lawyer were descending from it. The time had now come for a change of tone. "Mr. Kenyon," he said, "My answer is briefly that this house is not yours. I have a better right here than you." "This insolence is a little too much!" exclaimed his step-father, pale with passion. "Leave this house instantly or I will have you put out!" Before there could be an answer the bell rang. Mr. Kenyon put a restraint on himself. "Go out at once," he said, "I have other visitors who require my attention." The door opened, and the lawyer and Mr. Bundy were admitted. To Mr. Kenyon's surprise both nodded to Oliver. It was revealed to him that they were his friends. "Gentlemen," he said, with less courtesy than he would otherwise have shown, "I do not know you. I am occupied, and cannot spare you any time this morning." "We cannot excuse you, Mr. Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy. "We come here as the friends of this boy, your step-son. My companion is Mr. Brief, a lawyer, and my name is Bundy--Nicholas Bundy." Mr. Kenyon winced at this name. "I don't understand you," he said. "We have no business together. I must request you to excuse me." "Plain words are best," said the lawyer. "Mr. Kenyon, I am authorized to demand your instant relinquishment of the property and estates of the late Mr. Conrad." "In whose favor?" asked Mr. Kenyon, whose manner betrayed agitation. "In favor of Oliver Conrad and his mother." "His mother is dead!" said Kenyon nervously; "and by her will the property is mine." "The will is a forgery." "Take care what you say, sir. I require you to prove it." "I shall prove it by Mrs. Conrad herself." As he spoke, Mrs. Conrad, who had been in the carriage, entered the room. She never spoke to her husband, but sat down quietly, while Roland stared at her, open-mouthed, as at one from the grave. "Father," he exclaimed, "didn't you tell me she was dead?" "She never died, but was incarcerated by your father in an insane asylum, while he forged a will bequeathing him the property," said the lawyer. "Well, Mr. Kenyon, what have you to say?" "Gentlemen, the game is up," said Kenyon sullenly. "I played for high stakes, and have lost. That's all." "You have placed yourself in the power of the wife you have wronged. You could be indicted for forgery and conspiracy. Do you admit that?" "I suppose I must." "What have you to say why we should not so proceed?" "Spare me, and I will go away and trouble you no more." "First, you must render an account of the property in your possession, and make an absolute surrender of it all." "Would you leave me a beggar?" asked Kenyon, in a tone of anguish. "If so, we should only treat you as you treated your step-son. But my client is merciful. She is willing to allow you and your son an annuity of five hundred dollars each, on condition that you leave this neighborhood and do not return to it." "It is small, but I accept," said Mr. Kenyon sullenly. "For your own good, I advise you to go to-day, before your treatment of your wife becomes known in the village," said Mr. Brief. "Call at my office in the city, and business arrangements can be made there." "I am willing," said Kenyon. "Wait a minute, Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy, "I've got a word of advice. Don't go to Kelso, in Indiana." "Why not?" asked Kenyon mechanically. "Because you look so much like a certain Rupert Jones, who once flourished and forged there, that there might be trouble. I used to know Rupert Jones myself, and he did me an injury. You remember that. I have wanted to be revenged for years, but I am satisfied now. Once you were up and I was down. Now it's the other way. I am rich, and when I die, that boy"--pointing to Oliver--"is my heir." Roland looked as if a thunderbolt had fallen. He had never been aware of his father's perfidy before. He had himself acted meanly, but at that moment Oliver pitied him. "Roland," said he, "I once thought I should enjoy this moment, but I don't. I wish you good luck. Will you take my hand?" Roland's thin lips compressed. He hesitated, but hate prevailed. "No," he answered. "I won't take your hand. I hate you!" "I am sorry for it," said Oliver. "I am glad you won't be unprovided for, and won't suffer. If ever you feel differently, come to me." Mr. Kenyon and Roland left the house together, and took the first train for the city. They called at the office of Mr. Brief, and the final arrangements were concluded. Oliver and his mother came back to their own, and Nicholas Bundy came to live with them. Oliver concluded his preparations for college, where in due time he graduated. Three years later Mr. Kenyon died, by a strange coincidence, in an insane asylum. Then Roland, chastened by suffering and privation, for his father had squandered their joint allowance on drink, and many times he had fasted for twenty-four hours together, came back to his old home, and sought a reconciliation with those he had once hated. He was generously received, a mercantile position was found for him, his old allowance was doubled, and he grew to like Oliver as much as he had once detested him. If Mrs. Conrad is ever married again it will be to Mr. Bundy, who is her devoted admirer. Oliver has decided to become a lawyer. If he carries out his purpose, he will always be ready to champion the cause of the poor and the oppressed. He is engaged to Carrie Dudley, and the wedding will take place immediately after he is admitted to the bar. The clouds are dispersed, and henceforth, we may hope, his pathway will be lighted by sunshine to THE END. HORATIO ALGER, JR. The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true, what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr. Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear. Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book, "Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000 copies of the series have been sold. --"Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls." A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A boy's heart opens to the man or writer who understands him. --From "Writing Stories for Boys," by Horatio Alger, Jr. RAGGED DICK SERIES. 6 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $6.00 Ragged Dick. Fame and Fortune. Mark the Match Boy. Rough and Ready. Ben the Luggage Boy. Rufus and Rose. TATTERED TOM SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Tattered Tom. Paul the Peddler. Phil the Fiddler. Slow and Sure. TATTERED TOM SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Julius. The Young Outlaw. Sam's Chance. The Telegraph Boy. CAMPAIGN SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Frank's Campaign. Paul Prescott's Charge. Charlie Codman's Cruise. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--First Series. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Luck and Pluck. Sink or Swim. Strong and Steady. Strive and Succeed. LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--Second Series. 4 vols. $4.00 Try and Trust. Bound to Rise. Risen from the Ranks. Herbert Carter's Legacy. BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES. 4 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $4.00 Brave and Bold. Jack's Ward. Shifting for Himself. Wait and Hope. VICTORY SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Only an Irish Boy. Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary. Adrift in the City. FRANK AND FEARLESS SERIES. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Frank Hunter's Peril. The Young Salesman. Frank and Fearless. GOOD FORTUNE LIBRARY. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Walter Sherwood's Probation. The Young Bank Messenger. A Boy's Fortune. HOW TO RISE LIBRARY. 3 vols. By Horatio Alger, Jr. $3.00 Jed, the Poorhouse Boy. Lester's Luck. Rupert's Ambition. COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late _Our Young Folks_, and continued in the first volume of _St. Nicholas_, under the title of "Fast Friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time. Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable, Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The picture of Mr. Dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little Stephen Treadwell, "Step Hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_Scribner's Monthly._ JACK HAZARD SERIES. 6 vols. By J. T. TROWBRIDGE $7.25 Jack Hazard and His Fortunes. The Young Surveyor. Fast Friends. Doing His Best. A Chance for Himself. Lawrence's Adventures. CHARLES ASBURY STEPHENS. This author wrote his "Camping Out Series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "We do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_Worcester Spy._ "The author of the Camping Out Series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_Buffalo Courier._ CAMPING OUT SERIES. By C. A. STEPHENS. All books in this series are 12mo. with eight full page illustrations. Cloth, extra, 75 cents. CAMPING OUT. As Recorded by "Kit." "This book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_The Christian Register_, Boston. LEFT ON LABRADOR; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE SCHOONER YACHT "CURLEW." As Recorded by "Wash." "The perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_New Bedford Mercury._ OFF TO THE GEYSERS; OR THE YOUNG YACHTERS IN ICELAND. As Recorded by "Wade." "It is difficult to believe that Wade and Read and Kit and Wash were not live boys, sailing up Hudson Straits, and reigning temporarily over an Esquimaux tribe."--_The Independent_, New York. LYNX HUNTING: From Notes by the Author of "Camping Out." "Of _first quality_ as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_Richmond Enquirer._ FOX HUNTING. As Recorded by "Read." "The most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. It overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_Boston Gazette._ ON THE AMAZON; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE "RAMBLER." As Recorded by "Wash." "Gives vivid pictures of Brazilian adventure and scenery."--_Buffalo Courier._ THE RENOWNED STANDARD JUVENILES BY EDWARD S. ELLIS Edward S. Ellis is regarded as the later day Cooper. His books will always be read for the accurate pen pictures of pioneer life they portray. LIST OF TITLES DEERFOOT SERIES Hunters of the Ozark. The Last War Trail. Camp in the Mountains. LOG CABIN SERIES Lost Trail. Footprints in the Forest. Camp Fire and Wigwam. BOY PIONEER SERIES Ned in the Block-House. Ned on the River. Ned in the Woods. THE NORTHWEST SERIES Two Boys in Wyoming. Cowmen and Rustlers. A Strange Craft and Its Wonderful Voyage. BOONE AND KENTON SERIES Shod with Silence. In the Days of the Pioneers. Phantom of the River. WAR CHIEF SERIES Red Eagle. Blazing Arrow. Iron Heart, War Chief of the Iroquois. THE NEW DEERFOOT SERIES Deerfoot in the Forest. Deerfoot on the Prairie. Deerfoot in the Mountains. TRUE GRIT SERIES Jim and Joe. Dorsey, the Young Inventor. Secret of Coffin Island. GREAT AMERICAN SERIES Teddy and Towser; or, Early Days in California. Up the Forked River. COLONIAL SERIES An American King. The Cromwell of Virginia. The Last Emperor of the Old Dominion. FOREIGN ADVENTURE SERIES Lost in the Forbidden Land. River and Jungle. The Hunt of the White Elephant. PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE SERIES The Forest Messengers. The Mountain Star. Queen of the Clouds. ARIZONA SERIES Off the Reservation; or, Caught in an Apache Raid. Trailing Geronimo; or, Campaigning with Crook. The Round-Up; or, Geronimo's Last Raid. OTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION PRICE $1.00 PER VOLUME Sold separately and in set Complete Catalogue of Famous Alger Books, Celebrated Castlemon Books and Renowned Ellis Books mailed on application. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA. Transcriber's Notes Italics are denoted by _underscore_. Minor punctuation errors corrected: added several periods, removed extraneous quotes. Occasional inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained. A few instances of exclamation points at the end of questions have been retained. P41: "immiment" corrected to "imminent" P93: "loyality" corrected to "loyalty" P187: added "you": "I hope you are well, Carrie" P214: duplicated word removed 'was' P254: "gnardian" replaced with "guardian" P285: "power?": corrected to "power!" P289: "Gave a thousand dollars for it?" corrected to "Gave a thousand dollars for it!" P289: Speech marks removed from "And two thousand..." and "He doesn't know....", retained around "How long have you had it?" 
21847	----	Transcriber's note: This e-text was taken from the first edition of this novel and attempts to reproduce the original spelling, punctuation etc. Some corrections have been made--a complete list of changes and items to note is at the end of the e-text. Two words in the text contain an oe-ligature, indicated in this e-text by [oe]. The Table of Contents of Volume II is located at the beginning of that volume. DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. A Novel. BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I. London: Chapman and Hall, Limited, 193, Piccadilly. 1881. London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers, Bread Street Hill. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. PART I. CHAPTER I. DR. WORTLE CHAPTER II. THE NEW USHER CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY PART II. CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION CHAPTER V. "THEN WE MUST GO" CHAPTER VI. LORD CARSTAIRS PART III. CHAPTER VII. ROBERT LEFROY CHAPTER VIII. THE STORY IS TOLD CHAPTER IX. MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE PART IV. CHAPTER X. MR. PEACOCKE GOES CHAPTER XI. THE BISHOP CHAPTER XII. THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. PART I. CHAPTER I. DR. WORTLE. THE Rev. Jeffrey Wortle, D.D., was a man much esteemed by others,--and by himself. He combined two professions, in both of which he had been successful,--had been, and continued to be, at the time in which we speak of him. I will introduce him to the reader in the present tense as Rector of Bowick, and proprietor and head-master of the school established in the village of that name. The seminary at Bowick had for some time enjoyed a reputation under him;--not that he had ever himself used so new-fangled and unpalatable a word in speaking of his school. Bowick School had been established by himself as preparatory to Eton. Dr. Wortle had been elected to an assistant-mastership at Eton early in life soon after he had become a Fellow of Exeter. There he had worked successfully for ten years, and had then retired to the living of Bowick. On going there he had determined to occupy his leisure, and if possible to make his fortune, by taking a few boys into his house. By dint of charging high prices and giving good food,--perhaps in part, also, by the quality of the education which he imparted,--his establishment had become popular and had outgrown the capacity of the parsonage. He had been enabled to purchase a field or two close abutting on the glebe gardens, and had there built convenient premises. He now limited his number to thirty boys, for each of which he charged £200 a-year. It was said of him by his friends that if he would only raise his price to £250, he might double the number, and really make a fortune. In answer to this, he told his friends that he knew his own business best;--he declared that his charge was the only sum that was compatible both with regard to himself and honesty to his customers, and asserted that the labours he endured were already quite heavy enough. In fact, he recommended all those who gave him advice to mind their own business. It may be said of him that he knew his own so well as to justify him in repudiating counsel from others. There are very different ideas of what "a fortune" may be supposed to consist. It will not be necessary to give Dr. Wortle's exact idea. No doubt it changed with him, increasing as his money increased. But he was supposed to be a comfortable man. He paid ready money and high prices. He liked that people under him should thrive,--and he liked them to know that they throve by his means. He liked to be master, and always was. He was just, and liked his justice to be recognised. He was generous also, and liked that, too, to be known. He kept a carriage for his wife, who had been the daughter of a poor clergyman at Windsor, and was proud to see her as well dressed as the wife of any county squire. But he was a domineering husband. As his wife worshipped him, and regarded him as a Jupiter on earth from whose nod there could be and should be no appeal, but little harm came from this. If a tyrant, he was an affectionate tyrant. His wife felt him to be so. His servants, his parish, and his school all felt him to be so. They obeyed him, loved him, and believed in him. So, upon the whole, at the time with which we are dealing, did the diocese, the county, and that world of parents by whom the boys were sent to his school. But this had not come about without some hard fighting. He was over fifty years of age, and had been Rector of Bowick for nearly twenty. During that time there had been a succession of three bishops, and he had quarrelled more or less with all of them. It might be juster to say that they had all of them had more or less of occasion to find fault with him. Now Dr. Wortle,--or Mr. Wortle, as he should be called in reference to that period,--was a man who would bear censure from no human being. He had left his position at Eton because the Head-master had required from him some slight change of practice. There had been no quarrel on that occasion, but Mr. Wortle had gone. He at once commenced his school at Bowick, taking half-a-dozen pupils into his own house. The bishop of that day suggested that the cure of the souls of the parishioners of Bowick was being subordinated to the Latin and Greek of the sons of the nobility. The bishop got a response which gave an additional satisfaction to his speedy translation to a more comfortable diocese. Between the next bishop and Mr. Wortle there was, unfortunately, misunderstanding, and almost feud for the entire ten years during which his lordship reigned in the Palace of Broughton. This Bishop of Broughton had been one of that large batch of Low Church prelates who were brought forward under Lord Palmerston. Among them there was none more low, more pious, more sincere, or more given to interference. To teach Mr. Wortle his duty as a parish clergyman was evidently a necessity to such a bishop. To repudiate any such teaching was evidently a necessity to Mr. Wortle. Consequently there were differences, in all of which Mr. Wortle carried his own. What the good bishop suffered no one probably knew except his wife and his domestic chaplain. What Mr. Wortle enjoyed,--or Dr. Wortle, as he came to be called about this time,--was patent to all the county and all the diocese. The sufferer died, not, let us hope, by means of the Doctor; and then came the third bishop. He, too, had found himself obliged to say a word. He was a man of the world,--wise, prudent, not given to interference or fault-finding, friendly by nature, one who altogether hated a quarrel, a bishop beyond all things determined to be the friend of his clergymen;--and yet he thought himself obliged to say a word. There were matters in which Dr. Wortle affected a peculiarly anti-clerical mode of expression, if not of feeling. He had been foolish enough to declare openly that he was in search of a curate who should have none of the "grace of godliness" about him. He was wont to ridicule the piety of young men who devoted themselves entirely to their religious offices. In a letter which he wrote he spoke of one youthful divine as "a conceited ass who had preached for forty minutes." He not only disliked, but openly ridiculed all signs of a special pietistic bearing. It was said of him that he had been heard to swear. There can be no doubt that he made himself wilfully distasteful to many of his stricter brethren. Then it came to pass that there was a correspondence between him and the bishop as to that outspoken desire of his for a curate without the grace of godliness. But even here Dr. Wortle was successful. The management of his parish was pre-eminently good. The parish school was a model. The farmers went to church. Dissenters there were none. The people of Bowick believed thoroughly in their parson, and knew the comfort of having an open-handed, well-to-do gentleman in the village. This third episcopal difficulty did not endure long. Dr. Wortle knew his man, and was willing enough to be on good terms with his bishop so long as he was allowed to be in all things his own master. There had, too, been some fighting between Dr. Wortle and the world about his school. He was, as I have said, a thoroughly generous man, but he required, himself, to be treated with generosity. Any question as to the charges made by him as schoolmaster was unendurable. He explained to all parents that he charged for each boy at the rate of two hundred a-year for board, lodging, and tuition, and that anything required for a boy's benefit or comfort beyond that ordinarily supplied would be charged for as an extra at such price as Dr. Wortle himself thought to be an equivalent. Now the popularity of his establishment no doubt depended in a great degree on the sufficiency and comfort of the good things of the world which he provided. The beer was of the best; the boys were not made to eat fat; their taste in the selection of joints was consulted. The morning coffee was excellent. The cook was a great adept at cakes and puddings. The Doctor would not himself have been satisfied unless everything had been plentiful, and everything of the best. He would have hated a butcher who had attempted to seduce him with meat beneath the usual price. But when he had supplied that which was sufficient according to his own liberal ideas, he did not give more without charging for it. Among his customers there had been a certain Honourable Mr. Stantiloup, and,--which had been more important,--an Honourable Mrs. Stantiloup. Mrs. Stantiloup was a lady who liked all the best things which the world could supply, but hardly liked paying the best price. Dr. Wortle's school was the best thing the world could supply of that kind, but then the price was certainly the very best. Young Stantiloup was only eleven, and as there were boys at Bowick as old as seventeen,--for the school had not altogether maintained its old character as being merely preparatory,--Mrs. Stantiloup had thought that her boy should be admitted at a lower fee. The correspondence which had ensued had been unpleasant. Then young Stantiloup had had the influenza, and Mrs. Stantiloup had sent her own doctor. Champagne had been ordered, and carriage exercise. Mr. Stantiloup had been forced by his wife to refuse to pay sums demanded for these undoubted extras. Ten shillings a-day for a drive for a little boy seemed to her a great deal,--seemed so to Mrs. Stantiloup. Ought not the Doctor's wife to have been proud to take out her little boy in her own carriage? And then £2 10_s_. for champagne for the little boy! It was monstrous. Mr. Stantiloup remonstrated. Dr. Wortle said that the little boy had better be taken away and the bill paid at once. The little boy was taken away and the money was offered, short of £5. The matter was instantly put into the hands of the Doctor's lawyer, and a suit commenced. The Doctor, of course, got his money, and then there followed an acrimonious correspondence in the "Times" and other newspapers. Mrs. Stantiloup did her best to ruin the school, and many very eloquent passages were written not only by her or by her own special scribe, but by others who took the matter up, to prove that two hundred a-year was a great deal more than ought to be paid for the charge of a little boy during three quarters of the year. But in the course of the next twelve months Dr. Wortle was obliged to refuse admittance to a dozen eligible pupils because he had not room for them. No doubt he had suffered during these contests,--suffered, that is, in mind. There had been moments in which it seemed that the victory would be on the other side, that the forces congregated against him were too many for him, and that not being able to bend he would have to be broken; but in every case he had fought it out, and in every case he had conquered. He was now a prosperous man, who had achieved his own way, and had made all those connected with him feel that it was better to like him and obey him, than to dislike him and fight with him. His curates troubled him as little as possible with the grace of godliness, and threw off as far as they could that zeal which is so dear to the youthful mind but which so often seems to be weak and flabby to their elders. His ushers or assistants in the school fell in with his views implicitly, and were content to accept compensation in the shape of personal civilities. It was much better to go shares with the Doctor in a joke than to have to bear his hard words. It is chiefly in reference to one of these ushers that our story has to be told. But before we commence it, we must say a few more words as to the Doctor and his family. Of his wife I have already spoken. She was probably as happy a woman as you shall be likely to meet on a summer's day. She had good health, easy temper, pleasant friends, abundant means, and no ambition. She went nowhere without the Doctor, and whenever he went she enjoyed her share of the respect which was always shown to him. She had little or nothing to do with the school, the Doctor having many years ago resolved that though it became him as a man to work for his bread, his wife should not be a slave. When the battles had been going on,--those between the Doctor and the bishops, and the Doctor and Mrs. Stantiloup, and the Doctor and the newspapers,--she had for a while been unhappy. It had grieved her to have it insinuated that her husband was an atheist, and asserted that her husband was a cormorant; but his courage had sustained her, and his continual victories had taught her to believe at last that he was indomitable. They had one child, a daughter, Mary, of whom it was said in Bowick that she alone knew the length of the Doctor's foot. It certainly was so that, if Mrs. Wortle wished to have anything done which was a trifle beyond her own influence, she employed Mary. And if the boys collectively wanted to carry a point, they would "collectively" obtain Miss Wortle's aid. But all this the Doctor probably knew very well; and though he was often pleased to grant favours thus asked, he did so because he liked the granting of favours when they had been asked with a proper degree of care and attention. She was at the present time of the age in which fathers are apt to look upon their children as still children, while other men regard them as being grown-up young ladies. It was now June, and in the approaching August she would be eighteen. It was said of her that of the girls all round she was the prettiest; and indeed it would be hard to find a sweeter-favoured girl than Mary Wortle. Her father had been all his life a man noted for the manhood of his face. He had a broad forehead, with bright grey eyes,--eyes that had always a smile passing round them, though the smile would sometimes show that touch of irony which a smile may contain rather than the good-humour which it is ordinarily supposed to indicate. His nose was aquiline, not hooky like a true bird's-beak, but with that bend which seems to give to the human face the clearest indication of individual will. His mouth, for a man, was perhaps a little too small, but was admirably formed, as had been the chin with a deep dimple on it, which had now by the slow progress of many dinners become doubled in its folds. His hair had been chestnut, but dark in its hue. It had now become grey, but still with the shade of the chestnut through it here and there. He stood five feet ten in height, with small hands and feet. He was now perhaps somewhat stout, but was still as upright on his horse as ever, and as well able to ride to hounds for a few fields when by chance the hunt came in the way of Bowick. Such was the Doctor. Mrs. Wortle was a pretty little woman, now over forty years of age, of whom it was said that in her day she had been the beauty of Windsor and those parts. Mary Wortle took mostly after her father, being tall and comely, having especially her father's eyes; but still they who had known Mrs. Wortle as a girl declared that Mary had inherited also her mother's peculiar softness and complexion. For many years past none of the pupils had been received within the parsonage,--unless when received there as guests, which was of frequent occurrence. All belonging to the school was built outside the glebe land, as a quite separate establishment, with a door opening from the parsonage garden to the school-yard. Of this door the rule was that the Doctor and the gardener should have the only two keys; but the rule may be said to have become quite obsolete, as the door was never locked. Sometimes the bigger boys would come through unasked,--perhaps in search of a game of lawn-tennis with Miss Wortle, perhaps to ask some favour of Mrs. Wortle, who always was delighted to welcome them, perhaps even to seek the Doctor himself, who never on such occasions would ask how it came to pass that they were on that side of the wall. Sometimes Mrs. Wortle would send her housekeeper through for some of the little boys. It would then be a good time for the little boys. But this would generally be during the Doctor's absence. Here, on the school side of the wall, there was a separate establishment of servants, and a separate kitchen. There was no sending backwards or forwards of food or of clothes,--unless it might be when some special delicacy was sent in if a boy were unwell. For these no extra charge was ever made, as had been done in the case of young Stantiloup. Then a strange doctor had come, and had ordered the wine and the carriage. There was no extra charge for the kindly glasses of wine which used to be administered in quite sufficient plenty. Behind the school, and running down to the little river Pin, there is a spacious cricket-ground, and a court marked out for lawn-tennis. Up close to the school is a racket-court. No doubt a good deal was done to make the externals of the place alluring to those parents who love to think that their boys shall be made happy at school. Attached to the school, forming part of the building, is a pleasant, well-built residence, with six or eight rooms, intended for the senior or classical assistant-master. It had been the Doctor's scheme to find a married gentleman to occupy this house, whose wife should receive a separate salary for looking after the linen and acting as matron to the school,--doing what his wife did till he became successful,--while the husband should be in orders and take part of the church duties as a second curate. But there had been a difficulty in this. CHAPTER II. THE NEW USHER. THE Doctor had found it difficult to carry out the scheme described in the last chapter. They indeed who know anything of such matters will be inclined to call it Utopian, and to say that one so wise in worldly matters as our schoolmaster should not have attempted to combine so many things. He wanted a gentleman, a schoolmaster, a curate, a matron, and a lady,--we may say all in one. Curates and ushers are generally unmarried. An assistant schoolmaster is not often in orders, and sometimes is not a gentleman. A gentleman, when he is married, does not often wish to dispose of the services of his wife. A lady, when she has a husband, has generally sufficient duties of her own to employ her, without undertaking others. The scheme, if realised, would no doubt be excellent, but the difficulties were too many. The Stantiloups, who lived about twenty miles off, made fun of the Doctor and his project; and the Bishop was said to have expressed himself as afraid that he would not be able to license as curate any one selected as usher to the school. One attempt was made after another in vain;--but at last it was declared through the country far and wide that the Doctor had succeeded in this, as in every other enterprise that he had attempted. There had come a Rev. Mr. Peacocke and his wife. Six years since, Mr. Peacocke had been well known at Oxford as a Classic, and had become a Fellow of Trinity. Then he had taken orders, and had some time afterwards married, giving up his Fellowship as a matter of course. Mr. Peacocke, while living at Oxford, had been well known to a large Oxford circle, but he had suddenly disappeared from that world, and it had reached the ears of only a few of his more intimate friends that he had undertaken the duties of vice-president of a classical college at Saint Louis in the State of Missouri. Such a disruption as this was for a time complete; but after five years Mr. Peacocke appeared again at Oxford, with a beautiful American wife, and the necessity of earning an income by his erudition. It would at first have seemed very improbable that Dr. Wortle should have taken into his school or into his parish a gentleman who had chosen the United States as a field for his classical labours. The Doctor, whose mind was by no means logical, was a thoroughgoing Tory of the old school, and therefore considered himself bound to hate the name of a republic. He hated rolling stones, and Mr. Peacocke had certainly been a rolling stone. He loved Oxford with all his heart, and some years since had been heard to say hard things of Mr. Peacocke, when that gentleman deserted his college for the sake of establishing himself across the Atlantic. But he was one who thought that there should be a place of penitence allowed to those who had clearly repented of their errors; and, moreover, when he heard that Mr. Peacocke was endeavouring to establish himself in Oxford as a "coach" for undergraduates, and also that he was a married man without any encumbrance in the way of family, there seemed to him to be an additional reason for pardoning that American escapade. Circumstances brought the two men together. There were friends at Oxford who knew how anxious the Doctor was to carry out that plan of his in reference to an usher, a curate, and a matron, and here were the very things combined. Mr. Peacocke's scholarship and power of teaching were acknowledged; he was already in orders; and it was declared that Mrs. Peacocke was undoubtedly a lady. Many inquiries were made. Many meetings took place. Many difficulties arose. But at last Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke came to Bowick, and took up their abode in the school. All the Doctor's requirements were not at once fulfilled. Mrs. Peacocke's position was easily settled. Mrs. Peacocke, who seemed to be a woman possessed of sterling sense and great activity, undertook her duties without difficulty. But Mr. Peacocke would not at first consent to act as curate in the parish. He did, however, after a time perform a portion of the Sunday services. When he first came to Bowick he had declared that he would undertake no clerical duty. Education was his profession, and to that he meant to devote himself exclusively. Nor for the six or eight months of his sojourn did he go back from this; so that the Doctor may be said even still to have failed in carrying out his purpose. But at last the new schoolmaster appeared in the pulpit of the parish church and preached a sermon. All that had passed in private conference between the Doctor and his assistant on the subject need not here be related. Mr. Peacocke's aversion to do more than attend regularly at the church services as one of the parishioners had been very strong. The Doctor's anxiety to overcome his assistant's reasoning had also been strong. There had no doubt been much said between them. Mr. Peacocke had been true to his principles, whatever those principles were, in regard to his appointment as a curate,--but it came to pass that he for some months preached regularly every Sunday in the parish church, to the full satisfaction of the parishioners. For this he had accepted no payment, much to the Doctor's dissatisfaction. Nevertheless, it was certainly the case that they who served the Doctor gratuitously never came by the worse of the bargain. Mr. Peacocke was a small wiry man, anything but robust in appearance, but still capable of great bodily exertion. He was a great walker. Labour in the school never seemed to fatigue him. The addition of a sermon to preach every week seemed to make no difference to his energies in the school. He was a constant reader, and could pass from one kind of mental work to another without fatigue. The Doctor was a noted scholar, but it soon became manifest to the Doctor himself, and to the boys, that Mr. Peacocke was much deeper in scholarship than the Doctor. Though he was a poor man, his own small classical library was supposed to be a repository of all that was known about Latin and Greek. In fact, Mr. Peacocke grew to be a marvel; but of all the marvels about him, the thing most marvellous was the entire faith which the Doctor placed in him. Certain changes even were made in the old-established "curriculum" of tuition,--and were made, as all the boys supposed, by the advice of Mr. Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke was treated with a personal respect which almost seemed to imply that the two men were equal. This was supposed by the boys to come from the fact that both the Doctor and the assistant had been Fellows of their colleges at Oxford; but the parsons and other gentry around could see that there was more in it than that. Mr. Peacocke had some power about him which was potent over the Doctor's spirit. Mrs. Peacocke, in her line, succeeded almost as well. She was a woman something over thirty years of age when she first came to Bowick, in the very pride and bloom of woman's beauty. Her complexion was dark and brown,--so much so, that it was impossible to describe her colour generally by any other word. But no clearer skin was ever given to a woman. Her eyes were brown, and her eye-brows black, and perfectly regular. Her hair was dark and very glossy, and always dressed as simply as the nature of a woman's head will allow. Her features were regular, but with a great show of strength. She was tall for a woman, but without any of that look of length under which female altitude sometimes suffers. She was strong and well made, and apparently equal to any labour to which her position might subject her. When she had been at Bowick about three months, a boy's leg had been broken, and she had nursed him, not only with assiduity, but with great capacity. The boy was the youngest son of the Marchioness of Altamont; and when Lady Altamont paid a second visit to Bowick, for the sake of taking her boy home as soon as he was fit to be moved, her ladyship made a little mistake. With the sweetest and most caressing smile in the world, she offered Mrs. Peacocke a ten-pound note. "My dear madam," said Mrs. Peacocke, without the slightest reserve or difficulty, "it is so natural that you should do this, because you cannot of course understand my position; but it is altogether out of the question." The Marchioness blushed, and stammered, and begged a hundred pardons. Being a good-natured woman, she told the whole story to Mrs. Wortle. "I would just as soon have offered the money to the Marchioness herself," said Mrs. Wortle, as she told it to her husband. "I would have done it a deal sooner," said the Doctor. "I am not in the least afraid of Lady Altamont; but I stand in awful dread of Mrs. Peacocke." Nevertheless Mrs. Peacocke had done her work by the little lord's bed-side, just as though she had been a paid nurse. And so she felt herself to be. Nor was she in the least ashamed of her position in that respect. If there was aught of shame about her, as some people said, it certainly did not come from the fact that she was in the receipt of a salary for the performance of certain prescribed duties. Such remuneration was, she thought, as honourable as the Doctor's income; but to her American intelligence, the acceptance of a present of money from a Marchioness would have been a degradation. It certainly was said of her by some persons that there must have been something in her former life of which she was ashamed. The Honourable Mrs. Stantiloup, to whom all the affairs of Bowick had been of consequence since her husband had lost his lawsuit, and who had not only heard much, but had inquired far and near about Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke, declared diligently among her friends, with many nods and winks, that there was something "rotten in the state of Denmark." She did at first somewhat imprudently endeavour to spread a rumour abroad that the Doctor had become enslaved by the lady's beauty. But even those hostile to Bowick could not accept this. The Doctor certainly was not the man to put in jeopardy the respect of the world and his own standing for the beauty of any woman; and, moreover, the Doctor, as we have said before, was over fifty years of age. But there soon came up another ground on which calumny could found a story. It was certainly the case that Mrs. Peacocke had never accepted any hospitality from Mrs. Wortle or other ladies in the neighbourhood. It reached the ears of Mrs. Stantiloup, first, that the ladies had called upon each other, as ladies are wont to do who intend to cultivate a mutual personal acquaintance, and then that Mrs. Wortle had asked Mrs. Peacocke to dinner. But Mrs. Peacocke had refused not only that invitation, but subsequent invitations to the less ceremonious form of tea-drinking. All this had been true, and it had been true also,--though of this Mrs. Stantiloup had not heard the particulars,--that Mrs. Peacocke had explained to her neighbour that she did not intend to put herself on a visiting footing with any one. "But why not, my dear?" Mrs. Wortle had said, urged to the argument by precepts from her husband. "Why should you make yourself desolate here, when we shall be so glad to have you?" "It is part of my life that it must be so," Mrs. Peacocke had answered. "I am quite sure that the duties I have undertaken are becoming a lady; but I do not think that they are becoming to one who either gives or accepts entertainments." There had been something of the same kind between the Doctor and Mr. Peacocke. "Why the mischief shouldn't you and your wife come and eat a bit of mutton, and drink a glass of wine, over at the Rectory, like any other decent people?" I never believed that accusation against the Doctor in regard to swearing; but he was no doubt addicted to expletives in conversation, and might perhaps have indulged in a strong word or two, had he not been prevented by the sanctity of his orders. "Perhaps I ought to say," replied Mr. Peacocke, "because we are not like any other decent people." Then he went on to explain his meaning. Decent people, he thought, in regard to social intercourse, are those who are able to give and take with ease among each other. He had fallen into a position in which neither he nor his wife could give anything, and from which, though some might be willing to accept him, he would be accepted only, as it were, by special favour. "Bosh!" ejaculated the Doctor. Mr. Peacocke simply smiled. He said it might be bosh, but that even were he inclined to relax his own views, his wife would certainly not relax hers. So it came to pass that although the Doctor and Mr. Peacocke were really intimate, and that something of absolute friendship sprang up between the two ladies, when Mr. Peacocke had already been more than twelve months in Bowick neither had he nor Mrs. Peacocke broken bread in the Doctor's house. And yet the friendship had become strong. An incident had happened early in the year which had served greatly to strengthen it. At the school there was a little boy, just eleven years old, the only son of a Lady De Lawle, who had in early years been a dear friend to Mrs. Wortle. Lady De Lawle was the widow of a baronet, and the little boy was the heir to a large fortune. The mother had been most loath to part with her treasure. Friends, uncles, and trustees had declared that the old prescribed form of education for British aristocrats must be followed,--a t'other school, namely, then Eton, and then Oxford. No; his mother might not go with him, first to one, and then to the other. Such going and living with him would deprive his education of all the real salt. Therefore Bowick was chosen as the t'other school, because Mrs. Wortle would be more like a mother to the poor desolate boy than any other lady. So it was arranged, and the "poor desolate boy" became the happiest of the young pickles whom it was Mrs. Wortle's special province to spoil whenever she could get hold of them. Now it happened that on one beautiful afternoon towards the end of April, Mrs. Wortle had taken young De Lawle and another little boy with her over the foot-bridge which passed from the bottom of the parsonage garden to the glebe-meadow which ran on the other side of a little river, and with them had gone a great Newfoundland dog, who was on terms equally friendly with the inmates of the Rectory and the school. Where this bridge passed across the stream the gardens and the field were on the same level. But as the water ran down to the ground on which the school-buildings had been erected, there arose a steep bank over a bend in the river, or, rather, steep cliff; for, indeed, it was almost perpendicular, the force of the current as it turned at this spot having washed away the bank. In this way it had come to pass that there was a precipitous fall of about a dozen feet from the top of the little cliff into the water, and that the water here, as it eddied round the curve, was black and deep, so that the bigger boys were wont to swim in it, arrangements for bathing having been made on the further or school side. There had sometimes been a question whether a rail should not be placed for protection along the top of this cliff, but nothing of the kind had yet been done. The boys were not supposed to play in this field, which was on the other side of the river, and could only be reached by the bridge through the parsonage garden. On this day young De Lawle and his friend and the dog rushed up the hill before Mrs. Wortle, and there began to romp, as was their custom. Mary Wortle, who was one of the party, followed them, enjoining the children to keep away from the cliff. For a while they did so, but of course returned. Once or twice they were recalled and scolded, always asserting that the fault was altogether with Neptune. It was Neptune that knocked them down and always pushed them towards the river. Perhaps it was Neptune; but be that as it might, there came a moment very terrible to them all. The dog in one of his gyrations came violently against the little boy, knocked him off his legs, and pushed him over the edge. Mrs. Wortle, who had been making her way slowly up the hill, saw the fall, heard the splash, and fell immediately to the ground. Other eyes had also seen the accident. The Doctor and Mr. Peacocke were at the moment walking together in the playgrounds at the school side of the brook. When the boy fell they had paused in their walk, and were standing, the Doctor with his back to the stream, and the assistant with his face turned towards the cliff. A loud exclamation broke from his lips as he saw the fall, but in a moment,--almost before the Doctor had realised the accident which had occurred,--he was in the water, and two minutes afterwards young De Lawle, drenched indeed, frightened, and out of breath, but in nowise seriously hurt, was out upon the bank; and Mr. Peacocke, drenched also, but equally safe, was standing over him, while the Doctor on his knees was satisfying himself that his little charge had received no fatal injury. It need hardly be explained that such a termination as this to such an accident had greatly increased the good feeling with which Mr. Peacocke was regarded by all the inhabitants of the school and Rectory. CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY. MR. PEACOCKE himself said that in this matter a great deal of fuss was made about nothing. Perhaps it was so. He got a ducking, but, being a strong swimmer, probably suffered no real danger. The boy, rolling down three or four feet of bank, had then fallen down six or eight feet into deep water. He might, no doubt, have been much hurt. He might have struck against a rock and have been killed,--in which case Mr. Peacocke's prowess would have been of no avail. But nothing of this kind happened. Little Jack De Lawle was put to bed in one of the Rectory bed-rooms, and was comforted with sherry-negus and sweet jelly. For two days he rejoiced thoroughly in his accident, being freed from school, and subjected only to caresses. After that he rebelled, having become tired of his bed. But by that time his mother had been most unnecessarily summoned. Unless she was wanted to examine the forlorn condition of his clothes, there was nothing that she could do. But she came, and, of course, showered blessings on Mr. Peacocke's head,--while Mrs. Wortle went through to the school and showered blessings on Mrs. Peacocke. What would they have done had the Peacockes not been there? "You must let them have their way, whether for good or bad," the Doctor said, when his assistant complained rather of the blessings,--pointing out at any rate their absurdity. "One man is damned for ever, because, in the conscientious exercise of his authority, he gives a little boy a rap which happens to make a small temporary mark on his skin. Another becomes a hero because, when in the equally conscientious performance of a duty, he gives himself a ducking. I won't think you a hero; but, of course, I consider myself very fortunate to have had beside me a man younger than myself, and quick and ready at such an emergence. Of course I feel grateful, but I shan't bother you by telling you so." But this was not the end of it. Lady De Lawle declared that she could not be happy unless Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke would bring Jack home for the holidays to De Lawle Park. Of course she carried her blessings up into Mrs. Peacocke's little drawing-room, and became quite convinced, as was Mrs. Wortle, that Mrs. Peacocke was in all respects a lady. She heard of Mr. Peacocke's antecedents at Oxford, and expressed her opinion that they were charming people. She could not be happy unless they would promise to come to De Lawle Park for the holidays. Then Mrs. Peacocke had to explain that in her present circumstances she did not intend to visit anywhere. She was very much flattered, and delighted to think that the dear little boy was none the worse for his accident; but there must be an end of it. There was something in her manner, as she said this, which almost overawed Lady De Lawle. She made herself, at any rate, understood, and no further attempt was made for the next six weeks to induce her or Mr. Peacocke to enter the Rectory dining-room. But a good deal was said about Mr. Peacocke,--generally in his favour. Generally in his favour,--because he was a fine scholar, and could swim well. His preaching perhaps did something for him, but the swimming did more. But though there was so much said of good, there was something also of evil. A man would not altogether refuse society for himself and his wife unless there were some cause for him to do so. He and she must have known themselves to be unfit to associate with such persons as they would have met at De Lawle Park. There was a mystery, and the mystery, when unravelled, would no doubt prove to be very deleterious to the character of the persons concerned. Mrs. Stantiloup was quite sure that such must be the case. "It might be very well," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "for Dr. Wortle to obtain the services of a well-educated usher for his school, but it became quite another thing when he put a man up to preach in the church, of whose life, for five years, no one knew anything." Somebody had told her something as to the necessity of a bishop's authority for the appointment of a curate; but no one had strictly defined to her what a curate is. She was, however, quite ready to declare that Mr. Peacocke had no business to preach in that pulpit, and that something very disagreeable would come of it. Nor was this feeling altogether confined to Mrs. Stantiloup, though it had perhaps originated with what she had said among her own friends. "Don't you think it well you should know something of his life during these five years?" This had been said to the Rector by the Bishop himself,--who probably would have said nothing of the kind had not these reports reached his ears. But reports, when they reach a certain magnitude, and attain a certain importance, require to be noticed. So much in this world depends upon character that attention has to be paid to bad character even when it is not deserved. In dealing with men and women, we have to consider what they believe, as well as what we believe ourselves. The utility of a sermon depends much on the idea that the audience has of the piety of the man who preaches it. Though the words of God should never have come with greater power from the mouth of man, they will come in vain if they be uttered by one who is known as a breaker of the Commandments;--they will come in vain from the mouth of one who is even suspected to be so. To all this, when it was said to him by the Bishop in the kindest manner, Dr. Wortle replied that such suspicions were monstrous, unreasonable, and uncharitable. He declared that they originated with that abominable virago, Mrs. Stantiloup. "Look round the diocese," said the Bishop in reply to this, "and see if you can find a single clergyman acting in it, of the details of whose life for the last five years you know absolutely nothing." Thereupon the Doctor said that he would make inquiry of Mr. Peacocke himself. It might well be, he thought, that Mr. Peacocke would not like such inquiry, but the Doctor was quite sure that any story told to him would be true. On returning home he found it necessary, or at any rate expedient, to postpone his questions for a few days. It is not easy to ask a man what he has been doing with five years of his life, when the question implies a belief that these five years have been passed badly. And it was understood that the questioning must in some sort apply to the man's wife. The Doctor had once said to Mrs. Wortle that he stood in awe of Mrs. Peacocke. There had certainly come upon him an idea that she was a lady with whom it would not be easy to meddle. She was obedient, diligent, and minutely attentive to any wish that was expressed to her in regard to her duties; but it had become manifest to the Doctor that in all matters beyond the school she was independent, and was by no means subject to external influences. She was not, for instance, very constant in her own attendance at church, and never seemed to feel it necessary to apologise for her absence. The Doctor, in his many and familiar conversations with Mr. Peacocke, had not found himself able to allude to this; and he had observed that the husband did not often speak of his own wife unless it were on matters having reference to the school. So it came to pass that he dreaded the conversation which he proposed to himself, and postponed it from day to day with a cowardice which was quite unusual to him. And now, O kind-hearted reader, I feel myself constrained, in the telling of this little story, to depart altogether from those principles of story-telling to which you probably have become accustomed, and to put the horse of my romance before the cart. There is a mystery respecting Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke which, according to all laws recognised in such matters, ought not to be elucidated till, let us say, the last chapter but two, so that your interest should be maintained almost to the end,--so near the end that there should be left only space for those little arrangements which are necessary for the well-being, or perhaps for the evil-being, of our personages. It is my purpose to disclose the mystery at once, and to ask you to look for your interest,--should you choose to go on with my chronicle,--simply in the conduct of my persons, during this disclosure, to others. You are to know it all before the Doctor or the Bishop,--before Mrs. Wortle or the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup, or Lady De Lawle. You are to know it all before the Peacockes become aware that it must necessarily be disclosed to any one. It may be that when I shall have once told the mystery there will no longer be any room for interest in the tale to you. That there are many such readers of novels I know. I doubt whether the greater number be not such. I am far from saying that the kind of interest of which I am speaking,--and of which I intend to deprive myself,--is not the most natural and the most efficacious. What would the 'Black Dwarf' be if every one knew from the beginning that he was a rich man and a baronet?--or 'The Pirate,' if all the truth about Norna of the Fitful-head had been told in the first chapter? Therefore, put the book down if the revelation of some future secret be necessary for your enjoyment. Our mystery is going to be revealed in the next paragraph,--in the next half-dozen words. Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were not man and wife. The story how it came to be so need not be very long;--nor will it, as I think, entail any great degree of odious criminality either upon the man or upon the woman. At St. Louis Mrs. Peacocke had become acquainted with two brothers named Lefroy, who had come up from Louisiana, and had achieved for themselves characters which were by no means desirable. They were sons of a planter who had been rich in extent of acres and number of slaves before the war of the Secession. General Lefroy had been in those days a great man in his State, had held command during the war, and had been utterly ruined. When the war was over the two boys,--then seventeen and sixteen years of age,--were old enough to remember and to regret all that they had lost, to hate the idea of Abolition, and to feel that the world had nothing left for them but what was to be got by opposition to the laws of the Union, which was now hateful to them. They were both handsome, and, in spite of the sufferings of their State, an attempt had been made to educate them like gentlemen. But no career of honour had been open to them, and they had fallen by degrees into dishonour, dishonesty, and brigandage. The elder of these, when he was still little more than a stripling, had married Ella Beaufort, the daughter of another ruined planter in his State. She had been only sixteen when her father died, and not seventeen when she married Ferdinand Lefroy. It was she who afterwards came to England under the name of Mrs. Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke was Vice-President of the College at Missouri when he first saw her, and when he first became acquainted with the two brothers, each of whom was called Colonel Lefroy. Then there arose a great scandal in the city as to the treatment which the wife received from her husband. He was about to go away South, into Mexico, with the view of pushing his fortune there with certain desperadoes, who were maintaining a perpetual war against the authorities of the United States on the borders of Texas, and he demanded that his wife should accompany him. This she refused to do, and violence was used to force her. Then it came to pass that certain persons in St. Louis interfered on her behalf, and among these was the Reverend Mr. Peacocke, the Vice-President of the College, upon whose feelings the singular beauty and dignified demeanour of the woman, no doubt, had had much effect. The man failed to be powerful over his wife, and then the two brothers went away together. The woman was left to provide for herself, and Mr. Peacocke was generous in the aid he gave to her in doing so. It may be understood that in this way an intimacy was created, but it must not be understood that the intimacy was of such a nature as to be injurious to the fair fame of the lady. Things went on in this way for two years, during which Mrs. Lefroy's conduct drew down upon her reproaches from no one. Then there came tidings that Colonel Lefroy had perished in making one of those raids in which the two brothers were continually concerned. But which Colonel Lefroy had perished? If it were the younger brother, that would be nothing to Mr. Peacocke. If it were the elder, it would be everything. If Ferdinand Lefroy were dead, he would not scruple at once to ask the woman to be his wife. That which the man had done, and that which he had not done, had been of such a nature as to solve all bonds of affection. She had already allowed herself to speak of the man as one whose life was a blight upon her own; and though there had been no word of out-spoken love from her lips to his ears, he thought that he might succeed if it could be made certain that Ferdinand Lefroy was no longer among the living. "I shall never know," she said in her misery. "What I do hear I shall never believe. How can one know anything as to what happens in a country such as that?" Then he took up his hat and staff, and, vice-president, professor, and clergyman as he was, started off for the Mexican border. He did tell her that he was going, but barely told her. "It's a thing that ought to be found out," he said, "and I want a turn of travelling. I shall be away three months." She merely bade God bless him, but said not a word to hinder or to encourage his going. He was gone just the three months which he had himself named, and then returned elate with his news. He had seen the younger brother, Robert Lefroy, and had learnt from him that the elder Ferdinand had certainly been killed. Robert had been most ungracious to him, having even on one occasion threatened his life; but there had been no doubt that he, Robert, was alive, and that Ferdinand had been killed by a party of United States soldiers. Then the clergyman had his reward, and was accepted by the widow with a full and happy heart. Not only had her release been complete, but so was her present joy; and nothing seemed wanting to their happiness during the six first months after their union. Then one day, all of a sudden, Ferdinand Lefroy was standing within her little drawing-room at the College of St. Louis. Dead? Certainly he was not dead! He did not believe that any one had said that he was dead! She might be lying or not,--he did not care; he, Peacocke, certainly had lied;--so said the Colonel. He did not believe that Peacocke had ever seen his brother Robert. Robert was dead,--must have been dead, indeed, before the date given for that interview. The woman was a bigamist,--that is, if any second marriage had ever been perpetrated. Probably both had wilfully agreed to the falsehood. For himself he should resolve at once what steps he meant to take. Then he departed, it being at that moment after nine in the evening. In the morning he was gone again, and from that moment they had never either heard of him or seen him. How was it to be with them? They could have almost brought themselves to think it a dream, were it not that others besides themselves had seen the man, and known that Colonel Ferdinand Lefroy had been in St. Louis. Then there came to him an idea that even she might disbelieve the words which he had spoken;--that even she might think his story to have been false. But to this she soon put an end. "Dearest," she said, "I never knew a word that was true to come from his mouth, or a word that was false from yours." Should they part? There is no one who reads this but will say that they should have parted. Every day passed together as man and wife must be a falsehood and a sin. There would be absolute misery for both in parting;--but there is no law from God or man entitling a man to escape from misery at the expense of falsehood and sin. Though their hearts might have burst in the doing of it, they should have parted. Though she would have been friendless, alone, and utterly despicable in the eyes of the world, abandoning the name which she cherished, as not her own, and going back to that which she utterly abhorred, still she should have done it. And he, resolving, as no doubt he would have done under any circumstances, that he must quit the city of his adoption,--he should have left her with such material sustenance as her spirit would have enabled her to accept, should have gone his widowed way, and endured as best he might the idea that he had left the woman whom he loved behind, in the desert, all alone! That he had not done so the reader is aware. That he had lived a life of sin,--that he and she had continued in one great falsehood,--is manifest enough. Mrs. Stantiloup, when she hears it all, will have her triumph. Lady De Lawle's soft heart will rejoice because that invitation was not accepted. The Bishop will be unutterably shocked; but, perhaps, to the good man there will be some solace in the feeling that he had been right in his surmises. How the Doctor bore it this story is intended to tell,--and how also Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke bore it, when the sin and the falsehood were made known to all the world around them. The mystery has at any rate been told, and they who feel that on this account all hope of interest is at an end had better put down the book. Part II. CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. THE Doctor, instigated by the Bishop, had determined to ask some questions of Mr. Peacocke as to his American life. The promise had been given at the Palace, and the Doctor, as he returned home, repented himself in that he had made it. His lordship was a gossip, as bad as an old woman, as bad as Mrs. Stantiloup, and wanted to know things in which a man should feel no interest. So said the Doctor to himself. What was it to him, the Bishop, or to him, the Doctor, what Mr. Peacocke had been doing in America? The man's scholarship was patent, his morals were unexceptional, his capacity for preaching undoubted, his peculiar fitness for his place at Bowick unquestionable. Who had a right to know more? That the man had been properly educated at Oxford, and properly ordained on entering his Fellowship, was doubted by no man. Even if there had been some temporary backslidings in America,--which might be possible, for which of us have not backslided at some time of our life?--why should they be raked up? There was an uncharitableness in such a proceeding altogether opposed to the Doctor's view of life. He hated severity. It may almost be said that he hated that state of perfection which would require no pardon. He was thoroughly human, quite content with his own present position, anticipating no millennium for the future of the world, and probably, in his heart, looking forward to heaven as simply the better alternative when the happiness of this world should be at an end. He himself was in no respect a wicked man, and yet a little wickedness was not distasteful to him. And he was angry with himself in that he had made such a promise. It had been a rule of life with him never to take advice. The Bishop had his powers, within which he, as Rector of Bowick, would certainly obey the Bishop; but it had been his theory to oppose his Bishop, almost more readily than any one else, should the Bishop attempt to exceed his power. The Bishop had done so in giving this advice, and yet he had promised. He was angry with himself, but did not on that account think that the promise should be evaded. Oh no! Having said that he would do it, he would do it. And having said that he would do it, the sooner that he did it the better. When three or four days had passed by, he despised himself because he had not yet made for himself a fit occasion. "It is such a mean, sneaking thing to do," he said to himself. But still it had to be done. It was on a Saturday afternoon that he said this to himself, as he returned back to the parsonage garden from the cricket-ground, where he had left Mr. Peacocke and the three other ushers playing cricket with ten or twelve of the bigger boys of the school. There was a French master, a German master, a master for arithmetic and mathematics with the adjacent sciences, besides Mr. Peacocke, as assistant classical master. Among them Mr. Peacocke was _facile princeps_ in rank and supposed ability; but they were all admitted to the delights of the playground. Mr. Peacocke, in spite of those years of his spent in America where cricket could not have been familiar to him, remembered well his old pastime, and was quite an adept at the game. It was ten thousand pities that a man should be disturbed by unnecessary questionings who could not only teach and preach, but play cricket also. But nevertheless it must be done. When, therefore, the Doctor entered his own house, he went into his study and wrote a short note to his assistant;-- "MY DEAR PEACOCKE,--Could you come over and see me in my study this evening for half an hour? I have a question or two which I wish to ask you. Any hour you may name will suit me after eight.--Yours most sincerely, "JEFFREY WORTLE." In answer to this there came a note to say that at half-past eight Mr. Peacocke would be with the Doctor. At half-past eight Mr. Peacocke came. He had fancied, on reading the Doctor's note, that some further question would be raised as to money. The Doctor had declared that he could no longer accept gratuitous clerical service in the parish, and had said that he must look out for some one else if Mr. Peacocke could not oblige him by allowing his name to be referred in the usual way to the Bishop. He had now determined to say, in answer to this, that the school gave him enough to do, and that he would much prefer to give up the church;--although he would always be happy to take a part occasionally if he should be wanted. The Doctor had been sitting alone for the last quarter of an hour when his assistant entered the room, and had spent the time in endeavouring to arrange the conversation that should follow. He had come at last to a conclusion. He would let Mr. Peacocke know exactly what had passed between himself and the Bishop, and would then leave it to his usher either to tell his own story as to his past life, or to abstain from telling it. He had promised to ask the question, and he would ask it; but he would let the man judge for himself whether any answer ought to be given. "The Bishop has been bothering me about you, Peacocke," he said, standing up with his back to the fireplace, as soon as the other man had shut the door behind him. The Doctor's face was always expressive of his inward feelings, and at this moment showed very plainly that his sympathies were not with the Bishop. "I'm sorry that his lordship should have troubled himself," said the other, "as I certainly do not intend to take any part in his diocese." "We'll sink that for the present," said the Doctor. "I won't let that be mixed up with what I have got to say just now. You have taken a certain part in the diocese already, very much to my satisfaction. I hope it may be continued; but I won't bother about that now. As far as I can see, you are just the man that would suit me as a colleague in the parish." Mr. Peacocke bowed, but remained silent. "The fact is," continued the Doctor, "that certain old women have got hold of the Bishop, and made him feel that he ought to answer their objections. That Mrs. Stantiloup has a tongue as loud as the town-crier's bell." "But what has Mrs. Stantiloup to say about me?" "Nothing, except in so far as she can hit me through you." "And what does the Bishop say?" "He thinks that I ought to know something of your life during those five years you were in America." "I think so also," said Mr. Peacocke. "I don't want to know anything for myself. As far as I am concerned, I am quite satisfied. I know where you were educated, how you were ordained, and I can feel sure, from your present efficiency, that you cannot have wasted your time. If you tell me that you do not wish to say anything, I shall be contented, and I shall tell the Bishop that, as far as I am concerned, there must be an end of it." "And what will he do?" asked Mr. Peacocke. "Well; as far as the curacy is concerned, of course he can refuse his licence." "I have not the slightest intention of applying to his lordship for a licence." This the usher said with a tone of self-assertion which grated a little on the Doctor's ear, in spite of his good-humour towards the speaker. "I don't want to go into that," he said. "A man never can say what his intentions may be six months hence." "But if I were to refuse to speak of my life in America," said Mr. Peacocke, "and thus to decline to comply with what I must confess would be no more than a rational requirement on your part, how then would it be with myself and my wife in regard to the school?" "It would make no difference whatever," said the Doctor. "There is a story to tell," said Mr. Peacocke, very slowly. "I am sure that it cannot be to your disgrace." "I do not say that it is,--nor do I say that it is not. There may be circumstances in which a man may hardly know whether he has done right or wrong. But this I do know,--that, had I done otherwise, I should have despised myself. I could not have done otherwise and have lived." "There is no man in the world," said the Doctor, earnestly, "less anxious to pry into the secrets of others than I am. I take things as I find them. If the cook sends me up a good dish I don't care to know how she made it. If I read a good book, I am not the less gratified because there may have been something amiss with the author." "You would doubt his teaching," said Mr. Peacocke, "who had gone astray himself." "Then I must doubt all human teaching, for all men have gone astray. You had better hold your tongue about the past, and let me tell those who ask unnecessary questions to mind their own business." "It is very odd, Doctor," said Mr. Peacocke, "that all this should have come from you just now." "Why odd just now?" "Because I had been turning it in my mind for the last fortnight whether I ought not to ask you as a favour to listen to the story of my life. That I must do so before I could formally accept the curacy I had determined. But that only brought me to the resolution of refusing the office. I think,--I think that, irrespective of the curacy, it ought to be told. But I have not quite made up my mind." "Do not suppose that I am pressing you." "Oh no; nor would your pressing me influence me. Much as I owe to your undeserved kindness and forbearance, I am bound to say that. Nothing can influence me in the least in such a matter but the well-being of my wife, and my own sense of duty. And it is a matter in which I can unfortunately take counsel from no one. She, and she alone, besides myself, knows the circumstances, and she is so forgetful of herself that I can hardly ask her for an opinion." The Doctor by this time had no doubt become curious. There was a something mysterious with which he would like to become acquainted. He was by no means a philosopher, superior to the ordinary curiosity of mankind. But he was manly, and even at this moment remembered his former assurances. "Of course," said he, "I cannot in the least guess what all this is about. For myself I hate secrets. I haven't a secret in the world. I know nothing of myself which you mightn't know too for all that I cared. But that is my good fortune rather than my merit. It might well have been with me as it is with you; but, as a rule, I think that where there is a secret it had better be kept. No one, at any rate, should allow it to be wormed out of him by the impertinent assiduity of others. If there be anything affecting your wife which you do not wish all the world on this side of the water to know, do not tell it to any one on this side of the water." "There is something affecting my wife that I do not wish all the world to know." "Then tell it to no one," said Dr. Wortle, authoritatively. "I will tell you what I will do," said Mr. Peacocke; "I will take a week to think of it, and then I will let you know whether I will tell it or whether I will not; and if I tell it I will let you know also how far I shall expect you to keep my secret, and how far to reveal it. I think the Bishop will be entitled to know nothing about me unless I ask to be recognised as one of the clergy of his diocese." "Certainly not; certainly not," said the Doctor. And then the interview was at an end. Mr. Peacocke, when he went away from the Rectory, did not at once return to his own house, but went off for a walk alone. It was now nearly midsummer, and there was broad daylight till ten o'clock. It was after nine when he left the Doctor's, but still there was time for a walk which he knew well through the fields, which would take him round by Bowick Wood, and home by a path across the squire's park and by the church. An hour would do it, and he wanted an hour to collect his thoughts before he should see his wife, and discuss with her, as he would be bound to do, all that had passed between him and the Doctor. He had said that he could not ask her advice. In this there had been much of truth. But he knew also that he would do nothing as to which he had not received at any rate her assent. She, for his sake, would have annihilated herself, had that been possible. Again and again, since that horrible apparition had showed itself in her room at St. Louis, she had begged that she might leave him,--not on her own behalf, not from any dread of the crime that she was committing, not from shame in regard to herself should her secret be found out, but because she felt herself to be an impediment to his career in the world. As to herself, she had no pricks of conscience. She had been true to the man,--brutal, abominable as he had been to her,--until she had in truth been made to believe that he was dead; and even when he had certainly been alive,--for she had seen him,--he had only again seen her, again to desert her. Duty to him she could owe never. There was no sting of conscience with her in that direction. But to the other man she owed, as she thought, everything that could be due from a woman to a man. He had come within her ken, and had loved her without speaking of his love. He had seen her condition, and had sympathised with her fully. He had gone out, with his life in his hand,--he, a clergyman, a quiet man of letters,--to ascertain whether she was free; and finding her, as he believed, to be free, he had returned to take her to his heart, and to give her all that happiness which other women enjoy, but which she had hitherto only seen from a distance. Then the blow had come. It was necessary, it was natural, that she should be ruined by such a blow. Circumstances had ruined her. That fate had betaken her which so often falls upon a woman who trusts herself and her life to a man. But why should he fall also with her fall? There was still a career before him. He might be useful; he might be successful; he might be admired. Everything might still be open to him,--except the love of another woman. As to that, she did not doubt his truth. Why should he be doomed to drag her with him as a log tied to his foot, seeing that a woman with a misfortune is condemned by the general voice of the world, whereas for a man to have stumbled is considered hardly more than a matter of course? She would consent to take from him the means of buying her bread; but it would be better,--she had said,--that she should eat it on her side of the water, while he might earn it on the other. We know what had come of these arguments. He had hitherto never left her for a moment since that man had again appeared before their eyes. He had been strong in his resolution. If it were a crime, then he would be a criminal. If it were a falsehood, then would he be a liar. As to the sin, there had no doubt been some divergence of opinion between him and her. The teaching that he had undergone in his youth had been that with which we, here, are all more or less acquainted, and that had been strengthened in him by the fact of his having become a clergyman. She had felt herself more at liberty to proclaim to herself a gospel of her own for the guidance of her own soul. To herself she had never seemed to be vicious or impure, but she understood well that he was not equally free from the bonds which religion had imposed upon him. For his sake,--for his sake, it would be better that she should be away from him. All this was known to him accurately, and all this had to be considered by him as he walked across the squire's park in the gloaming of the evening. No doubt,--he now said to himself,--the Doctor should have been made acquainted with his condition before he or she had taken their place at the school. Reticence under such circumstances had been a lie. Against his conscience there had been many pricks. Living in his present condition he certainly should not have gone up into that pulpit to preach the Word of God. Though he had been silent, he had known that the evil and the deceit would work round upon him. But now what should he do? There was only one thing on which he was altogether decided;--nothing should separate them. As he had said so often before, he said again now,--"If there be sin, let it be sin." But this was clear to him,--were he to give Dr. Wortle a true history of what had happened to him in America, then must he certainly leave Bowick. And this was equally certain, that before telling his tale, he must make known his purpose to his wife. But as he entered his own house he had determined that he would tell the Doctor everything. CHAPTER V. "THEN WE MUST GO." "I THOUGHT you were never going to have done with that old Jupiter," said Mrs. Peacocke, as she began at that late hour of the evening to make tea for herself and her husband. "Why have you waited for me?" "Because I like company. Did you ever know me go to tea without you when there was a chance of your coming? What has Jupiter been talking about all this time?" "Jupiter has not been talking all this time. Jupiter talked only for half an hour. Jupiter is a very good fellow." "I always thought so. Otherwise I should never have consented to have been one of his satellites, or have been contented to see you doing chief moon. But you have been with him an hour and a half." "Since I left him I have walked all round by Bowick Lodge. I had something to think of before I could talk to you,--something to decide upon, indeed, before I could return to the house." "What have you decided?" she asked. Her voice was altogether changed. Though she was seated in her chair and had hardly moved, her appearance and her carriage of herself were changed. She still held the cup in her hand which she had been about to fill, but her face was turned towards his, and her large brown speaking eyes were fixed upon him. "Let me have my tea," he said, "and then I will tell you." While he drank his tea she remained quite quiet, not touching her own, but waiting patiently till it should suit him to speak. "Ella," he said, "I must tell it all to Dr. Wortle." "Why, dearest?" As he did not answer at once, she went on with her question. "Why now more than before?" "Nay, it is not now more than before. As we have let the before go by, we can only do it now." "But why at all, dear? Has the argument, which was strong when we came, lost any of its force?" "It should have had no force. We should not have taken the man's good things, and have subjected him to the injury which may come to him by our bad name." "Have we not given him good things in return?" "Not the good things which he had a right to expect,--not that respectability which is all the world to such an establishment as this." "Let me go," she said, rising from her chair and almost shrieking. "Nay, Ella, nay; if you and I cannot talk as though we were one flesh, almost with one soul between us, as though that which is done by one is done by both, whether for weal or woe,--if you and I cannot feel ourselves to be in a boat together either for swimming or for sinking, then I think that no two persons on this earth ever can be bound together after that fashion. 'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."' Then she rose from her chair, and flinging herself on her knees at his feet, buried her face in his lap. "Ella," he said, "the only injury you can do me is to speak of leaving me. And it is an injury which is surely unnecessary because you cannot carry it beyond words. Now, if you will sit up and listen to me, I will tell you what passed between me and the Doctor." Then she raised herself from the ground and took her seat at the tea-table, and listened patiently as he began his tale. "They have been talking about us here in the county." "Who has found it necessary to talk about one so obscure as I?" "What does it matter who they might be? The Doctor in his kindly wrath,--for he is very wroth,--mentions this name and the other. What does it matter? Obscurity itself becomes mystery, and mystery of course produces curiosity. It was bound to be so. It is not they who are in fault, but we. If you are different from others, of course you will be inquired into." "Am I so different?" "Yes;--different in not eating the Doctor's dinners when they are offered to you; different in not accepting Lady De Lawle's hospitality; different in contenting yourself simply with your duties and your husband. Of course we are different. How could we not be different? And as we are different, so of course there will be questions and wonderings, and that sifting and searching which always at last finds out the facts. The Bishop says that he knows nothing of my American life." "Why should he want to know anything?" "Because I have been preaching in one of his churches. It is natural;--natural that the mothers of the boys should want to know something. The Doctor says that he hates secrets. So do I." "Oh, my dearest!" "A secret is always accompanied by more or less of fear, and produces more or less of cowardice. But it can no more be avoided than a sore on the flesh or a broken bone. Who would not go about, with all his affairs such as the world might know, if it were possible? But there come gangrenes in the heart, or perhaps in the pocket. Wounds come, undeserved wounds, as those did to you, my darling; but wounds which may not be laid bare to all eyes. Who has a secret because he chooses it?" "But the Bishop?" "Well,--yes, the Bishop. The Bishop has told the Doctor to examine me, and the Doctor has done it. I give him the credit of saying that the task has been most distasteful to him. I do him the justice of acknowledging that he has backed out of the work he had undertaken. He has asked the question, but has said in the same breath that I need not answer it unless I like." "And you? You have not answered it yet?" "No; I have answered nothing as yet. But I have, I think, made up my mind that the question must be answered." "That everything should be told?" "Everything,--to him. My idea is to tell everything to him, and to leave it to him to decide what should be done. Should he refuse to repeat the story any further, and then bid us go away from Bowick, I should think that his conduct had been altogether straightforward and not uncharitable." "And you,--what would you do then?" "I should go. What else?" "But whither?" "Ah! on that we must decide. He would be friendly with me. Though he might think it necessary that I should leave Bowick, he would not turn against me violently." "He could do nothing." "I think he would assist me rather. He would help me, perhaps, to find some place where I might still earn my bread by such skill as I possess;--where I could do so without dragging in aught of my domestic life, as I have been forced to do here." "I have been a curse to you," exclaimed the unhappy wife. "My dearest blessing," he said. "That which you call a curse has come from circumstances which are common to both of us. There need be no more said about it. That man has been a source of terrible trouble to us. The trouble must be discussed from time to time, but the necessity of enduring it may be taken for granted." "I cannot be a philosopher such as you are," she said. "There is no escape from it. The philosophy is forced upon us. When an evil thing is necessary, there remains only the consideration how it may be best borne." "You must tell him, then?" "I think so. I have a week to consider of it; but I think so. Though he is very kind at this moment in giving me the option, and means what he says in declaring that I shall remain even though I tell him nothing, yet his mind would become uneasy, and he would gradually become discontented. Think how great is his stake in the school! How would he feel towards me, were its success to be gradually diminished because he kept a master here of whom people believed some unknown evil?" "There has been no sign of any such falling off?" "There has been no time for it. It is only now that people are beginning to talk. Had nothing of the kind been said, had this Bishop asked no questions, had we been regarded as people simply obscure, to whom no mystery attached itself, the thing might have gone on; but as it is, I am bound to tell him the truth." "Then we must go?" "Probably." "At once?" "When it has been so decided, the sooner the better. How could we endure to remain here when our going shall be desired?" "Oh no!" "We must flit, and again seek some other home. Though he should keep our secret,--and I believe he will if he be asked,--it will be known that there is a secret, and a secret of such a nature that its circumstances have driven us hence. If I could get literary work in London, perhaps we might live there." "But how,--how would you set about it? The truth is, dearest, that for work such as yours you should either have no wife at all, or else a wife of whom you need not be ashamed to speak the whole truth before the world." "What is the use of it?" he said, rising from his chair as in anger. "Why go back to all that which should be settled between us, as fixed by fate? Each of us has given to the other all that each has to give, and the partnership is complete. As far as that is concerned, I at any rate am contented." "Ah, my darling!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck. "Let there be an end to distinctions and differences, which, between you and me, can have no effect but to increase our troubles. You are a woman, and I am a man; and therefore, no doubt, your name, when brought in question, is more subject to remark than mine,--as is my name, being that of a clergyman, more subject to remark than that of one not belonging to a sacred profession. But not on that account do I wish to unfrock myself; nor certainly on that account do I wish to be deprived of my wife. For good or bad, it has to be endured together; and expressions of regret as to that which is unavoidable, only aggravate our trouble." After that, he seated himself, and took up a book as though he were able at once to carry off his mind to other matters. She probably knew that he could not do so, but she sat silent by him for a while, till he bade her take herself to bed, promising that he would follow without delay. For three days nothing further was said between them on the subject, nor was any allusion made to it between the Doctor and his assistant. The school went on the same as ever, and the intercourse between the two men was unaltered as to its general mutual courtesy. But there did undoubtedly grow in the Doctor's mind a certain feverish feeling of insecurity. At any rate, he knew this, that there was a mystery, that there was something about the Peacockes,--something referring especially to Mrs. Peacocke,--which, if generally known, would be held to be deleterious to their character. So much he could not help deducing from what the man had already told him. No doubt he had undertaken, in his generosity, that although the man should decline to tell his secret, no alteration should be made as to the school arrangements; but he became conscious that in so promising he had in some degree jeopardised the well-being of the school. He began to whisper to himself that persons in such a position as that filled by this Mr. Peacocke and his wife should not be subject to peculiar remarks from ill-natured tongues. A weapon was afforded by such a mystery to the Stantiloups of the world, which the Stantiloups would be sure to use with all their virulence. To such an establishment as his school, respectability was everything. Credit, he said to himself, is a matter so subtle in its essence, that, as it may be obtained almost without reason, so, without reason, may it be made to melt away. Much as he liked Mr. Peacocke, much as he approved of him, much as there was in the man of manliness and worth which was absolutely dear to him,--still he was not willing to put the character of his school in peril for the sake of Mr. Peacocke. Were he to do so, he would be neglecting a duty much more sacred than any he could owe to Mr. Peacocke. It was thus that, during these three days, he conversed with himself on the subject, although he was able to maintain outwardly the same manner and the same countenance as though all things were going well between them. When they parted after the interview in the study, the Doctor, no doubt, had so expressed himself as rather to dissuade his usher from telling his secret than to encourage him to do so. He had been free in declaring that the telling of the secret should make no difference in his assistant's position at Bowick. But in all that, he had acted from his habitual impulse. He had since told himself that the mystery ought to be disclosed. It was not right that his boys should be left to the charge of one who, however competent, dared not speak of his own antecedents. It was thus he thought of the matter, after consideration. He must wait, of course, till the week should be over before he made up his mind to anything further. "So Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" This was said to the Doctor by Mr. Pearson, the squire, in the course of those two or three days of which we are speaking. Mr. Pearson was an old gentleman, who did not live often at Bowick, being compelled, as he always said, by his health, to spend the winter and spring of every year in Italy, and the summer months by his family in London. In truth, he did not much care for Bowick, but had always been on good terms with the Doctor, and had never opposed the school. Mr. Pearson had been good also as to Church matters,--as far as goodness can be shown by generosity,--and had interested himself about the curates. So it had come to pass that the Doctor did not wish to snub his neighbour when the question was asked. "I rather think not," said the Doctor. "I fear I shall have to look out for some one else." He did not prolong the conversation; for, though he wished to be civil, he did not wish to be communicative. Mr. Pearson had shown his parochial solicitude, and did not trouble himself with further questions. "So Mr. Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" This, the very same question in the very same words, was put to the Doctor on the next morning by the vicar of the next parish. The Rev. Mr. Puddicombe, a clergyman without a flaw who did his duty excellently in every station of life, was one who would preach a sermon or take a whole service for a brother parson in distress, and never think of reckoning up that return sermons or return services were due to him,--one who gave dinners, too, and had pretty daughters;--but still our Doctor did not quite like him. He was a little too pious, and perhaps given to ask questions. "So Mr. Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" There was a certain animation about the asking of this question by Mr. Puddicombe very different from Mr. Pearson's listless manner. It was clear to the Doctor that Mr. Puddicombe wanted to know. It seemed to the Doctor that something of condemnation was implied in the tone of the question, not only against Mr. Peacocke, but against himself also, for having employed Mr. Peacocke. "Upon my word I can't tell you," he said, rather crossly. "I thought that it had been all settled. I heard that it was decided." "Then you have heard more than I have." "It was the Bishop told me." Now it certainly was the case that in that fatal conversation which had induced the Doctor to interrogate Mr. Peacocke about his past life, the Doctor himself had said that he intended to look out for another curate. He probably did not remember that at the moment. "I wish the Bishop would confine himself to asserting things that he knows," said the Doctor, angrily. "I am sure the Bishop intends to do so," said Mr. Puddicombe, very gravely. "But I apologise. I had not intended to touch a subject on which there may perhaps be some reserve. I was only going to tell you of an excellent young man of whom I have heard. But, good morning." Then Mr. Puddicombe withdrew. CHAPTER VI. LORD CARSTAIRS. DURING the last six months Mr. Peacocke's most intimate friend at Bowick, excepting of course his wife, had been one of the pupils at the school. The lad was one of the pupils, but could not be said to be one of the boys. He was the young Lord Carstairs, eldest son of Earl Bracy. He had been sent to Bowick now six years ago, with the usual purpose of progressing from Bowick to Eton. And from Bowick to Eton he had gone in due course. But there, things had not gone well with the young lord. Some school disturbance had taken place when he had been there about a year and a half, in which he was, or was supposed to have been, a ringleader. It was thought necessary, for the preservation of the discipline of the school, that a victim should be made;--and it was perhaps thought well, in order that the impartiality of the school might be made manifest, that the victim should be a lord. Earl Bracy was therefore asked to withdraw his son; and young Lord Carstairs, at the age of seventeen, was left to seek his education where he could. It had been, and still was, the Earl's purpose to send his son to Oxford, but there was now an interval of two years before that could be accomplished. During one year he was sent abroad to travel with a tutor, and was then reported to have been all that a well-conducted lad ought to be. He was declared to be quite worthy of all that Oxford would do for him. It was even suggested that Eton had done badly for herself in throwing off from her such a young nobleman. But though Lord Carstairs had done well with his French and German on the Continent, it would certainly be necessary that he should rub up his Greek and Latin before he went to Christ Church. Then a request was made to the Doctor to take him in at Bowick in some sort as a private pupil. After some demurring the Doctor consented. It was not his wont to run counter to earls who treated him with respect and deference. Earl Bracy had in a special manner been his friend, and Lord Carstairs himself had been a great favourite at Bowick. When that expulsion from Eton had come about, the Doctor had interested himself, and had declared that a very scant measure of justice had been shown to the young lord. He was thus in a measure compelled to accede to the request made to him, and Lord Carstairs was received back at Bowick, not without hesitation, but with a full measure of affectionate welcome. His bed-room was in the parsonage-house, and his dinner he took with the Doctor's family. In other respects he lived among the boys. "Will it not be bad for Mary?" Mrs. Wortle had said anxiously to her husband when the matter was first discussed. "Why should it be bad for Mary?" "Oh, I don't know;--but young people together, you know? Mightn't it be dangerous?" "He is a boy, and she is a mere child. They are both children. It will be a trouble, but I do not think it will be at all dangerous in that way." And so it was decided. Mrs. Wortle did not at all agree as to their both being children. She thought that her girl was far from being a child. But she had argued the matter quite as much as she ever argued anything with the Doctor. So the matter was arranged, and young Lord Carstairs came back to Bowick. As far as the Doctor could see, nothing could be nicer than his young pupil's manners. He was not at all above playing with the other boys. He took very kindly to his old studies and his old haunts, and of an evening, after dinner, went away from the drawing-room to the study in pursuit of his Latin and his Greek, without any precocious attempt at making conversation with Miss Wortle. No doubt there was a good deal of lawn-tennis of an afternoon, and the lawn-tennis was generally played in the rectory garden. But then this had ever been the case, and the lawn-tennis was always played with two on a side; there were no _tête-à-tête_ games between his lordship and Mary, and whenever the game was going on, Mrs. Wortle was always there to see fair-play. Among other amusements the young lord took to walking far afield with Mr. Peacocke. And then, no doubt, many things were said about that life in America. When a man has been much abroad, and has passed his time there under unusual circumstances, his doings will necessarily become subjects of conversation to his companions. To have travelled in France, Germany, or in Italy, is not uncommon; nor is it uncommon to have lived a year or years in Florence or in Rome. It is not uncommon now to have travelled all through the United States. The Rocky Mountains or Peru are hardly uncommon, so much has the taste for travelling increased. But for an Oxford Fellow of a college, and a clergyman of the Church of England, to have established himself as a professor in Missouri, is uncommon, and it could hardly be but that Lord Carstairs should ask questions respecting that far-away life. Mr. Peacocke had no objection to such questions. He told his young friend much about the manners of the people of St. Louis,--told him how far the people had progressed in classical literature, in what they fell behind, and in what they excelled youths of their own age in England, and how far the college was a success. Then he described his own life,--both before and after his marriage. He had liked the people of St. Louis well enough,--but not quite well enough to wish to live among them. No doubt their habits were very different from those of Englishmen. He could, however, have been happy enough there,--only that circumstances arose. "Did Mrs. Peacocke like the place?" the young lord asked one day. "She is an American, you know." "Oh yes; I have heard. But did she come from St. Louis?" "No; her father was a planter in Louisiana, not far from New Orleans, before the abolition of slavery." "Did she like St. Louis?" "Well enough, I think, when we were first married. She had been married before, you know. She was a widow." "Did she like coming to England among strangers?" "She was glad to leave St. Louis. Things happened there which made her life unhappy. It was on that account I came here, and gave up a position higher and more lucrative than I shall ever now get in England." "I should have thought you might have had a school of your own," said the lad. "You know so much, and get on so well with boys. I should have thought you might have been tutor at a college." "To have a school of my own would take money," said he, "which I have not got. To be tutor at a college would take---- But never mind. I am very well where I am, and have nothing to complain of." He had been going to say that to be tutor of a college he would want high standing. And then he would have been forced to explain that he had lost at his own college that standing which he had once possessed. "Yes," he said on another occasion, "she is unhappy; but do not ask her any questions about it." "Who,--I? Oh dear, no! I should not think of taking such a liberty." "It would be as a kindness, not as a liberty. But still, do not speak to her about it. There are sorrows which must be hidden, which it is better to endeavour to bury by never speaking of them, by not thinking of them, if that were possible." "Is it as bad as that?" the lad asked. "It is bad enough sometimes. But never mind. You remember that Roman wisdom,--'Dabit Deus his quoque finem.' And I think that all things are bearable if a man will only make up his mind to bear them. Do not tell any one that I have complained." "Who,--I? Oh, never!" "Not that I have said anything which all the world might not know; but that it is unmanly to complain. Indeed I do not complain, only I wish that things were lighter to her." Then he went off to other matters; but his heart was yearning to tell everything to this young lad. Before the end of the week had arrived, there came a letter to him which he had not at all expected, and a letter also to the Doctor,--both from Lord Bracy. The letter to Mr. Peacocke was as follows:-- "MY DEAR SIR,--I have been much gratified by what I have heard both from Dr. Wortle and my son as to his progress. He will have to come home in July, when the Doctor's school is broken up, and, as you are probably aware, will go up to Oxford in October. I think it would be very expedient that he should not altogether lose the holidays, and I am aware how much more he would do with adequate assistance than without it. The meaning of all this is, that I and Lady Bracy will feel very much obliged if you and Mrs. Peacocke will come and spend your holidays with us at Carstairs. I have written to Dr. Wortle on the subject, partly to tell him of my proposal, because he has been so kind to my son, and partly to ask him to fix the amount of remuneration, should you be so kind as to accede to my request. "His mother has heard on more than one occasion from her son how very good-natured you have been to him.--Yours faithfully, "BRACY." It was, of course, quite out of the question. Mr. Peacocke, as soon as he had read the letter, felt that it was so. Had things been smooth and easy with him, nothing would have delighted him more. His liking for the lad was most sincere, and it would have been a real pleasure to him to have worked with him during the holidays. But it was quite out of the question. He must tell Lord Carstairs that it was so, and must at the moment give such explanation as might occur to him. He almost felt that in giving that explanation he would be tempted to tell his whole story. But the Doctor met him before he had an opportunity of speaking to Lord Carstairs. The Doctor met him, and at once produced the Earl's letter. "I have heard from Lord Bracy, and you, I suppose, have had a letter too," said the Doctor. His manner was easy and kind, as though no disagreeable communication was due to be made on the following day. "Yes," said Mr. Peacocke. "I have had a letter." "Well?" "His lordship has asked me to go to Carstairs for the holidays; but it is out of the question." "It would do Carstairs all the good in the world," said the Doctor; "and I do not see why you should not have a pleasant visit and earn twenty-five pounds at the same time." "It is quite out of the question." "I suppose you would not like to leave Mrs. Peacocke," said the Doctor. "Either to leave her or to take her! To go myself under any circumstances would be altogether out of the question. I shall come to you to-morrow, Doctor, as I said I would last Saturday. What hour will suit you?" Then the Doctor named an hour in the afternoon, and knew that the revelation was to be made to him. He felt, too, that that revelation would lead to the final departure of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke from Bowick, and he was unhappy in his heart. Though he was anxious for his school, he was anxious also for his friend. There was a gratification in the feeling that Lord Bracy thought so much of his assistant,--or would have been but for this wretched mystery! "No," said Mr. Peacocke to the lad. "I regret to say that I cannot go. I will tell you why, perhaps, another time, but not now. I have written to your father by this post, because it is right that he should be told at once. I have been obliged to say that it is impossible." "I am so sorry! I should so much have liked it. My father would have done everything to make you comfortable, and so would mamma." In answer to all this Mr. Peacocke could only say that it was impossible. This happened on Friday afternoon, Friday being a day on which the school was always very busy. There was no time for the doing of anything special, as there would be on the following day, which was a half-holiday. At night, when the work was altogether over, he showed the letter to his wife, and told her what he had decided. "Couldn't you have gone without me?" she asked. "How can I do that," he said, "when before this time to-morrow I shall have told everything to Dr. Wortle? After that, he would not let me go. He would do no more than his duty in telling me that if I proposed to go he must make it all known to Lord Bracy. But this is a trifle. I am at the present moment altogether in the dark as to what I shall do with myself when to-morrow evening comes. I cannot guess, because it is so hard to know what are the feelings in the breast of another man. It may so well be that he should refuse me permission to go to my desk in the school again." "Will he be hard like that?" "I can hardly tell myself whether it would be hard. I hardly know what I should feel it my duty to do in such a position myself. I have deceived him." "No!" she exclaimed. "Yes; I have deceived him. Coming to him as I did, I gave him to understand that there was nothing wrong;--nothing to which special objection could be made in my position." "Then we are deceiving all the world in calling ourselves man and wife." "Certainly we are; but to that we had made up our mind! We are not injuring all the world. No doubt it is a lie,--but there are circumstances in which a lie can hardly be a sin. I would have been the last to say so before all this had come upon me, but I feel it to be so now. It is a lie to say that you are my wife." "Is it? Is it?" "Is it not? And yet I would rather cut my tongue out than say otherwise. To give you my name is a lie,--but what should I think of myself were I to allow you to use any other? What would you have thought if I had asked you to go away and leave me when that bad hour came upon us?" "I would have borne it." "I could not have borne it. There are worse things than a lie. I have found, since this came upon us, that it may be well to choose one sin in order that another may be shunned. To cherish you, to comfort you, to make the storm less sharp to you,--that has already been my duty as well as my pleasure. To do the same to me is your duty." "And my pleasure; and my pleasure,--my only pleasure." "We must cling to each other, let the world call us what names it may. But there may come a time in which one is called on to do a special act of justice to others. It has come now to me. From the world at large I am prepared, if possible, to keep my secret, even though I do it by lying;--but to this one man I am driven to tell it, because I may not return his friendship by doing him an evil." Morning school at this time of the year at Bowick began at half-past seven. There was an hour of school before breakfast, at which the Doctor did not himself put in an appearance. He was wont to tell the boys that he had done all that when he was young, and that now in his old age it suited him best to have his breakfast before he began the work of the day. Mr. Peacocke, of course, attended the morning school. Indeed, as the matutinal performances were altogether classical, it was impossible that much should be done without him. On this Saturday morning, however, he was not present; and a few minutes after the proper time, the mathematical master took his place. "I saw him coming across out of his own door," little Jack Talbot said to the younger of the two Clifford boys, "and there was a man coming up from the gate who met him." "What sort of a man?" asked Clifford. "He was a rummy-looking fellow, with a great beard, and a queer kind of coat. I never saw any one like him before." "And where did they go?" "They stood talking for a minute or two just before the front door, and then Mr. Peacocke took him into the house. I heard him tell Carstairs to go through and send word up to the Doctor that he wouldn't be in school this morning." It had all happened just as young Talbot had said. A very "rummy-looking fellow" had at that early hour been driven over from Broughton to Bowick, and had caught Mr. Peacocke just as he was going into the school. He was a man with a beard, loose, flowing on both sides, as though he were winged like a bird,--a beard that had been black, but was now streaked through and through with grey hairs. The man had a coat with frogged buttons that must have been intended to have a military air when it was new, but which was now much the worse for wear. The coat was so odd as to have caught young Talbot's attention at once. And the man's hat was old and seedy. But there was a look about him as though he were by no means ashamed either of himself or of his present purpose. "He came in a gig," said Talbot to his friend; "for I saw the horse standing at the gate, and the man sitting in the gig." "You remember me, no doubt," the stranger said, when he encountered Mr. Peacocke. "I do not remember you in the least," the schoolmaster answered. "Come, come; that won't do. You know me well enough. I'm Robert Lefroy." Then Mr. Peacocke, looking at him again, knew that the man was the brother of his wife's husband. He had not seen him often, but he recognised him as Robert Lefroy, and having recognised him he took him into the house. Part III. CHAPTER VII. ROBERT LEFROY. FERDINAND LEFROY, the man who had in truth been the woman's husband, had, during that one interview which had taken place between him and the man who had married his wife, on his return to St. Louis, declared that his brother Robert was dead. But so had Robert, when Peacocke encountered him down at Texas, declared that Ferdinand was dead. Peacocke knew that no word of truth could be expected from the mouths of either of them. But seeing is believing. He had seen Ferdinand alive at St. Louis after his marriage, and by seeing him, had been driven away from his home back to his old country. Now he also saw this other man, and was aware that his secret was no longer in his own keeping. "Yes, I know you now. Why, when I saw you last, did you tell me that your brother was dead? Why did you bring so great an injury on your sister-in-law?" "I never told you anything of the kind." "As God is above us you told me so." "I don't know anything about that, my friend. Maybe I was cut. I used to be drinking a good deal them days. Maybe I didn't say anything of the kind,--only it suited you to go back and tell her so. Anyways I disremember it altogether. Anyways he wasn't dead. And I ain't dead now." "I can see that." "And I ain't drunk now. But I am not quite so well off as a fellow would wish to be. Can you get me breakfast?" "Yes, I can get you breakfast," he said, after pausing for a while. Then he rang the bell and told the girl to bring some breakfast for the gentleman as soon as possible into the room in which they were sitting. This was in a little library in which he was in the habit of studying and going through lessons with the boys. He had brought the man here so that his wife might not come across him. As soon as the order was given, he ran up-stairs to her room, to save her from coming down. "A man;--what man?" she asked. "Robert Lefroy. I must go to him at once. Bear yourself well and boldly, my darling. It is he, certainly. I know nothing yet of what he may have to say, but it will be well that you should avoid him if possible. When I have heard anything I will tell you all." Then he hurried down and found the man examining the book-shelves. "You have got yourself up pretty tidy again, Peacocke," said Lefroy. "Pretty well." "The old game, I suppose. Teaching the young idea. Is this what you call a college, now, in your country?" "It is a school." "And you're one of the masters." "I am the second master." "It ain't as good, I reckon, as the Missouri College." "It's not so large, certainly." "What's the screw?" he said. "The payment, you mean. It can hardly serve us now to go into matters such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?" "Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them's what's brought me here." "I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come," said Peacocke. "Yes, I've a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here's the breakfast, and I'm well-nigh starved. What, cold meat! I'm darned if I can eat cold meat. Haven't you got anything hot, my dear?" Then it was explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would choose to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this, however, he objected, and then the girl left the room. "I've a good many things to say of one kind or another," he continued. "It's difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with each other." "I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call it." "I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not?" This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it hard to answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. "Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs. Peacocke, eh?" "Yes, I call her Mrs. Peacocke." "And she is here living with you?" "Yes, she is here." "Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-in-law, anyway." "No," said Mr. Peacocke; "I think, on the whole, that she had better not come down and see you." "You don't mean to say she isn't my sister-in-law? She's that, whatever else she is. She's that, whatever name she goes by. If Ferdinand had been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St. Louis had been ever so good, still she'd been my sister-in-law." "Not a doubt about it," said Mr. Peacocke. "But still, under all the circumstances, she had better not see you." "Well, that's a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you'll come round by-and-by. She goes by Mrs. Peacocke?" "She is regarded as my wife," said the husband, feeling himself to become more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same time how necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden. "Whether true or false?" asked the brother-in-law. "I will answer no such question as that." "You ain't very well disposed to answer any question, as far as I can see. But I shall have to make you answer one or two before I've done with you. There's a Doctor here, isn't there, as this school belongs to?" "Yes, there is. It belongs to Dr. Wortle." "It's him these boys are sent to?" "Yes, he is the master; I am only his assistant." "It's him they comes to for education, and morals, and religion?" "Quite so." "And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law;--how you came and married her when she was another man's wife, and took her away when you knew as that other man was alive and kicking?" Mr. Peacocke, when these questions were put to him, remained silent, because literally he did not know how to answer them. He was quite prepared to take his position as he found it. He had told himself before this dreadful man had appeared, that the truth must be made known at Bowick, and that he and his wife must pack up and flit. It was not that the man could bring upon him any greater evil than he had anticipated. But the questions which were asked him were in themselves so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife's brother-in-law. He could not turn him out of the house as he would a stranger, had a stranger come there asking such questions without any claim of family. Abominable as the man was to him, still he was there with a certain amount of right upon his side. "I think," said he, "that questions such as those you've asked can be of no service to you. To me they are intended only to be injurious." "They're as a preface to what is to come," said Robert Lefroy, with an impudent leer upon his face. "The questions, no doubt, are disagreeable enough. She ain't your wife no more than she's mine. You've no business with her; and that you knew when you took her away from St. Louis. You may, or you mayn't, have been fooled by some one down in Texas when you went back and married her in all that hurry. But you knew what you were doing well enough when you took her away. You won't dare to tell me that you hadn't seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off from the College?" Then he paused, waiting again for a reply. "As I told you before," he said, "no further conversation on the subject can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to what I knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to hear, you can say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and tell it to them." "That's just it," said Lefroy. "Then go and tell it." "You're in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don't want to drop in and spoil your little game. You're making money of your little game. I can help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do at present. I don't want to blow upon you. But as you're making money out of it, I'd like to make a little too. I am precious hard up,--I am." "You will make no money of me," said the other. "A little will go a long way with me; and remember, I have got tidings now which are worth paying for." "What tidings?" "If they're worth paying for, it's not likely that you are going to get them for nothing." "Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me will certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you might be able to ruin me to-morrow I would not give you a dollar to save myself." "But her," said Lefroy, pointing as it were up-stairs, with his thumb over his shoulder. "Nor her," said Peacocke. "You don't care very much about her, then?" "How much I may care I shall not trouble myself to explain to you. I certainly shall not endeavour to serve her after that fashion. I begin to understand why you have come, and can only beg you to believe that you have come in vain." Lefroy turned to his food, which he had not yet finished, while his companion sat silent at the window, trying to arrange in his mind the circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself that had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been matter of no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been told to the Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could have added nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there would be a race which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor would, no doubt, be led to feel that the narration was made because it could no longer be kept back. Should this man be with the Doctor first, and should the story be told as he would tell it, then it would be impossible for Mr. Peacocke, in acknowledging the truth of it all, to bring his friend's mind back to the condition in which it would have been had this intruder not been in the way. And yet he could not make a race of it with the man. He could not rush across, and, all but out of breath with his energy, begin his narration while Lefroy was there knocking at the door. There would be an absence of dignity in such a mode of proceeding which alone was sufficient to deter him. He had fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said that he would be there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do what he would he would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor should seek an earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from his purpose by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. "Well!" said Lefroy, as soon as he had eaten his last mouthful. "I have nothing to say to you," said Peacocke. "Nothing to say?" "Not a word." "Well, that's queer. I should have thought there'd have been a many words. I've got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it;--precious soon too. Is there any hotel here, where I can put this horse up? I suppose you haven't got stables of your own? I wonder if the Doctor would give me accommodation?" "I haven't got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you accommodation. There is a public-house less than a quarter of a mile further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better go there yourself, because after what has taken place, I am bound to tell you that you will not be admitted here." "Not admitted?" "No. You must leave this house, and will not be admitted into it again as long as I live in it." "The Doctor will admit me." "Very likely. I, at any rate, shall do nothing to dissuade him. If you go down to the road you'll see the gate leading up to his house. I think you'll find that he is down-stairs by this time." "You take it very cool, Peacocke." "I only tell you the truth. With you I will have nothing more to do. You have a story which you wish to tell to Dr. Wortle. Go and tell it to him." "I can tell it to all the world," said Lefroy. "Go and tell it to all the world." "And I ain't to see my sister?" "No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish to see one who has only injured her?" "I ain't injured her;--at any rate not as yet. I ain't done nothing;--not as yet. I've been as dark as the grave;--as yet. Let her come down, and you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can't settle it." "There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do, nothing that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have anything to tell, go and tell it." "Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You're comfortable here; why not remain so? I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you;--and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn't be much to you. You were always a fellow as had a little money by you." "If this box were full of gold," said the schoolmaster, laying his hand upon a black desk which stood on the table, "I would not give you one cent to induce you to hold your tongue for ever. I would not condescend even to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can disturb our happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr. Wortle. Go and try." Mr. Peacocke's manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr. Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman was accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet they were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr. Wortle know that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which the boys were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for education, for morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor's position. He had known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been aware that a schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth married must be out of place in an English seminary such as this. But yet he now began to doubt. "I am to be turned out, then?" he asked. "Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better." "That's a pretty sort of welcome to your wife's brother-in-law, who has just come over all the way from Mexico to see her." "To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence," said Peacocke. "Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you remain much longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you." "You will?" "Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my work leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship. Go and see what you can do as my enemy." "I will," said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; "I will. If I'm to be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have offered you the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law." "Bosh," said Mr. Peacocke. "And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy. I could have put you altogether on your legs, but I'll leave you without an inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don't." Then he put his hat on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road towards the gate. Mr. Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room collecting his thoughts, and then went up-stairs to his wife. "Has he gone?" she asked. "Yes, he has gone." "And what has he said?" "He has asked for money,--to hold his tongue." "Have you given him any?" "Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade him go and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would be worse for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even yet." "Did he want to see me?" "Yes; but I refused. Was it not better?" "Yes; certainly, if you think so. What could I have said to him? Certainly it was better. His presence would have half killed me. But what will he do, Henry?" "He will tell it all to everybody that he sees." "Oh, my darling!" "What matter though he tells it at the town-cross? It would have been told to-day by myself." "But only to one." "It would have been the same. For any purpose of concealment it would have been the same. I have got to hate the concealment. What have we done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved each other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we should be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not been good and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage, and let the man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe before such a man as that. And were I to do so, I should save you from nothing." CHAPTER VIII. THE STORY IS TOLD. DURING the whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the school. The school hours lasted from half-past nine to twelve, during a portion of which time it was his practice to be there. But sometimes, on a Saturday, he would be absent, when it was understood generally that he was preparing his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might be the case now; but there was a feeling among the boys that he was kept away by some other reason. It was known that during the hour of morning school Mr. Peacocke had been occupied with that uncouth stranger, and some of the boys might have observed that the uncouth stranger had not taken himself altogether away from the premises. There was at any rate a general feeling that the uncouth stranger had something to do with the Doctor's absence. Mr. Peacocke did his best to go on with the work as though nothing had occurred to disturb the usual tenor of his way, and as far as the boys were aware he succeeded. He was just as clear about his Greek verbs, just as incisive about that passage of Cæsar, as he would have been had Colonel Lefroy remained on the other side of the water. But during the whole time he was exercising his mind in that painful process of thinking of two things at once. He was determined that Cæsar should be uppermost; but it may be doubted whether he succeeded. At that very moment Colonel Lefroy might be telling the Doctor that his Ella was in truth the wife of another man. At that moment the Doctor might be deciding in his anger that the sinful and deceitful man should no longer be "officer of his." The hour was too important to him to leave his mind at his own disposal. Nevertheless he did his best. "Clifford, junior," he said, "I shall never make you understand what Cæsar says here or elsewhere if you do not give your entire mind to Cæsar." "I do give my entire mind to Cæsar," said Clifford, junior. "Very well; now go on and try again. But remember that Cæsar wants all your mind." As he said this he was revolving in his own mind how he would face the Doctor when the Doctor should look at him in his wrath. If the Doctor were in any degree harsh with him, he would hold his own against the Doctor as far as the personal contest might go. At twelve the boys went out for an hour before their dinner, and Lord Carstairs asked him to play a game of rackets. "Not to-day, my Lord," he said. "Is anything wrong with you?" "Yes, something is very wrong." They had strolled out of the building, and were walking up and down the gravel terrace in front when this was said. "I knew something was wrong, because you called me my Lord." "Yes, something is so wrong as to alter for me all the ordinary ways of my life. But I wasn't thinking of it. It came by accident,--just because I am so troubled." "What is it?" "There has been a man here,--a man whom I knew in America." "An enemy?" "Yes,--an enemy. One who is anxious to do me all the injury he can." "Are you in his power, Mr. Peacocke?" "No, thank God; not that. I am in no man's power. He cannot do me any material harm. Anything which may happen would have happened whether he had come or not. But I am unhappy." "I wish I knew." "So do I,--with all my heart. I wish you knew; I wish you knew. I would that all the world knew. But we shall live through it, no doubt. And if we do not, what matter. 'Nil conscire sibi,--nulla pallescere culpa.' That is all that is necessary to a man. I have done nothing of which I repent;--nothing that I would not do again; nothing of which I am ashamed to speak as far as the judgment of other men is concerned. Go, now. They are making up sides for cricket. Perhaps I can tell you more before the evening is over." Both Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were accustomed to dine with the boys at one, when Carstairs, being a private pupil, only had his lunch. But on this occasion she did not come into the dining-room. "I don't think I can to-day," she said, when he bade her to take courage, and not be altered more than she could help, in her outward carriage, by the misery of her present circumstances. "I could not eat if I were there, and then they would look at me." "If it be so, do not attempt it. There is no necessity. What I mean is, that the less one shrinks the less will be the suffering. It is the man who shivers on the brink that is cold, and not he who plunges into the water. If it were over,--if the first brunt of it were over, I could find means to comfort you." He went through the dinner, as he had done the Cæsar, eating the roast mutton and the baked potatoes, and the great plateful of currant-pie that was brought to him. He was fed and nourished, no doubt, but it may be doubtful whether he knew much of the flavour of what he ate. But before the dinner was quite ended, before he had said the grace which it was always his duty to pronounce, there came a message to him from the rectory. "The Doctor would be glad to see him as soon as dinner was done." He waited very calmly till the proper moment should come for the grace, and then, very calmly, he took his way over to the house. He was certain now that Lefroy had been with the Doctor, because he was sent for considerably before the time fixed for the interview. It was his chief resolve to hold his own before the Doctor. The Doctor, who could read a character well, had so read that of Mr. Peacocke's as to have been aware from the first that no censure, no fault-finding, would be possible if the connection were to be maintained. Other ushers, other curates, he had occasionally scolded. He had been very careful never even to seem to scold Mr. Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke had been aware of it too,--aware that he could not endure it, and aware also that the Doctor avoided any attempt at it. He had known that, as a consequence of this, he was bound to be more than ordinarily prompt in the performance of all his duties. The man who will not endure censure has to take care that he does not deserve it. Such had been this man's struggle, and it had been altogether successful. Each of the two understood the other, and each respected the other. Now their position must be changed. It was hardly possible, Mr. Peacocke thought, as he entered the house, that he should not be rebuked with grave severity, and quite out of the question that he should bear any rebuke at all. The library at the rectory was a spacious and handsome room, in the centre of which stood a large writing-table, at which the Doctor was accustomed to sit when he was at work,--facing the door, with a bow-window at his right hand. But he rarely remained there when any one was summoned into the room, unless some one were summoned with whom he meant to deal in a spirit of severity. Mr. Peacocke would be there perhaps three or four times a-week, and the Doctor would always get up from his chair and stand, or seat himself elsewhere in the room, and would probably move about with vivacity, being a fidgety man of quick motions, who sometimes seemed as though he could not hold his own body still for a moment. But now when Mr. Peacocke entered the room he did not leave his place at the table. "Would you take a chair?" he said; "there is something that we must talk about." "Colonel Lefroy has been with you, I take it." "A man calling himself by that name has been here. Will you not take a chair?" "I do not know that it will be necessary. What he has told you,--what I suppose he has told you,--is true." "You had better at any rate take a chair. I do not believe that what he has told me is true." "But it is." "I do not believe that what he has told me is true. Some of it cannot, I think, be true. Much of it is not so,--unless I am more deceived in you than I ever was in any man. At any rate sit down." Then the schoolmaster did sit down. "He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel bigamist." "I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from his chair. "One who has been willing to sacrifice a woman to his passion." "No; no." "Who deceived her by false witnesses." "Never." "And who has now refused to allow her to see her own husband's brother, lest she should learn the truth." "She is there,--at any rate for you to see." "Therefore the man is a liar. A long story has to be told, as to which at present I can only guess what may be the nature. I presume the story will be the same as that you would have told had the man never come here." "Exactly the same, Dr. Wortle." "Therefore you will own that I am right in asking you to sit down. The story may be very long,--that is, if you mean to tell it." "I do,--and did. I was wrong from the first in supposing that the nature of my marriage need be of no concern to others, but to herself and to me." "Yes,--Mr. Peacocke; yes. We are, all of us, joined together too closely to admit of isolation such as that." There was something in this which grated against the schoolmaster's pride, though nothing had been said as to which he did not know that much harder things must meet his ears before the matter could be brought to an end between him and the Doctor. The "Mister" had been prefixed to his name, which had been omitted for the last three or four months in the friendly intercourse which had taken place between them; and then, though it had been done in the form of agreeing with what he himself had said, the Doctor had made his first complaint by declaring that no man had a right to regard his own moral life as isolated from the lives of others around him. It was as much as to declare at once that he had been wrong in bringing this woman to Bowick, and calling her Mrs. Peacocke. He had said as much himself, but that did not make the censure lighter when it came to him from the mouth of the Doctor. "But come," said the Doctor, getting up from his seat at the table, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, so as to mitigate the austerity of the position; "let us hear the true story. So big a liar as that American gentleman probably never put his foot in this room before." Then Mr. Peacocke told the story, beginning with all those incidents of the woman's life which had seemed to be so cruel both to him and to others at St. Louis before he had been in any degree intimate with her. Then came the departure of the two men, and the necessity for pecuniary assistance, which Mr. Peacocke now passed over lightly, saying nothing specially of the assistance which he himself had rendered. "And she was left quite alone?" asked the Doctor. "Quite alone." "And for how long?" "Eighteen months had passed before we heard any tidings. Then there came news that Colonel Lefroy was dead." "The husband?" "We did not know which. They were both Colonels." "And then?" "Did he tell you that I went down into Mexico?" "Never mind what he told me. All that he told me were lies. What you tell me I shall believe. But tell me everything." There was a tone of complete authority in the Doctor's voice, but mixed with this there was a kindliness which made the schoolmaster determined that he would tell everything as far as he knew how. "When I heard that one of them was dead, I went away down to the borders of Texas, in order that I might learn the truth." "Did she know that you were going?" "Yes;--I told her the day I started." "And you told her why?" "That I might find out whether her husband were still alive." "But----" The Doctor hesitated as he asked the next question. He knew, however, that it had to be asked, and went on with it. "Did she know that you loved her?" To this the other made no immediate answer. The Doctor was a man who, in such a matter, was intelligent enough, and he therefore put his question in another shape. "Had you told her that you loved her?" "Never,--while I thought that other man was living." "She must have guessed it," said the Doctor. "She might guess what she pleased. I told her that I was going, and I went." "And how was it, then?" "I went, and after a time I came across the very man who is here now, this Robert Lefroy. I met him and questioned him, and he told me that his brother had been killed while fighting. It was a lie." "Altogether a lie?" asked the Doctor. "How altogether?" "He might have been wounded and given over for dead. The brother might have thought him to be dead." "I do not think so. I believe it to have been a plot in order that the man might get rid of his wife. But I believed it. Then I went back to St. Louis,--and we were married." "You thought there was no obstacle but what you might become man and wife legally?" "I thought she was a widow." "There was no further delay?" "Very little. Why should there have been delay?" "I only ask." "She had suffered enough, and I had waited long enough." "She owed you a great deal," said the Doctor. "It was not a case of owing," said Mr. Peacocke. "At least I think not. I think she had learnt to love me as I had learnt to love her." "And how did it go with you then?" "Very well,--for some months. There was nothing to mar our happiness,--till one day he came and made his way into our presence." "The husband?" "Yes; the husband, Ferdinand Lefroy, the elder brother;--he of whom I had been told that he was dead; he was there standing before us, talking to us,--half drunk, but still well knowing what he was doing." "Why had he come?" "In want of money, I suppose,--as this other one has come here." "Did he ask for money?" "I do not think he did then, though he spoke of his poor condition. But on the next day he went away. We heard that he had taken the steamer down the river for New Orleans. We have never heard more of him from that day to this." "Can you imagine what caused conduct such as that?" "I think money was given to him that night to go; but if so, I do not know by whom. I gave him none. During the next day or two I found that many in St. Louis knew that he had been there." "They knew then that you----" "They knew that my wife was not my wife. That is what you mean to ask?" The Doctor nodded his head. "Yes, they knew that." "And what then?" "Word was brought to me that she and I must part if I chose to keep my place at the College." "That you must disown her?" "The President told me that it would be better that she should go elsewhere. How could I send her from me?" "No, indeed;--but as to the facts?" "You know them all pretty well now. I could not send her from me. Nor could I go and leave her. Had we been separated then, because of the law or because of religion, the burden, the misery, the desolation, would all have been upon her." "I would have clung to her, let the law say what it might," said the Doctor, rising from his chair. "You would?" "I would;--and I think that I could have reconciled it to my God. But I might have been wrong," he added; "I might have been wrong. I only say what I should have done." "It was what I did." "Exactly; exactly. We are both sinners. Both might have been wrong. Then you brought her over here, and I suppose I know the rest?" "You know everything now," said Mr. Peacocke. "And believe every word I have heard. Let me say that, if that may be any consolation to you. Of my friendship you may remain assured. Whether you can remain here is another question." "We are prepared to go." "You cannot expect that I should have thought it all out during the hearing of the story. There is much to be considered;--very much. I can only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized with another more warmly than I do with you. You had better let me have till Monday to think about it." CHAPTER IX. MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE. IN this way nothing was said at the first telling of the story to decide the fate of the schoolmaster and of the lady whom we shall still call his wife. There certainly had been no horror displayed by the Doctor. "Whether you can remain here is another question." The Doctor, during the whole interview, had said nothing harder than that. Mr. Peacocke, as he left the rectory, did feel that the Doctor had been very good to him. There had not only been no horror, but an expression of the kindest sympathy. And as to the going, that was left in doubt. He himself felt that he ought to go;--but it would have been so very sad to have to go without a friend left with whom he could consult as to his future condition! "He has been very kind, then?" said Mrs. Peacocke to her husband when he related to her the particulars of the interview. "Very kind." "And he did not reproach you." "Not a word." "Nor me?" "He declared that had it been he who was in question he would have clung to you for ever and ever." "Did he? Then will he leave us here?" "That does not follow. I should think not. He will know that others must know it. Your brother-in-law will not tell him only. Lefroy, when he finds that he can get no money here, from sheer revenge will tell the story everywhere. When he left the rectory, he was probably as angry with the Doctor as he is with me. He will do all the harm that he can to all of us." "We must go, then?" "I should think so. Your position here would be insupportable even if it could be permitted. You may be sure of this;--everybody will know it." "What do I care for everybody?" she said. "It is not that I am ashamed of myself." "No, dearest; nor am I,--ashamed of myself or of you. But there will be bitter words, and bitter words will produce bitter looks and scant respect. How would it be with you if the boys looked at you as though they thought ill of you?" "They would not;--oh, they would not!" "Or the servants,--if they reviled you?" "Could it come to that?" "It must not come to that. But it is as the Doctor said himself just now;--a man cannot isolate the morals, the manners, the ways of his life from the morals of others. Men, if they live together, must live together by certain laws." "Then there can be no hope for us." "None that I can see, as far as Bowick is concerned. We are too closely joined in our work with other people. There is not a boy here with whose father and mother and sisters we are not more or less connected. When I was preaching in the church, there was not one in the parish with whom I was not connected. Would it do, do you think, for a priest to preach against drunkenness, whilst he himself was a noted drunkard?" "Are we like that?" "It is not what the drunken priest might think of himself, but what others might think of him. It would not be with us the position which we know that we hold together, but that which others would think it to be. If I were in Dr. Wortle's case, and another were to me as I am to him, I should bid him go." "You would turn him away from you; him and his--wife?" "I should. My first duty would be to my parish and to my school. If I could befriend him otherwise I would do so;--and that is what I expect from Dr. Wortle. We shall have to go, and I shall be forced to approve of our dismissal." In this way Mr. Peacocke came definitely and clearly to a conclusion in his own mind. But it was very different with Dr. Wortle. The story so disturbed him, that during the whole of that afternoon he did not attempt to turn his mind to any other subject. He even went so far as to send over to Mr. Puddicombe and asked for some assistance for the afternoon service on the following day. He was too unwell, he said, to preach himself, and the one curate would have the two entire services unless Mr. Puddicombe could help him. Could Mr. Puddicombe come himself and see him on the Sunday afternoon? This note he sent away by a messenger, who came back with a reply, saying that Mr. Puddicombe would himself preach in the afternoon, and would afterwards call in at the rectory. For an hour or two before his dinner, the Doctor went out on horseback, and roamed about among the lanes, endeavouring to make up his mind. He was hitherto altogether at a loss as to what he should do in this present uncomfortable emergency. He could not bring his conscience and his inclination to come square together. And even when he counselled himself to yield to his conscience, his very conscience,--a second conscience, as it were,--revolted against the first. His first conscience told him that he owed a primary duty to his parish, a second duty to his school, and a third to his wife and daughter. In the performance of all these duties he would be bound to rid himself of Mr. Peacocke. But then there came that other conscience, telling him that the man had been more "sinned against than sinning,"--that common humanity required him to stand by a man who had suffered so much, and had suffered so unworthily. Then this second conscience went on to remind him that the man was pre-eminently fit for the duties which he had undertaken,--that the man was a God-fearing, moral, and especially intellectual assistant in his school,--that were he to lose him he could not hope to find any one that would be his equal, or at all approaching to him in capacity. This second conscience went further, and assured him that the man's excellence as a schoolmaster was even increased by the peculiarity of his position. Do we not all know that if a man be under a cloud the very cloud will make him more attentive to his duties than another? If a man, for the wages which he receives, can give to his employer high character as well as work, he will think that he may lighten his work because of his character. And as to this man, who was the very ph[oe]nix of school assistants, there would really be nothing amiss with his character if only this piteous incident as to his wife were unknown. In this way his second conscience almost got the better of the first. But then it would be known. It would be impossible that it should not be known. He had already made up his mind to tell Mr. Puddicombe, absolutely not daring to decide in such an emergency without consulting some friend. Mr. Puddicombe would hold his peace if he were to promise to do so. Certainly he might be trusted to do that. But others would know it; the Bishop would know it; Mrs. Stantiloup would know it. That man, of course, would take care that all Broughton, with its close full of cathedral clergymen, would know it. When Mrs. Stantiloup should know it there would not be a boy's parent through all the school who would not know it. If he kept the man he must keep him resolving that all the world should know that he kept him, that all the world should know of what nature was the married life of the assistant in whom he trusted. And he must be prepared to face all the world, confiding in the uprightness and the humanity of his purpose. In such case he must say something of this kind to all the world; "I know that they are not married. I know that their condition of life is opposed to the law of God and man. I know that she bears a name that is not, in truth, her own; but I think that the circumstances in this case are so strange, so peculiar, that they excuse a disregard even of the law of God and man." Had he courage enough for this? And if the courage were there, was he high enough and powerful enough to carry out such a purpose? Could he beat down the Mrs. Stantiloups? And, indeed, could he beat down the Bishop and the Bishop's phalanx;--for he knew that the Bishop and the Bishop's phalanx would be against him? They could not touch him in his living, because Mr. Peacocke would not be concerned in the services of the church; but would not his school melt away to nothing in his hands, if he were to attempt to carry it on after this fashion? And then would he not have destroyed himself without advantage to the man whom he was anxious to assist? To only one point did he make up his mind certainly during that ride. Before he slept that night he would tell the whole story to his wife. He had at first thought that he would conceal it from her. It was his rule of life to act so entirely on his own will, that he rarely consulted her on matters of any importance. As it was, he could not endure the responsibility of acting by himself. People would say of him that he had subjected his wife to contamination, and had done so without giving her any choice in the matter. So he resolved that he would tell his wife. "Not married," said Mrs. Wortle, when she heard the story. "Married; yes. They were married. It was not their fault that the marriage was nothing. What was he to do when he heard that they had been deceived in this way?" "Not married properly! Poor woman!" "Yes, indeed. What should I have done if such had happened to me when we had been six months married?" "It couldn't have been." "Why not to you as well as to another?" "I was only a young girl." "But if you had been a widow?" "Don't, my dear; don't! It wouldn't have been possible." "But you pity her?" "Oh yes." "And you see that a great misfortune has fallen upon her, which she could not help?" "Not till she knew it," said the wife who had been married quite properly. "And what then? What should she have done then?" "Gone," said the wife, who had no doubt as to the comfort, the beauty, the perfect security of her own position. "Gone?" "Gone away at once." "Whither should she go? Who would have taken her by the hand? Who would have supported her? Would you have had her lay herself down in the first gutter and die?" "Better that than what she did do," said Mrs. Wortle. "Then, by all the faith I have in Christ, I think you are hard upon her. Do you think what it is to have to go out and live alone;--to have to look for your bread in desolation?" "I have never been tried, my dear," said she, clinging close to him. "I have never had anything but what was good." "Ought we not to be kind to one to whom Fortune has been so unkind?" "If we can do so without sin." "Sin! I despise the fear of sin which makes us think that its contact will soil us. Her sin, if it be sin, is so near akin to virtue, that I doubt whether we should not learn of her rather than avoid her." "A woman should not live with a man unless she be his wife." Mrs. Wortle said this with more of obstinacy than he had expected. "She was his wife, as far as she knew." "But when she knew that it was not so any longer,--then she should have left him." "And have starved?" "I suppose she might have taken bread from him." "You think, then, that she should go away from here?" "Do not you think so? What will Mrs. Stantiloup say?" "And I am to turn them out into the cold because of a virago such as she is? You would have no more charity than that?" "Oh, Jeffrey! what would the Bishop say?" "Cannot you get beyond Mrs. Stantiloup and beyond the Bishop, and think what Justice demands?" "The boys would all be taken away. If you had a son, would you send him where there was a schoolmaster living,--living----. Oh, you wouldn't." It is very clear to the Doctor that his wife's mind was made up on the subject; and yet there was no softer-hearted woman than Mrs. Wortle anywhere in the diocese, or one less likely to be severe upon a neighbour. Not only was she a kindly, gentle woman, but she was one who always had been willing to take her husband's opinion on all questions of right and wrong. She, however, was decided that they must go. On the next morning, after service, which the schoolmaster did not attend, the Doctor saw Mr. Peacocke, and declared his intention of telling the story to Mr. Puddicombe. "If you bid me hold my tongue," he said, "I will do so. But it will be better that I should consult another clergyman. He is a man who can keep a secret." Then Mr. Peacocke gave him full authority to tell everything to Mr. Puddicombe. He declared that the Doctor might tell the story to whom he would. Everybody might know it now. He had, he said, quite made up his mind about that. What was the good of affecting secrecy when this man Lefroy was in the country? In the afternoon, after service, Mr. Puddicombe came up to the house, and heard it all. He was a dry, thin, apparently unsympathetic man, but just withal, and by no means given to harshness. He could pardon whenever he could bring himself to believe that pardon would have good results; but he would not be driven by impulses and softness of heart to save the faulty one from the effect of his fault, merely because that effect would be painful. He was a man of no great mental calibre,--not sharp, and quick, and capable of repartee as was the Doctor, but rational in all things, and always guided by his conscience. "He has behaved very badly to you," he said, when he heard the story. "I do not think so; I have no such feeling myself." "He behaved very badly in bringing her here without telling you all the facts. Considering the position that she was to occupy, he must have known that he was deceiving you." "I can forgive all that," said the Doctor, vehemently. "As far as I myself am concerned, I forgive everything." "You are not entitled to do so." "How--not entitled?" "You must pardon me if I seem to take a liberty in expressing myself too boldly in this matter. Of course I should not do so unless you asked me." "I want you to speak freely,--all that you think." "In considering his conduct, we have to consider it all. First of all there came a great and terrible misfortune which cannot but excite our pity. According to his own story, he seems, up to that time, to have been affectionate and generous." "I believe every word of it," said the Doctor. "Allowing for a man's natural bias on his own side, so do I. He had allowed himself to become attached to another man's wife; but we need not, perhaps, insist upon that." The Doctor moved himself uneasily in his chair, but said nothing. "We will grant that he put himself right by his marriage, though in that, no doubt, there should have been more of caution. Then came his great misfortune. He knew that his marriage had been no marriage. He saw the man and had no doubt." "Quite so; quite so," said the Doctor, impatiently. "He should, of course, have separated himself from her. There can be no doubt about it. There is no room for any quibble." "Quibble!" said the Doctor. "I mean that no reference in our own minds to the pity of the thing, to the softness of the moment,--should make us doubt about it. Feelings such as these should induce us to pardon sinners, even to receive them back into our friendship and respect,--when they have seen the error of their ways and have repented." "You are very hard." "I hope not. At any rate I can only say as I think. But, in truth, in the present emergency you have nothing to do with all that. If he asked you for counsel you might give it to him, but that is not his present position. He has told you his story, not in a spirit of repentance, but because such telling had become necessary." "He would have told it all the same though this man had never come." "Let us grant that it is so, there still remains his relation to you. He came here under false pretences, and has done you a serious injury." "I think not," said the Doctor. "Would you have taken him into your establishment had you known it all before? Certainly not. Therefore I say that he has deceived you. I do not advise you to speak to him with severity; but he should, I think, be made to know that you appreciate what he has done." "And you would turn him off;--send him away at once, out about his business?" "Certainly I would send him away." "You think him such a reprobate that he should not be allowed to earn his bread anywhere?" "I have not said so. I know nothing of his means of earning his bread. Men living in sin earn their bread constantly. But he certainly should not be allowed to earn his here." "Not though that man who was her husband should now be dead, and he should again marry,--legally marry,--this woman to whom he has been so true and loyal?" "As regards you and your school," said Mr. Puddicombe, "I do not think it would alter his position." With this the conference ended, and Mr. Puddicombe took his leave. As he left the house the Doctor declared to himself that the man was a strait-laced, fanatical, hard-hearted bigot. But though he said so to himself, he hardly thought so; and was aware that the man's words had had effect upon him. Part IV. CHAPTER X. MR. PEACOCKE GOES. THE Doctor had been all but savage with his wife, and, for the moment, had hated Mr. Puddicombe, but still what they said had affected him. They were both of them quite clear that Mr. Peacocke should be made to go at once. And he, though he hated Mr. Puddicombe for his cold logic, could not but acknowledge that all the man had said was true. According to the strict law of right and wrong the two unfortunates should have parted when they found that they were not in truth married. And, again, according to the strict law of right and wrong, Mr. Peacocke should not have brought the woman there, into his school, as his wife. There had been deceit. But then would not he, Dr. Wortle himself, have been guilty of similar deceit had it fallen upon him to have to defend a woman who had been true and affectionate to him? Mr. Puddicombe would have left the woman to break her heart and have gone away and done his duty like a Christian, feeling no tugging at his heart-strings. It was so that our Doctor spoke to himself of his counsellor, sitting there alone in his library. During his conference with Lefroy something had been said which had impressed him suddenly with an idea. A word had fallen from the Colonel, an unintended word, by which the Doctor was made to believe that the other Colonel was dead, at any rate now. He had cunningly tried to lead up to the subject, but Robert Lefroy had been on his guard as soon as he had perceived the Doctor's object, and had drawn back, denying the truth of the word he had before spoken. The Doctor at last asked him the question direct. Lefroy then declared that his brother had been alive and well when he left Texas, but he did this in such a manner as to strengthen in the Doctor's mind the impression that he was dead. If it were so, then might not all these crooked things be made straight? He had thought it better to raise no false hopes. He had said nothing of this to Peacocke on discussing the story. He had not even hinted it to his wife, from whom it might probably make its way to Mrs. Peacocke. He had suggested it to Mr. Puddicombe,--asking whether there might not be a way out of all their difficulties. Mr. Puddicombe had declared that there could be no such way as far as the school was concerned. Let them marry, and repent their sins, and go away from the spot they had contaminated, and earn their bread in some place in which there need be no longer additional sin in concealing the story of their past life. That seemed to have been Mr. Puddicombe's final judgment. But it was altogether opposed to Dr. Wortle's feelings. When Mr. Puddicombe came down from the church to the rectory, Lord Carstairs was walking home after the afternoon service with Miss Wortle. It was his custom to go to church with the family, whereas the school went there under the charge of one of the ushers and sat apart in a portion of the church appropriated to themselves. Mrs. Wortle, when she found that the Doctor was not going to the afternoon service, declined to go herself. She was thoroughly disturbed by all these bad tidings, and was, indeed, very little able to say her prayers in a fit state of mind. She could hardly keep herself still for a moment, and was as one who thinks that the crack of doom is coming;--so terrible to her was her vicinity and connection with this man, and with the woman who was not his wife. Then, again, she became flurried when she found that Lord Carstairs and Mary would have to walk alone together; and she made little abortive attempts to keep first the one and then the other from going to church. Mary probably saw no reason for staying away, while Lord Carstairs possibly found an additional reason for going. Poor Mrs. Wortle had for some weeks past wished that the charming young nobleman had been at home with his father and mother, or anywhere but in her house. It had been arranged, however, that he should go in July and not return after the summer holidays. Under these circumstances, having full confidence in her girl, she had refrained from again expressing her fears to the Doctor. But there were fears. It was evident to her, though the Doctor seemed to see nothing of it, that the young lord was falling in love. It might be that his youth and natural bashfulness would come to her aid, and that nothing should be said before that day in July which would separate them. But when it suddenly occurred to her that they two would walk to and fro from church together, there was cause for additional uneasiness. If she had heard their conversation as they came back she would have been in no way disturbed by its tone on the score of the young man's tenderness towards her daughter, but she might perhaps have been surprised by his vehemence in another respect. She would have been surprised also at finding how much had been said during the last twenty-four hours by others besides herself and her husband about the affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. "Do you know what he came about?" asked Mary. The "he" had of course been Robert Lefroy. "Not in the least; but he came up there looking so queer, as though he certainly had come about something unpleasant." "And then he was with papa afterwards," said Mary. "I am sure papa and mamma not coming to church has something to do with it. And Mr. Peacocke hasn't been to church all day." "Something has happened to make him very unhappy," said the boy. "He told me so even before this man came here. I don't know any one whom I like so much as Mr. Peacocke." "I think it is about his wife," said Mary. "How about his wife?" "I don't know, but I think it is. She is so very quiet." "How quiet, Miss Wortle?" he asked. "She never will come in to see us. Mamma has asked her to dinner and to drink tea ever so often, but she never comes. She calls perhaps once in two or three months in a formal way, and that is all we see of her." "Do you like her?" he asked. "How can I say, when I so seldom see her." "I do. I like her very much. I go and see her often; and I'm sure of this;--she is quite a lady. Mamma asked her to go to Carstairs for the holidays because of what I said." "She is not going?" "No; neither of them will come. I wish they would; and oh, Miss Wortle, I do so wish you were going to be there too." This is all that was said of peculiar tenderness between them on that walk home. Late in the evening,--so late that the boys had already gone to bed,--the Doctor sent again for Mr. Peacocke. "I should not have troubled you to-night," he said, "only that I have heard something from Pritchett." Pritchett was the rectory gardener who had charge also of the school buildings, and was a person of great authority in the establishment. He, as well the Doctor, held Mr. Peacocke in great respect, and would have been almost as unwilling as the Doctor himself to tell stories to the schoolmaster's discredit. "They are saying down at the Lamb"--the Lamb was the Bowick public-house--"that Lefroy told them all yesterday----" the Doctor hesitated before he could tell it. "That my wife is not my wife?" "Just so." "Of course I am prepared for it. I knew that it would be so; did not you?" "I expected it." "I was sure of it. It may be taken for granted at once that there is no longer a secret to keep. I would wish you to act just as though all the facts were known to the entire diocese." After this there was a pause, during which neither of them spoke for a few moments. The Doctor had not intended to declare any purpose of his own on that occasion, but it seemed to him now as though he were almost driven to do so. Then Mr. Peacocke seeing the difficulty at once relieved him from it. "I am quite prepared to leave Bowick," he said, "at once. I know that it must be so. I have thought about it, and have perceived that there is no possible alternative. I should like to consult with you as to whither I had better go. Where shall I first take her?" "Leave her here," said the Doctor. "Here! Where?" "Where she is in the school-house. No one will come to fill your place for a while." "I should have thought," said Mr. Peacocke very slowly, "that her presence--would have been worse almost,--than my own." "To me,"--said the Doctor,--"to me she is as pure as the most unsullied matron in the country." Upon this Mr. Peacocke, jumping from his chair, seized the Doctor's hand, but could not speak for his tears; then he seated himself again, turning his face away towards the wall. "To no one could the presence of either of you be an evil. The evil is, if I may say so, that the two of you should be here together. You should be apart,--till some better day has come upon you." "What better day can ever come?" said the poor man through his tears. Then the Doctor declared his scheme. He told what he thought as to Ferdinand Lefroy, and his reason for believing that the man was dead. "I felt sure from his manner that his brother is now dead in truth. Go to him and ask him boldly," he said. "But his word would not suffice for another marriage ceremony." To this the Doctor agreed. It was not his intention, he said, that they should proceed on evidence as slight as that. No; a step must be taken much more serious in its importance, and occupying a considerable time. He, Peacocke, must go again to Missouri and find out all the truth. The Doctor was of opinion that if this were resolved upon, and that if the whole truth were at once proclaimed, then Mr. Peacocke need not hesitate to pay Robert Lefroy for any information which might assist him in his search. "While you are gone," continued the Doctor almost wildly, "let bishops and Stantiloups and Puddicombes say what they may, she shall remain here. To say that she will be happy is of course vain. There can be no happiness for her till this has been put right. But she will be safe; and here, at my hand, she will, I think, be free from insult. What better is there to be done?" "There can be nothing better," said Peacocke drawing his breath,--as though a gleam of light had shone in upon him. "I had not meant to have spoken to you of this till to-morrow. I should not have done so, but that Pritchett had been with me. But the more I thought of it, the more sure I became that you could not both remain,--till something had been done; till something had been done." "I was sure of it, Dr. Wortle." "Mr. Puddicombe saw that it was so. Mr. Puddicombe is not all the world to me by any means, but he is a man of common sense. I will be frank with you. My wife said that it could not be so." "She shall not stay. Mrs. Wortle shall not be annoyed." "You don't see it yet," said the Doctor. "But you do. I know you do. And she shall stay. The house shall be hers, as her residence, for the next six months. As for money----" "I have got what will do for that, I think." "If she wants money she shall have what she wants. There is nothing I will not do for you in your trouble,--except that you may not both be here together till I shall have shaken hands with her as Mrs. Peacocke in very truth." It was settled that Mr. Peacocke should not go again into the school, or Mrs. Peacocke among the boys, till he should have gone to America and have come back. It was explained in the school by the Doctor early,--for the Doctor must now take the morning school himself,--that circumstances of very grave import made it necessary that Mr. Peacocke should start at once for America. That the tidings which had been published at the Lamb would reach the boys, was more than probable. Nay; was it not certain? It would of course reach all the boys' parents. There was no use, no service, in any secrecy. But in speaking to the school not a word was said of Mrs. Peacocke. The Doctor explained that he himself would take the morning school, and that Mr. Rose, the mathematical master, would take charge of the school meals. Mrs. Cane, the house-keeper, would look to the linen and the bed-rooms. It was made plain that Mrs. Peacocke's services were not to be required; but her name was not mentioned,--except that the Doctor, in order to let it be understood that she was not to be banished from the house, begged the boys as a favour that they would not interrupt Mrs. Peacocke's tranquillity during Mr. Peacocke's absence. On the Tuesday morning Mr. Peacocke started, remaining, however, a couple of days at Broughton, during which the Doctor saw him. Lefroy declared that he knew nothing about his brother,--whether he were alive or dead. He might be dead, because he was always in trouble, and generally drunk. Robert, on the whole, thought it probable that he was dead, but could not be got to say so. For a thousand dollars he would go over to Missouri, and, if necessary to Texas, so as to find the truth. He would then come back and give undeniable evidence. While making this benevolent offer, he declared, with tears in his eyes, that he had come over intending to be a true brother to his sister-in-law, and had simply been deterred from prosecuting his good intentions by Peacocke's austerity. Then he swore a most solemn oath that if he knew anything about his brother Ferdinand he would reveal it. The Doctor and Peacocke agreed together that the man's word was worth nothing; but that the man's services might be useful in enabling them to track out the truth. They were both convinced, by words which fell from him, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead; but this would be of no avail unless they could obtain absolute evidence. During these two days there were various conversations at Broughton between the Doctor, Mr. Peacocke, and Lefroy, in which a plan of action was at length arranged. Lefroy and the schoolmaster were to proceed to America together, and there obtain what evidence they could as to the life or death of the elder brother. When absolute evidence had been obtained of either, a thousand dollars was to be handed to Robert Lefroy. But when this agreement was made the man was given to understand that his own uncorroborated word would go for nothing. "Who is to say what is evidence, and what not?" asked the man, not unnaturally. "Mr. Peacocke must be the judge," said the Doctor. "I ain't going to agree to that," said the other. "Though he were to see him dead, he might swear he hadn't, and not give me a red cent. Why ain't I to be judge as well as he?" "Because you can trust him, and he cannot in the least trust you," said the Doctor. "You know well enough that if he were to see your brother alive, or to see him dead, you would get the money. At any rate, you have no other way of getting it but what we propose." To all this Robert Lefroy at last assented. The prospect before Mr. Peacocke for the next three months was certainly very sad. He was to travel from Broughton to St. Louis, and possibly from thence down into the wilds of Texas, in company with this man, whom he thoroughly despised. Nothing could be more abominable to him than such an association; but there was no other way in which the proposed plan could be carried out. He was to pay Lefroy's expenses back to his own country, and could only hope to keep the man true to his purpose by doing so from day to day. Were he to give the man money, the man would at once disappear. Here in England, and in their passage across the ocean, the man might, in some degree, be amenable and obedient. But there was no knowing to what he might have recourse when he should find himself nearer to his country, and should feel that his companion was distant from his own. "You'll have to keep a close watch upon him," whispered the Doctor to his friend. "I should not advise all this if I did not think you were a man of strong nerve." "I am not afraid," said the other; "but I doubt whether he may not be too many for me. At any rate, I will try it. You will hear from me as I go on." And so they parted as dear friends part. The Doctor had, in truth, taken the man altogether to his heart since all the circumstances of the story had come home to him. And it need hardly be said that the other was aware how deep a debt of gratitude he owed to the protector of his wife. Indeed the very money that was to be paid to Robert Lefroy, if he earned it, was advanced out of the Doctor's pocket. Mr. Peacocke's means were sufficient for the expenses of the journey, but fell short when these thousand dollars had to be provided. CHAPTER XI. THE BISHOP. MR. PEACOCKE had been quite right in saying that the secret would at once be known through the whole diocese. It certainly was so before he had been gone a week, and it certainly was the case also that the diocese generally did not approve of the Doctor's conduct. The woman ought not to have been left there. So said the diocese. It was of course the case, that though the diocese knew much, it did not know all. It is impossible to keep such a story concealed, but it is quite as impossible to make known all its details. In the eyes of the diocese the woman was of course the chief sinner, and the chief sinner was allowed to remain at the school! When this assertion was made to him the Doctor became very angry, saying that Mrs. Peacocke did not remain at the school; that, according to the arrangement as at present made, Mrs. Peacocke had nothing to do with the school; that the house was his own, and that he might lend it to whom he pleased. Was he to turn the woman out houseless, when her husband had gone, on such an errand, on his advice? Of course the house was his own, but as clergyman of the parish he had not a right to do what he liked with it. He had no right to encourage evil. And the man was not the woman's husband. That was just the point made by the diocese. And she was at the school,--living under the same roof with the boys! The diocese was clearly of opinion that all the boys would be taken away. The diocese spoke by the voice of its bishop, as a diocese should do. Shortly after Mr. Peacocke's departure, the Doctor had an interview with his lordship, and told the whole story. The doing this went much against the grain with him, but he hardly dared not to do it. He felt that he was bound to do it on the part of Mrs. Peacocke if not on his own. And then the man, who had now gone, though he had never been absolutely a curate, had preached frequently in the diocese. He felt that it would not be wise to abstain from telling the bishop. The bishop was a goodly man, comely in his person, and possessed of manners which had made him popular in the world. He was one of those who had done the best he could with his talent, not wrapping it up in a napkin, but getting from it the best interest which the world's market could afford. But not on that account was he other than a good man. To do the best he could for himself and his family,--and also to do his duty,--was the line of conduct which he pursued. There are some who reverse this order, but he was not one of them. He had become a scholar in his youth, not from love of scholarship, but as a means to success. The Church had become his profession, and he had worked hard at his calling. He had taught himself to be courteous and urbane, because he had been clever enough to see that courtesy and urbanity are agreeable to men in high places. As a bishop he never spared himself the work which a bishop ought to do. He answered letters, he studied the characters of the clergymen under him, he was just with his patronage, he endeavoured to be efficacious with his charges, he confirmed children in cold weather as well as in warm, he occasionally preached sermons, and he was beautiful and decorous in his gait of manner, as it behoves a clergyman of the Church of England to be. He liked to be master; but even to be master he would not encounter the abominable nuisance of a quarrel. When first coming to the diocese he had had some little difficulty with our Doctor; but the Bishop had abstained from violent assertion, and they had, on the whole, been friends. There was, however, on the Bishop's part, something of a feeling that the Doctor was the bigger man; and it was probable that, without active malignity, he would take advantage of any chance which might lower the Doctor a little, and bring him more within episcopal power. In some degree he begrudged the Doctor his manliness. He listened with many smiles and with perfect courtesy to the story as it was told to him, and was much less severe on the unfortunates than Mr. Puddicombe had been. It was not the wickedness of the two people in living together, or their wickedness in keeping their secret, which offended him so much, as the evil which they were likely to do,--and to have done. "No doubt," he said, "an ill-living man may preach a good sermon, perhaps a better one than a pious God-fearing clergyman, whose intellect may be inferior though his morals are much better;--but coming from tainted lips, the better sermon will not carry a blessing with it." At this the Doctor shook his head. "Bringing a blessing" was a phrase which the Doctor hated. He shook his head not too civilly, saying that he had not intended to trouble his lordship on so difficult a point in ecclesiastical morals. "But we cannot but remember," said the Bishop, "that he has been preaching in your parish church, and the people will know that he has acted among them as a clergyman." "I hope the people, my lord, may never have the Gospel preached to them by a worse man." "I will not judge him; but I do think that it has been a misfortune. You, of course, were in ignorance." "Had I known all about it, I should have been very much inclined to do the same." This was, in fact, not true, and was said simply in a spirit of contradiction. The Bishop shook his head and smiled. "My school is a matter of more importance," said the Doctor. "Hardly, hardly, Dr. Wortle." "Of more importance in this way, that my school may probably be injured, whereas neither the morals nor the faith of the parishioners will have been hurt." "But he has gone." "He has gone;--but she remains." "What!" exclaimed the Bishop. "He has gone, but she remains." He repeated the words very distinctly, with a frown on his brow, as though to show that on that branch of the subject he intended to put up with no opposition,--hardly even with an adverse opinion. "She had a certain charge, as I understand,--as to the school." "She had, my lord; and very well she did her work. I shall have a great loss in her,--for the present." "But you said she remained." "I have lent her the use of the house till her husband shall come back." "Mr. Peacocke, you mean," said the Bishop, who was unable not to put in a contradiction against the untruth of the word which had been used. "I shall always regard them as married." "But they are not." "I have lent her the house, at any rate, during his absence. I could not turn her into the street." "Would not a lodging here in the city have suited her better?" "I thought not. People here would have refused to take her,--because of her story. The wife of some religious grocer, who sands his sugar regularly, would have thought her house contaminated by such an inmate." "So it would have been, Doctor, to some extent." At hearing this the Doctor made very evident signs of discontent. "You cannot alter the ways of the world suddenly, though by example and precept you may help to improve them slowly. In our present imperfect condition of moral culture, it is perhaps well that the company of the guilty should be shunned." "Guilty!" "I am afraid that I must say so. The knowledge that such a feeling exists no doubt deters others from guilt. The fact that wrong-doing in women is scorned helps to maintain the innocence of women. Is it not so?" "I must hesitate before I trouble your lordship by arguing such difficult questions. I thought it right to tell you the facts after what had occurred. He has gone, she is there,--and there she will remain for the present. I could not turn her out. Thinking her, as I do, worthy of my friendship, I could not do other than befriend her." "Of course you must be the judge yourself." "I had to be the judge, my lord." "I am afraid that the parents of the boys will not understand it." "I also am afraid. It will be very hard to make them understand it. There will be some who will work hard to make them misunderstand it." "I hope not that." "There will. I must stand the brunt of it. I have had battles before this, and had hoped that now, when I am getting old, they might have been at an end. But there is something left of me, and I can fight still. At any rate, I have made up my mind about this. There she shall remain till he comes back to fetch her." And so the interview was over, the Bishop feeling that he had in some slight degree had the best of it,--and the Doctor feeling that he, in some slight degree, had had the worst. If possible, he would not talk to the Bishop on the subject again. He told Mr. Puddicombe also. "With your generosity and kindness of heart I quite sympathise," said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be pleasant in his manner. "But not with my prudence." "Not with your prudence," said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be true at the same time. But the Doctor's greatest difficulty was with his wife, whose conduct it was necessary that he should guide, and whose feelings and conscience he was most anxious to influence. When she first heard his decision she almost wrung her hands in despair. If the woman could have gone to America, and the man have remained, she would have been satisfied. Anything wrong about a man was but of little moment,--comparatively so, even though he were a clergyman; but anything wrong about a woman,--and she so near to herself! O dear! And the poor dear boys,--under the same roof with her! And the boys' mammas! How would she be able to endure the sight of that horrid Mrs. Stantiloup;--or Mrs. Stantiloup's words, which would certainly be conveyed to her? But there was something much worse for her even than all this. The Doctor insisted that she should go and call upon the woman! "And take Mary?" asked Mrs. Wortle. "What would be the good of taking Mary? Who is talking of a child like that? It is for the sake of charity,--for the dear love of Christ, that I ask you to do it. Do you ever think of Mary Magdalene?" "Oh yes." "This is no Magdalene. This is a woman led into no faults by vicious propensities. Here is one who has been altogether unfortunate,--who has been treated more cruelly than any of whom you have ever read." "Why did she not leave him?" "Because she was a woman, with a heart in her bosom." "I am to go to her?" "I do not order it. I only ask it." Such asking from her husband was, she knew, very near alike to ordering. "What shall I say to her?" "Bid her keep up her courage till he shall return. If you were all alone, as she is, would not you wish that some other woman should come to comfort you? Think of her desolation." Mrs. Wortle did think of it, and after a day or two made up her mind to obey her husband's--request. She made her call, but very little came of it, except that she promised to come again. "Mrs. Wortle," said the poor woman, "pray do not let me be a trouble to you. If you stay away I shall quite understand that there is sufficient reason. I know how good your husband has been to us." Mrs. Wortle said, however, as she took her leave, that she would come again in a day or two. But there were other troubles in store for Mrs. Wortle. Before she had repeated her visit to Mrs. Peacocke, a lady, who lived about ten miles off, the wife of the Rector of Buttercup, called upon her. This was the Lady Margaret Momson, a daughter of the Earl of Brigstock, who had, thirty years ago, married a young clergyman. Nevertheless, up to the present day, she was quite as much the Earl's daughter as the parson's wife. She was first cousin to that Mrs. Stantiloup between whom and the Doctor internecine war was always being waged; and she was also aunt to a boy at the school, who, however, was in no way related to Mrs. Stantiloup, young Momson being the son of the parson's eldest brother. Lady Margaret had never absolutely and openly taken the part of Mrs. Stantiloup. Had she done so, a visit even of ceremony would have been impossible. But she was supposed to have Stantiloup proclivities, and was not, therefore, much liked at Bowick. There had been a question indeed whether young Momson should be received at the school,--because of the _quasi_ connection with the arch-enemy; but Squire Momson of Buttercup, the boy's father, had set that at rest by bursting out, in the Doctor's hearing, into violent abuse against "the close-fisted, vulgar old faggot." The son of a man imbued with such proper feelings was, of course, accepted. But Lady Margaret was proud,--especially at the present time. "What a romance this is, Mrs. Wortle," she said, "that has gone all through the diocese!" The reader will remember that Lady Margaret was also the wife of a clergyman. "You mean--the Peacockes?" "Of course I do." "He has gone away." "We all know that, of course;--to look for his wife's husband. Good gracious me! What a story!" "They think that he is--dead now." "I suppose they thought so before," said Lady Margaret. "Of course they did." "Though it does seem that no inquiry was made at all. Perhaps they don't care about those things over there as we do here. He couldn't have cared very much,--nor she." "The Doctor thinks that they are very much to be pitied." "The Doctor always was a little Quixotic--eh?" "I don't think that at all, Lady Margaret." "I mean in the way of being so very good-natured and kind. Her brother came;--didn't he?" "Her first husband's brother," said Mrs. Wortle, blushing. "Her first husband!" "Well;--you know what I mean, Lady Margaret." "Yes; I know what you mean. It is so very shocking; isn't it? And so the two men have gone off together to look for the third. Goodness me;--what a party they will be if they meet! Do you think they'll quarrel?" "I don't know, Lady Margaret." "And that he should be a clergyman of the Church of England! Isn't it dreadful? What does the Bishop say? Has he heard all about it?" "The Bishop has nothing to do with it. Mr. Peacocke never held a curacy in the diocese." "But he has preached here very often,--and has taken her to church with him! I suppose the Bishop has been told?" "You may be sure that he knows it as well as you." "We are so anxious, you know, about dear little Gus." Dear little Gus was Augustus Momson, the lady's nephew, who was supposed to be the worst-behaved, and certainly the stupidest boy in the school. "Augustus will not be hurt, I should say." "Perhaps not directly. But my sister has, I know, very strong opinions on such subjects. Now, I want to ask you one thing. Is it true that--she--remains here?" "She is still living in the school-house." "Is that prudent, Mrs. Wortle?" "If you want to have an opinion on that subject, Lady Margaret, I would recommend you to ask the Doctor." By which she meant to assert that Lady Margaret would not, for the life of her, dare to ask the Doctor such a question. "He has done what he has thought best." "Most good-natured, you mean, Mrs. Wortle." "I mean what I say, Lady Margaret. He has done what he has thought best, looking at all the circumstances. He thinks that they are very worthy people, and that they have been most cruelly ill-used. He has taken that into consideration. You call it good-nature. Others perhaps may call it--charity." The wife, though she at her heart deplored her husband's action in the matter, was not going to own to another lady that he had been imprudent. "I am sure I hope they will," said Lady Margaret. Then as she was taking her leave, she made a suggestion. "Some of the boys will be taken away, I suppose. The Doctor probably expects that." "I don't know what he expects," said Mrs. Wortle. "Some are always going, and when they go, others come in their places. As for me, I wish he would give the school up altogether." "Perhaps he means it," said Lady Margaret; "otherwise, perhaps he wouldn't have been so good-natured." Then she took her departure. When her visitor was gone Mrs. Wortle was very unhappy. She had been betrayed by her wrath into expressing that wish as to the giving up of the school. She knew well that the Doctor had no such intention. She herself had more than once suggested it in her timid way, but the Doctor had treated her suggestions as being worth nothing. He had his ideas about Mary, who was undoubtedly a very pretty girl. Mary might marry well, and £20,000 would probably assist her in doing so. When he was told of Lady Margaret's hints, he said in his wrath that he would send young Momson away instantly if a word was said to him by the boy's mamma. "Of course," said he, "if the lad turns out a scapegrace, as is like enough, it will be because Mrs. Peacocke had two husbands. It is often a question to me whether the religion of the world is not more odious than its want of religion." To this terrible suggestion poor Mrs. Wortle did not dare to make any answer whatever. CHAPTER XII. THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE. WE will now pass for a moment out of Bowick parish, and go over to Buttercup. There, at Buttercup Hall, the squire's house, in the drawing-room, were assembled Mrs. Momson, the squire's wife; Lady Margaret Momson, the Rector's wife; Mrs. Rolland, the wife of the Bishop; and the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup. A party was staying in the house, collected for the purpose of entertaining the Bishop; and it would perhaps not have been possible to have got together in the diocese, four ladies more likely to be hard upon our Doctor. For though Squire Momson was not very fond of Mrs. Stantiloup, and had used strong language respecting her when he was anxious to send his boy to the Doctor's school, Mrs. Momson had always been of the other party, and had in fact adhered to Mrs. Stantiloup from the beginning of the quarrel. "I do trust," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "that there will be an end to all this kind of thing now." "Do you mean an end to the school?" asked Lady Margaret. "I do indeed. I always thought it matter of great regret that Augustus should have been sent there, after the scandalous treatment that Bob received." Bob was the little boy who had drank the champagne and required the carriage exercise. "But I always heard that the school was quite popular," said Mrs. Rolland. "I think you'll find," continued Mrs. Stantiloup, "that there won't be much left of its popularity now. Keeping that abominable woman under the same roof with the boys! No master of a school that wasn't absolutely blown up with pride, would have taken such people as those Peacockes without making proper inquiry. And then to let him preach in the church! I suppose Mr. Momson will allow you to send for Augustus at once?" This she said turning to Mrs. Momson. "Mr. Momson thinks so much of the Doctor's scholarship," said the mother, apologetically. "And we are so anxious that Gus should do well when he goes to Eton." "What is Latin and Greek as compared to his soul?" asked Lady Margaret. "No, indeed," said Mrs. Rolland. She had found herself compelled, as wife of the Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposition which had been made. She was a quiet, silent little woman, whom the Bishop had married in the days of his earliest preferment, and who, though she was delighted to find herself promoted to the society of the big people in the diocese, had never quite lifted herself up into their sphere. Though she had her ideas as to what it was to be a Bishop's wife, she had never yet been quite able to act up to them. "I know that young Talbot is to leave," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "I wrote to Mrs. Talbot immediately when all this occurred, and I've heard from her cousin Lady Grogram that the boy is not to go back after the holidays." This happened to be altogether untrue. What she probably meant was, that the boy should not go back if she could prevent his doing so. "I feel quite sure," said Lady Margaret, "that Lady Anne will not allow her boys to remain when she finds out what sort of inmates the Doctor chooses to entertain." The Lady Anne spoken of was Lady Anne Clifford, the widowed mother of two boys who were intrusted to the Doctor's care. "I do hope you'll be firm about Gus," said Mrs. Stantiloup to Mrs. Momson. "If we're not to put down this kind of thing, what is the good of having any morals in the country at all? We might just as well live like pagans, and do without any marriage services, as they do in so many parts of the United States." "I wonder what the Bishop does think about it?" asked Mrs. Momson of the Bishop's wife. "It makes him very unhappy; I know that," said Mrs. Rolland. "Of course he cannot interfere about the school. As for licensing the gentleman as a curate, that was of course quite out of the question." At this moment Mr. Momson, the clergyman, and the Bishop came into the room, and were offered, as is usual on such occasions, cold tea and the remains of the buttered toast. The squire was not there. Had he been with the other gentlemen, Mrs. Stantiloup, violent as she was, would probably have held her tongue; but as he was absent, the opportunity was not bad for attacking the Bishop on the subject under discussion. "We were talking, my lord, about the Bowick school." Now the Bishop was a man who could be very confidential with one lady, but was apt to be guarded when men are concerned. To any one of those present he might have said what he thought, had no one else been there to hear. That would have been the expression of a private opinion; but to speak before the four would have been tantamount to a public declaration. "About the Bowick school?" said he; "I hope there is nothing going wrong with the Bowick school." "You must have heard about Mr. Peacocke," said Lady Margaret. "Yes; I have certainly heard of Mr. Peacocke. He, I believe, has left Dr. Wortle's seminary." "But she remains!" said Mrs. Stantiloup, with tragic energy. "So I understand;--in the house; but not as part of the establishment." "Does that make so much difference?" asked Lady Margaret. "It does make a very great difference," said Lady Margaret's husband, the parson, wishing to help the Bishop in his difficulty. "I don't see it at all," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "The main spirit in the matter is just as manifest whether the lady is or is not allowed to look after the boys' linen. In fact, I despise him for making the pretence. Her doing menial work about the house would injure no one. It is her presence there,--the presence of a woman who has falsely pretended to be married, when she knew very well that she had no husband." "When she knew that she had two," said Lady Margaret. "And fancy, Lady Margaret,--Lady Bracy absolutely asked her to go to Carstairs! That woman was always infatuated about Dr. Wortle. What would she have done if they had gone, and this other man had followed his sister-in-law there. But Lord and Lady Bracy would ask any one to Carstairs,--just any one that they could get hold of!" Mr. Momson was one whose obstinacy was wont to give way when sufficiently attacked. Even he, after having been for two days subjected to the eloquence of Mrs. Stantiloup, acknowledged that the Doctor took a great deal too much upon himself. "He does it," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "just to show that there is nothing that he can't bring parents to assent to. Fancy,--a woman living there as house-keeper with a man as usher, pretending to be husband and wife, when they knew all along that they were not married!" Mr. Momson, who didn't care a straw about the morals of the man whose duty it was to teach his little boy his Latin grammar, or the morals of the woman who looked after his little boy's waistcoats and trousers, gave a half-assenting grunt. "And you are to pay," continued Mrs. Stantiloup, with considerable emphasis,--"you are to pay two hundred and fifty pounds a-year for such conduct as that!" "Two hundred," suggested the squire, who cared as little for the money as he did for the morals. "Two hundred and fifty,--every shilling of it, when you consider the extras." "There are no extras, as far as I can see. But then my boy is strong and healthy, thank God," said the squire, taking his opportunity of having one fling at the lady. But while all this was going on, he did give a half-assent that Gus should be taken away at midsummer, being partly moved thereto by a letter from the Doctor, in which he was told that his boy was not doing any good at the school. It was a week after that that Mrs. Stantiloup wrote the following letter to her friend Lady Grogram, after she had returned home from Buttercup Hall. Lady Grogram was a great friend of hers, and was first cousin to that Mrs. Talbot who had a son at the school. Lady Grogram was an old woman of strong mind but small means, who was supposed to be potential over those connected with her. Mrs. Stantiloup feared that she could not be efficacious herself, either with Mr. or Mrs. Talbot; but she hoped that she might carry her purpose through Lady Grogram. It may be remembered that she had declared at Buttercup Hall that young Talbot was not to go back to Bowick. But this had been a figure of speech, as has been already explained:-- "MY DEAR LADY GROGRAM,--Since I got your last letter I have been staying with the Momsons at Buttercup. It was awfully dull. He and she are, I think, the stupidest people that ever I met. None of those Momsons have an idea among them. They are just as heavy and inharmonious as their name. Lady Margaret was one of the party. She would have been better, only that our excellent Bishop was there too, and Lady Margaret thought it well to show off all her graces before the Bishop and the Bishop's wife. I never saw such a dowdy in all my life as Mrs. Rolland. He is all very well, and looks at any rate like a gentleman. It was, I take it, that which got him his diocese. They say the Queen saw him once, and was taken by his manners. "But I did one good thing at Buttercup. I got Mr. Momson to promise that that boy of his should not go back to Bowick. Dr. Wortle has become quite intolerable. I think he is determined to show that whatever he does, people shall put up with it. It is not only the most expensive establishment of the kind in all England, but also the worst conducted. You know, of course, how all this matter about that woman stands now. She is remaining there at Bowick, absolutely living in the house, calling herself Mrs. Peacocke, while the man she was living with has gone off with her brother-in-law to look for her husband! Did you ever hear of such a mess as that? "And the Doctor expects that fathers and mothers will still send their boys to such a place as that? I am very much mistaken if he will not find it altogether deserted before Christmas. Lord Carstairs is already gone." [This was at any rate disingenuous, as she had been very severe when at Buttercup on all the Carstairs family because of their declared and perverse friendship for the Doctor.] "Mr. Momson, though he is quite incapable of seeing the meaning of anything, has determined to take his boy away. She may thank me at any rate for that. I have heard that Lady Anne Clifford's two boys will both leave." [In one sense she had heard it, because the suggestion had been made by herself at Buttercup.] "I do hope that Mr. Talbot's dear little boy will not be allowed to return to such contamination as that! Fancy,--the man and the woman living there in that way together; and the Doctor keeping the woman on after he knew it all! It is really so horrible that one doesn't know how to talk about it. When the Bishop was at Buttercup I really felt almost obliged to be silent. "I know very well that Mrs. Talbot is always ready to take your advice. As for him, men very often do not think so much about these things as they ought. But he will not like his boy to be nearly the only one left at the school. I have not heard of one who is to remain for certain. How can it be possible that any boy who has a mother should be allowed to remain there? "Do think of this, and do your best. I need not tell you that nothing ought to be so dear to us as a high tone of morals.--Most sincerely yours, "JULIANA STANTILOUP." We need not pursue this letter further than to say that when it reached Mr. Talbot's hands, which it did through his wife, he spoke of Mrs. Stantiloup in language which shocked his wife considerably, though she was not altogether unaccustomed to strong language on his part. Mr. Talbot and the Doctor had been at school together, and at Oxford, and were friends. I will give now a letter that was written by the Doctor to Mr. Momson in answer to one in which that gentleman signified his intention of taking little Gus away from the school. "MY DEAR MR. MOMSON,--After what you have said, of course I shall not expect your boy back after the holidays. Tell his mamma, with my compliments, that he shall take all his things home with him. As a rule I do charge for a quarter in advance when a boy is taken away suddenly, without notice, and apparently without cause. But I shall not do so at the present moment either to you or to any parent who may withdraw his son. A circumstance has happened which, though it cannot impair the utility of my school, and ought not to injure its character, may still be held as giving offence to certain persons. I will not be driven to alter my conduct by what I believe to be foolish misconception on their part. But they have a right to their own opinions, and I will not mulct them because of their conscientious convictions.--Yours faithfully, "JEFFREY WORTLE." "If you come across any friend who has a boy here, you are perfectly at liberty to show him or her this letter." The defection of the Momsons wounded the Doctor, no doubt. He was aware that Mrs. Stantiloup had been at Buttercup, and that the Bishop also had been there--and he could put two and two together; but it hurt him to think that one so "staunch" though so "stupid" as Mrs. Momson, should be turned from her purpose by such a woman as Mrs. Stantiloup. And he got other letters on the subject. Here is one from Lady Anne Clifford. "DEAR DOCTOR,--You know how safe I think my dear boys are with you, and how much obliged I am both to you and your wife for all your kindness. But people are saying things to me about one of the masters at your school and his wife. Is there any reason why I should be afraid? You will see how thoroughly I trust you when I ask you the question.--Yours very sincerely, "ANNE CLIFFORD." Now Lady Anne Clifford was a sweet, confiding, affectionate, but not very wise woman. In a letter, written not many days before to Mary Wortle, who had on one occasion been staying with her, she said that she was at that time in the same house with the Bishop and Mrs. Rolland. Of course the Doctor knew again how to put two and two together. Then there came a letter from Mr. Talbot-- "DEAR WORTLE,--So you are boiling for yourself another pot of hot water. I never saw such a fellow as you are for troubles! Old Mother Shipton has been writing such a letter to our old woman, and explaining that no boy's soul would any longer be worth looking after if he be left in your hands. Don't you go and get me into a scrape more than you can help; but you may be quite sure of this that if I had as many sons as Priam I should send them all to you;--only I think that the cheques would be very long in coming.--Yours always, "JOHN TALBOT." The Doctor answered this at greater length than he had done in writing to Mr. Momson, who was not specially his friend. "MY DEAR TALBOT,--You may be quite sure that I shall not repeat to any one what you have told me of Mother Shipton. I knew, however, pretty well what she was doing and what I had to expect from her. It is astonishing to me that such a woman should still have the power of persuading any one,--astonishing also that any human being should continue to hate as she hates me. She has often tried to do me an injury, but she has never succeeded yet. At any rate she will not bend me. Though my school should be broken up to-morrow, which I do not think probable, I should still have enough to live upon,--which is more, by all accounts, than her unfortunate husband can say for himself. "The facts are these. More than twelve months ago I got an assistant named Peacocke, a clergyman, an Oxford man, and formerly a Fellow of Trinity;--a man quite superior to anything I have a right to expect in my school. He had gone as a Classical Professor to a college in the United States;--a rash thing to do, no doubt;--and had there married a widow, which was rasher still. The lady came here with him and undertook the charge of the school-house,--with a separate salary; and an admirable person in the place she was. Then it turned out, as no doubt you have heard, that her former husband was alive when they were married. They ought probably to have separated, but they didn't. They came here instead, and here they were followed by the brother of the husband,--who I take it is now dead, though of that we know nothing certain. "That he should have told me his position is more than any man has a right to expect from another. Fortune had been most unkind to him, and for her sake he was bound to do the best that he could with himself. I cannot bring myself to be angry with him, though I cannot defend him by strict laws of right and wrong. I have advised him to go back to America and find out if the man be in truth dead. If so, let him come back and marry the woman again before all the world. I shall be ready to marry them and to ask him and her to my house afterwards. "In the mean time what was to become of her? 'Let her go into lodgings,' said the Bishop. Go to lodgings at Broughton! You know what sort of lodgings she would get there among psalm-singing greengrocers who would tell her of her misfortune every day of her life! I would not subject her to the misery of going and seeking for a home. I told him, when I persuaded him to go, that she should have the rooms they were then occupying while he was away. In settling this, of course I had to make arrangements for doing in our own establishment the work which had lately fallen to her share. I mention this for the sake of explaining that she has got nothing to do with the school. No doubt the boys are under the same roof with her. Will your boy's morals be the worse? It seems that Gustavus Momson's will. You know the father; do you not? I wonder whether anything will ever affect his morals? "Now, I have told you everything. Not that I have doubted you; but, as you have been told so much, I have thought it well that you should have the whole story from myself. What effect it may have upon the school I do not know. The only boy of whose secession I have yet heard is young Momson. But probably there will be others. Four new boys were to have come, but I have already heard from the father of one that he has changed his mind. I think I can trace an acquaintance between him and Mother Shipton. If the body of the school should leave me I will let you know at once as you might not like to leave your boy under such circumstances. "You may be sure of this, that here the lady remains until her husband returns. I am not going to be turned from my purpose at this time of day by anything that Mother Shipton may say or do.--Yours always, "JEFFREY WORTLE." END OF VOL. I. DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. A Novel. BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II. London: Chapman and Hall, Limited, 193, Piccadilly. 1881. London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers, Bread Street Hill. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. PART V. CHAPTER I. MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT CHAPTER II. 'EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS' CHAPTER III. "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING" CHAPTER IV. "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE" CHAPTER V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE CHAPTER VI. THE JOURNEY CHAPTER VII. "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE" CHAPTER VIII. LORD BRACY'S LETTER CHAPTER IX. AT CHICAGO CONCLUSION. CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER CHAPTER XI. MR. PEACOCKE'S RETURN CHAPTER XII. MARY'S SUCCESS DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. PART V. CHAPTER I. MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT. IT was not to be expected that the matter should be kept out of the county newspaper, or even from those in the metropolis. There was too much of romance in the story, too good a tale to be told, for any such hope. The man's former life and the woman's, the disappearance of her husband and his reappearance after his reported death, the departure of the couple from St. Louis and the coming of Lefroy to Bowick, formed together a most attractive subject. But it could not be told without reference to Dr. Wortle's school, to Dr. Wortle's position as clergyman of the parish,--and also to the fact which was considered by his enemies to be of all the facts the most damning, that Mr. Peacocke had for a time been allowed to preach in the parish church. The 'Broughton Gazette,' a newspaper which was supposed to be altogether devoted to the interest of the diocese, was very eloquent on this subject. "We do not desire," said the 'Broughton Gazette,' "to make any remarks as to the management of Dr. Wortle's school. We leave all that between him and the parents of the boys who are educated there. We are perfectly aware that Dr. Wortle himself is a scholar, and that his school has been deservedly successful. It is advisable, no doubt, that in such an establishment none should be employed whose lives are openly immoral;--but as we have said before, it is not our purpose to insist upon this. Parents, if they feel themselves to be aggrieved, can remedy the evil by withdrawing their sons. But when we consider the great power which is placed in the hands of an incumbent of a parish, that he is endowed as it were with the freehold of his pulpit, that he may put up whom he will to preach the Gospel to his parishioners, even in a certain degree in opposition to his bishop, we think that we do no more than our duty in calling attention to such a case as this." Then the whole story was told at great length, so as to give the "we" of the 'Broughton Gazette' a happy opportunity of making its leading article not only much longer, but much more amusing, than usual. "We must say," continued the writer, as he concluded his narrative, "that this man should not have been allowed to preach in the Bowick pulpit. He is no doubt a clergyman of the Church of England, and Dr. Wortle was within his rights in asking for his assistance; but the incumbent of a parish is responsible for those he employs, and that responsibility now rests on Dr. Wortle." There was a great deal in this that made the Doctor very angry,--so angry that he did not know how to restrain himself. The matter had been argued as though he had employed the clergyman in his church after he had known the history. "For aught I know," he said to Mrs. Wortle, "any curate coming to me might have three wives, all alive." "That would be most improbable," said Mrs. Wortle. "So was all this improbable,--just as improbable. Nothing could be more improbable. Do we not all feel overcome with pity for the poor woman because she encountered trouble that was so improbable? How much more improbable was it that I should come across a clergyman who had encountered such improbabilities." In answer to this Mrs. Wortle could only shake her head, not at all understanding the purport of her husband's argument. But what was said about his school hurt him more than what was said about his church. In regard to his church he was impregnable. Not even the Bishop could touch him,--or even annoy him much. But this "penny-a-liner," as the Doctor indignantly called him, had attacked him in his tenderest point. After declaring that he did not intend to meddle with the school, he had gone on to point out that an immoral person had been employed there, and had then invited all parents to take away their sons. "He doesn't know what moral and immoral means," said the Doctor, again pleading his own case to his own wife. "As far as I know, it would be hard to find a man of a higher moral feeling than Mr. Peacocke, or a woman than his wife." "I suppose they ought to have separated when it was found out," said Mrs. Wortle. "No, no," he shouted; "I hold that they were right. He was right to cling to her, and she was bound to obey him. Such a fellow as that,"--and he crushed the paper up in his hand in his wrath, as though he were crushing the editor himself,--"such a fellow as that knows nothing of morality, nothing of honour, nothing of tenderness. What he did I would have done, and I'll stick to him through it all in spite of the Bishop, in spite of the newspapers, and in spite of all the rancour of all my enemies." Then he got up and walked about the room in such a fury that his wife did not dare to speak to him. Should he or should he not answer the newspaper? That was a question which for the first two days after he had read the article greatly perplexed him. He would have been very ready to advise any other man what to do in such a case. "Never notice what may be written about you in a newspaper," he would have said. Such is the advice which a man always gives to his friend. But when the case comes to himself he finds it sometimes almost impossible to follow it. "What's the use? Who cares what the 'Broughton Gazette' says? let it pass, and it will be forgotten in three days. If you stir the mud yourself, it will hang about you for months. It is just what they want you to do. They cannot go on by themselves, and so the subject dies away from them; but if you write rejoinders they have a contributor working for them for nothing, and one whose writing will be much more acceptable to their readers than any that comes from their own anonymous scribes. It is very disagreeable to be worried like a rat by a dog; but why should you go into the kennel and unnecessarily put yourself in the way of it?" The Doctor had said this more than once to clerical friends who were burning with indignation at something that had been written about them. But now he was burning himself, and could hardly keep his fingers from pen and ink. In this emergency he went to Mr. Puddicombe, not, as he said to himself, for advice, but in order that he might hear what Mr. Puddicombe would have to say about it. He did not like Mr. Puddicombe, but he believed in him,--which was more than he quite did with the Bishop. Mr. Puddicombe would tell him his true thoughts. Mr. Puddicombe would be unpleasant very likely; but he would be sincere and friendly. So he went to Mr. Puddicombe. "It seems to me," he said, "almost necessary that I should answer such allegations as these for the sake of truth." "You are not responsible for the truth of the 'Broughton Gazette,"' said Mr. Puddicombe. "But I am responsible to a certain degree that false reports shall not be spread abroad as to what is done in my church." "You can contradict nothing that the newspaper has said." "It is implied," said the Doctor, "that I allowed Mr. Peacocke to preach in my church after I knew his marriage was informal." "There is no such statement in the paragraph," said Mr. Puddicombe, after attentive reperusal of the article. "The writer has written in a hurry, as such writers generally do, but has made no statement such as you presume. Were you to answer him, you could only do so by an elaborate statement of the exact facts of the case. It can hardly be worth your while, in defending yourself against the 'Broughton Gazette,' to tell the whole story in public of Mr. Peacocke's life and fortunes." "You would pass it over altogether?" "Certainly I would." "And so acknowledge the truth of all that the newspaper says." "I do not know that the paper says anything untrue," said Mr. Puddicombe, not looking the Doctor in the face, with his eyes turned to the ground, but evidently with the determination to say what he thought, however unpleasant it might be. "The fact is that you have fallen into a--misfortune." "I don't acknowledge it at all," said the Doctor. "All your friends at any rate will think so, let the story be told as it may. It was a misfortune that this lady whom you had taken into your establishment should have proved not to be the gentleman's wife. When I am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet deeper than usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well as I may before the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile efforts to get rid of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened. The dirt, when it is rubbed and smudged and scraped is more palpably dirt than the honest mud." "I will not admit that I am dirty at all," said the Doctor. "Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let those who see me form their own opinion. If any one asks me about my boot I tell him that it is a matter of no consequence. I advise you to do the same. You will only make the smudges more palpable if you write to the 'Broughton Gazette."' "Would you say nothing to the boys' parents?" asked the Doctor. "There, perhaps, I am not a judge, as I never kept a school;--but I think not. If any father writes to you, then tell him the truth." If the matter had gone no farther than this, the Doctor might probably have left Mr. Puddicombe's house with a sense of thankfulness for the kindness rendered to him; but he did go farther, and endeavoured to extract from his friend some sense of the injustice shown by the Bishop, the Stantiloups, the newspaper, and his enemies in general through the diocese. But here he failed signally. "I really think, Dr. Wortle, that you could not have expected it otherwise." "Expect that people should lie?" "I don't know about lies. If people have told lies I have not seen them or heard them. I don't think the Bishop has lied." "I don't mean the Bishop; though I do think that he has shown a great want of what I may call liberality towards a clergyman in his diocese." "No doubt he thinks you have been wrong. By liberality you mean sympathy. Why should you expect him to sympathise with your wrong-doing?" "What have I done wrong?" "You have countenanced immorality and deceit in a brother clergyman." "I deny it," said the Doctor, rising up impetuously from his chair. "Then I do not understand the position, Dr. Wortle. That is all I can say." "To my thinking, Mr. Puddicombe, I never came across a better man than Mr. Peacocke in my life." "I cannot make comparisons. As to the best man I ever met in my life I might have to acknowledge that even he had done wrong in certain circumstances. As the matter is forced upon me, I have to express my opinion that a great sin was committed both by the man and by the woman. You not only condone the sin, but declare both by your words and deeds that you sympathise with the sin as well as with the sinners. You have no right to expect that the Bishop will sympathise with you in that;--nor can it be but that in such a country as this the voices of many will be loud against you." "And yours as loud as any," said the Doctor, angrily. "That is unkind and unjust," said Mr. Puddicombe. "What I have said, I have said to yourself, and not to others; and what I have said, I have said in answer to questions asked by yourself." Then the Doctor apologised with what grace he could. But when he left the house his heart was still bitter against Mr. Puddicombe. He was almost ashamed of himself as he rode back to Bowick,--first, because he had condescended to ask advice, and then because, after having asked it, he had been so thoroughly scolded. There was no one whom Mr. Puddicombe would admit to have been wrong in the matter except the Doctor himself. And yet though he had been so counselled and so scolded, he had found himself obliged to apologize before he left the house! And, too, he had been made to understand that he had better not rush into print. Though the 'Broughton Gazette' should come to the attack again and again, he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr. Puddicombe's dirty boot had convinced him. He could see the thoroughly squalid look of the boot that had been scraped in vain, and appreciate the wholesomeness of the unadulterated mud. There was more in the man than he had ever acknowledged before. There was a consistency in him, and a courage, and an honesty of purpose. But there was no softness of heart. Had there been a grain of tenderness there, he could not have spoken so often as he had done of Mrs. Peacocke without expressing some grief at the unmerited sorrows to which that poor lady had been subjected. His own heart melted with ruth as he thought, while riding home, of the cruelty to which she had been and was subjected. She was all alone there, waiting, waiting, waiting, till the dreary days should have gone by. And if no good news should come, if Mr. Peacocke should return with tidings that her husband was alive and well, what should she do then? What would the world then have in store for her? "If it were me," said the Doctor to himself, "I'd take her to some other home and treat her as my wife in spite of all the Puddicombes in creation;--in spite of all the bishops." The Doctor, though he was a self-asserting and somewhat violent man, was thoroughly soft-hearted. It is to be hoped that the reader has already learned as much as that;--a man with a kind, tender, affectionate nature. It would perhaps be unfair to raise a question whether he would have done as much, been so willing to sacrifice himself, for a plain woman. Had Mr. Stantiloup, or Sir Samuel Griffin if he had suddenly come again to life, been found to have prior wives also living, would the Doctor have found shelter for them in their ignominy and trouble? Mrs. Wortle, who knew her husband thoroughly, was sure that he would not have done so. Mrs. Peacocke was a very beautiful woman, and the Doctor was a man who thoroughly admired beauty. To say that Mrs. Wortle was jealous would be quite untrue. She liked to see her husband talking to a pretty woman, because he would be sure to be in a good humour and sure to make the best of himself. She loved to see him shine. But she almost wished that Mrs. Peacocke had been ugly, because there would not then have been so much danger about the school. "I'm just going up to see her," said the Doctor, as soon as he got home,--"just to ask her what she wants." "I don't think she wants anything," said Mrs. Wortle, weakly. "Does she not? She must be a very odd woman if she can live there all day alone, and not want to see a human creature." "I was with her yesterday." "And therefore I will call to-day," said the Doctor, leaving the room with his hat on. When he was shown up into the sitting-room he found Mrs. Peacocke with a newspaper in her hand. He could see at a glance that it was a copy of the 'Broughton Gazette,' and could see also the length and outward show of the very article which he had been discussing with Mr. Puddicombe. "Dr. Wortle," she said, "if you don't mind, I will go away from this." "But I do mind. Why should you go away?" "They have been writing about me in the newspapers." "That was to be expected." "But they have been writing about you." "That was to have been expected also. You don't suppose they can hurt me?" This was a false boast, but in such conversations he was almost bound to boast. "It is I, then, am hurting you?" "You;--oh dear, no; not in the least." "But I do. They talk of boys going away from the school." "Boys will go and boys will come, but we run on for ever," said the Doctor, playfully. "I can well understand that it should be so," said Mrs. Peacocke, passing over the Doctor's parody as though unnoticed; "and I perceive that I ought not to be here." "Where ought you to be, then?" said he, intending simply to carry on his joke. "Where indeed! There is no where. But wherever I may do least injury to innocent people,--to people who have not been driven by storms out of the common path of life. For this place I am peculiarly unfit." "Will you find any place where you will be made more welcome?" "I think not." "Then let me manage the rest. You have been reading that dastardly article in the paper. It will have no effect upon me. Look here, Mrs. Peacocke;"--then he got up and held her hand as though he were going, but he remained some moments while he was still speaking to her,--still holding her hand;--"it was settled between your husband and me, when he went away, that you should remain here under my charge till his return. I am bound to him to find a home for you. I think you are as much bound to obey him,--which you can only do by remaining here." "I would wish to obey him, certainly." "You ought to do so,--from the peculiar circumstances more especially. Don't trouble your mind about the school, but do as he desired. There is no question but that you must do so. Good-bye. Mrs. Wortle or I will come and see you to-morrow." Then, and not till then, he dropped her hand. On the next day Mrs. Wortle did call, though these visits were to her an intolerable nuisance. But it was certainly better that she should alternate the visits with the Doctor than that he should go every day. The Doctor had declared that charity required that one of them should see the poor woman daily. He was quite willing that they should perform the task day and day about,--but should his wife omit the duty he must go in his wife's place. What would all the world of Bowick say if the Doctor were to visit a lady, a young and a beautiful lady, every day, whereas his wife visited the lady not at all? Therefore they took it turn about, except that sometimes the Doctor accompanied his wife. The Doctor had once suggested that his wife should take the poor lady out in her carriage. But against this even Mrs. Wortle had rebelled. "Under such circumstances as hers she ought not to be seen driving about," said Mrs. Wortle. The Doctor had submitted to this, but still thought that the world of Bowick was very cruel. Mrs. Wortle, though she made no complaint, thought that she was used cruelly in the matter. There had been an intention of going into Brittany during these summer holidays. The little tour had been almost promised. But the affairs of Mrs. Peacocke were of such a nature as not to allow the Doctor to be absent. "You and Mary can go, and Henry will go with you." Henry was a bachelor brother of Mrs. Wortle, who was always very much at the Doctor's disposal, and at hers. But certainly she was not going to quit England, not going to quit home at all, while her husband remained there, and while Mrs. Peacocke was an inmate of the school. It was not that she was jealous. The idea was absurd. But she knew very well what Mrs. Stantiloup would say. CHAPTER II. 'EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS.' BUT there arose a trouble greater than that occasioned by the 'Broughton Gazette.' There came out an article in a London weekly newspaper, called 'Everybody's Business,' which nearly drove the Doctor mad. This was on the last Saturday of the holidays. The holidays had been commenced in the middle of July, and went on till the end of August. Things had not gone well at Bowick during these weeks. The parents of all the four newly-expected boys had--changed their minds. One father had discovered that he could not afford it. Another declared that the mother could not be got to part with her darling quite so soon as he had expected. A third had found that a private tutor at home would best suit his purposes. While the fourth boldly said that he did not like to send his boy because of the "fuss" which had been made about Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. Had this last come alone, the Doctor would probably have resented such a communication; but following the others as it did, he preferred the fourth man to any of the other three. "Miserable cowards," he said to himself, as he docketed the letters and put them away. But the greatest blow of all,--of all blows of this sort,--came to him from poor Lady Anne Clifford. She wrote a piteous letter to him, in which she implored him to allow her to take her two boys away. "My dear Doctor Wortle," she said, "so many people have been telling so many dreadful things about this horrible affair, that I do not dare to send my darling boys back to Bowick again. Uncle Clifford and Lord Robert both say that I should be very wrong. The Marchioness has said so much about it that I dare not go against her. You know what my own feelings are about you and dear Mrs. Wortle; but I am not my own mistress. They all tell me that it is my first duty to think about the dear boys' welfare; and of course that is true. I hope you won't be very angry with me, and will write one line to say that you forgive me.--Yours most sincerely, "ANNE CLIFFORD." In answer to this the Doctor did write as follows;-- "MY DEAR LADY ANNE,--Of course your duty is very plain,--to do what you think best for the boys; and it is natural enough that you should follow the advice of your relatives and theirs.--Faithfully yours, "JEFFREY WORTLE." He could not bring himself to write in a more friendly tone, or to tell her that he forgave her. His sympathies were not with her. His sympathies at the present moment were only with Mrs. Peacocke. But then Lady Anne Clifford was not a beautiful woman, as was Mrs. Peacocke. This was a great blow. Two other boys had also been summoned away, making five in all, whose premature departure was owing altogether to the virulent tongue of that wretched old Mother Shipton. And there had been four who were to come in the place of four others, who, in the course of nature, were going to carry on their more advanced studies elsewhere. Vacancies such as these had always been pre-occupied long beforehand by ambitious parents. These very four places had been pre-occupied, but now they were all vacant. There would be nine empty beds in the school when it met again after the holidays; and the Doctor well understood that nine beds remaining empty would soon cause others to be emptied. It is success that creates success, and decay that produces decay. Gradual decay he knew that he could not endure. He must shut up his school,--give up his employment,--and retire altogether from the activity of life. He felt that if it came to this with him he must in very truth turn his face to the wall and die. Would it,--would it really come to that, that Mrs. Stantiloup should have altogether conquered him in the combat that had sprung up between them? But yet he would not give up Mrs. Peacocke. Indeed, circumstanced as he was, he could not give her up. He had promised not only her, but her absent husband, that until his return there should be a home for her in the school-house. There would be a cowardice in going back from his word which was altogether foreign to his nature. He could not bring himself to retire from the fight, even though by doing so he might save himself from the actual final slaughter which seemed to be imminent. He thought only of making fresh attacks upon his enemy, instead of meditating flight from those which were made upon him. As a dog, when another dog has got him well by the ear, thinks not at all of his own wound, but only how he may catch his enemy by the lip, so was the Doctor in regard to Mrs. Stantiloup. When the two Clifford boys were taken away, he took some joy to himself in remembering that Mr. Stantiloup could not pay his butcher's bill. Then, just at the end of the holidays, some good-natured friend sent to him a copy of 'Everybody's Business.' There is no duty which a man owes to himself more clearly than that of throwing into the waste-paper basket, unsearched and even unopened, all newspapers sent to him without a previously-declared purpose. The sender has either written something himself which he wishes to force you to read, or else he has been desirous of wounding you by some ill-natured criticism upon yourself. 'Everybody's Business' was a paper which, in the natural course of things, did not find its way into the Bowick Rectory; and the Doctor, though he was no doubt acquainted with the title, had never even looked at its columns. It was the purpose of the periodical to amuse its readers, as its name declared, with the private affairs of their neighbours. It went boldly about its work, excusing itself by the assertion that Jones was just as well inclined to be talked about as Smith was to hear whatever could be said about Jones. As both parties were served, what could be the objection? It was in the main good-natured, and probably did most frequently gratify the Joneses, while it afforded considerable amusement to the listless and numerous Smiths of the world. If you can't read and understand Jones's speech in Parliament, you may at any rate have mind enough to interest yourself with the fact that he never composed a word of it in his own room without a ring on his finger and a flower in his button-hole. It may also be agreeable to know that Walker the poet always takes a mutton-chop and two glasses of sherry at half-past one. 'Everybody's Business' did this for everybody to whom such excitement was agreeable. But in managing everybody's business in that fashion, let a writer be as good-natured as he may and let the principle be ever so well-founded that nobody is to be hurt, still there are dangers. It is not always easy to know what will hurt and what will not. And then sometimes there will come a temptation to be, not spiteful, but specially amusing. There must be danger, and a writer will sometimes be indiscreet. Personalities will lead to libels even when the libeller has been most innocent. It may be that after all the poor poet never drank a glass of sherry before dinner in his life,--it may be that a little toast-and-water, even with his dinner, gives him all the refreshment that he wants, and that two glasses of alcoholic mixture in the middle of the day shall seem, when imputed to him, to convey a charge of downright inebriety. But the writer has perhaps learned to regard two glasses of meridian wine as but a moderate amount of sustentation. This man is much flattered if it be given to be understood of him that he falls in love with every pretty woman that he sees;--whereas another will think that he has been made subject to a foul calumny by such insinuation. 'Everybody's Business' fell into some such mistake as this, in that very amusing article which was written for the delectation of its readers in reference to Dr. Wortle and Mrs. Peacocke. The 'Broughton Gazette' no doubt confined itself to the clerical and highly moral views of the case, and, having dealt with the subject chiefly on behalf of the Close and the admirers of the Close, had made no allusion to the fact that Mrs. Peacocke was a very pretty woman. One or two other local papers had been more scurrilous, and had, with ambiguous and timid words, alluded to the Doctor's personal admiration for the lady. These, or the rumours created by them, had reached one of the funniest and lightest-handed of the contributors to 'Everybody's Business,' and he had concocted an amusing article,--which he had not intended to be at all libellous, which he had thought to be only funny. He had not appreciated, probably, the tragedy of the lady's position, or the sanctity of that of the gentleman. There was comedy in the idea of the Doctor having sent one husband away to America to look after the other while he consoled the wife in England. "It must be admitted," said the writer, "that the Doctor has the best of it. While one gentleman is gouging the other,--as cannot but be expected,--the Doctor will be at any rate in security, enjoying the smiles of beauty under his own fig-tree at Bowick. After a hot morning with '_tupto_' in the school, there will be 'amo' in the cool of the evening." And this was absolutely sent to him by some good-natured friend! The funny writer obtained a popularity wider probably than he had expected. His words reached Mrs. Stantiloup, as well as the Doctor, and were read even in the Bishop's palace. They were quoted even in the 'Broughton Gazette,' not with approbation, but in a high tone of moral severity. "See the nature of the language to which Dr. Wortle's conduct has subjected the whole of the diocese!" That was the tone of the criticism made by the 'Broughton Gazette' on the article in 'Everybody's Business.' "What else has he a right to expect?" said Mrs. Stantiloup to Mrs. Rolland, having made quite a journey into Broughton for the sake of discussing it at the palace. There she explained it all to Mrs. Rolland, having herself studied the passage so as fully to appreciate the virus contained in it. "He passes all the morning in the school whipping the boys himself because he has sent Mr. Peacocke away, and then amuses himself in the evening by making love to Mr. Peacocke's wife, as he calls her." Dr. Wortle, when he read and re-read the article, and when the jokes which were made upon it reached his ears, as they were sure to do, was nearly maddened by what he called the heartless iniquity of the world; but his state became still worse when he received an affectionate but solemn letter from the Bishop warning him of his danger. An affectionate letter from a bishop must surely be the most disagreeable missive which a parish clergyman can receive. Affection from one man to another is not natural in letters. A bishop never writes affectionately unless he means to reprove severely. When he calls a clergyman his "dear brother in Christ," he is sure to go on to show that the man so called is altogether unworthy of the name. So it was with a letter now received at Bowick, in which the Bishop expressed his opinion that Dr. Wortle ought not to pay any further visits to Mrs. Peacocke till she should have settled herself down with one legitimate husband, let that legitimate husband be who it might. The Bishop did not indeed, at first, make reference by name to 'Everybody's Business,' but he stated that the "metropolitan press" had taken up the matter, and that scandal would take place in the diocese if further cause were given. "It is not enough to be innocent," said the Bishop, "but men must know that we are so." Then there came a sharp and pressing correspondence between the Bishop and the Doctor, which lasted four or five days. The Doctor, without referring to any other portion of the Bishop's letter, demanded to know to what "metropolitan newspaper" the Bishop had alluded, as, if any such paper had spread scandalous imputations as to him, the Doctor, respecting the lady in question, it would be his, the Doctor's, duty to proceed against that newspaper for libel. In answer to this the Bishop, in a note much shorter and much less affectionate than his former letter, said that he did not wish to name any metropolitan newspaper. But the Doctor would not, of course, put up with such an answer as this. He wrote very solemnly now, if not affectionately. "His lordship had spoken of 'scandal in the diocese.' The words," said the Doctor, "contained a most grave charge. He did not mean to say that any such accusation had been made by the Bishop himself; but such accusation must have been made by some one at least of the London newspapers or the Bishop would not have been justified in what he has written. Under such circumstances he, Dr. Wortle, thought himself entitled to demand from the Bishop the name of the newspaper in question, and the date on which the article had appeared." In answer to this there came no written reply, but a copy of the 'Everybody's Business' which the Doctor had already seen. He had, no doubt, known from the first that it was the funny paragraph about '_tupto_' and "amo" to which the Bishop had referred. But in the serious steps which he now intended to take, he was determined to have positive proof from the hands of the Bishop himself. The Bishop had not directed the pernicious newspaper with his own hands, but if called upon, could not deny that it had been sent from the palace by his orders. Having received it, the Doctor wrote back at once as follows;-- "RIGHT REVEREND AND DEAR LORD,--Any word coming from your lordship to me is of grave importance, as should, I think, be all words coming from a bishop to his clergy; and they are of special importance when containing a reproof, whether deserved or undeserved. The scurrilous and vulgar attack made upon me in the newspaper which your lordship has sent to me would not have been worthy of my serious notice had it not been made worthy by your lordship as being the ground on which such a letter was written to me as that of your lordship's of the 12th instant. Now it has been invested with so much solemnity by your lordship's notice of it that I feel myself obliged to defend myself against it by public action. "If I have given just cause of scandal to the diocese I will retire both from my living and from my school. But before doing so I will endeavour to prove that I have done neither. This I can only do by publishing in a court of law all the circumstances in reference to my connection with Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. As regards myself, this, though necessary, will be very painful. As regards them, I am inclined to think that the more the truth is known, the more general and the more generous will be the sympathy felt for their position. "As the newspaper sent to me, no doubt by your lordship's orders, from the palace, has been accompanied by no letter, it may be necessary that your lordship should be troubled by a subp[oe]na, so as to prove that the newspaper alluded to by your lordship is the one against which my proceedings will be taken. It will be necessary, of course, that I should show that the libel in question has been deemed important enough to bring down upon me ecclesiastical rebuke of such a nature as to make my remaining in the diocese unbearable,--unless it is shown that that rebuke was undeserved." There was consternation in the palace when this was received. So stiffnecked a man, so obstinate, so unclerical,--so determined to make much of little! The Bishop had felt himself bound to warn a clergyman that, for the sake of the Church, he could not do altogether as other men might. No doubt certain ladies had got around him,--especially Lady Margaret Momson,--filling his ears with the horrors of the Doctor's proceedings. The gentleman who had written the article about the Greek and the Latin words had seen the truth of the thing at once,--so said Lady Margaret. The Doctor had condoned the offence committed by the Peacockes because the woman had been beautiful, and was repaying himself for his mercy by basking in her loveliness. There was no saying that there was not some truth in this? Mrs. Wortle herself entertained a feeling of the same kind. It was palpable, on the face of it, to all except Dr. Wortle himself,--and to Mrs. Peacocke. Mrs. Stantiloup, who had made her way into the palace, was quite convincing on this point. Everybody knew, she said, that the Doctor went across, and saw the lady all alone, every day. Everybody did not know that. If everybody had been accurate, everybody would have asserted that he did this thing every other day. But the matter, as it was represented to the Bishop by the ladies, with the assistance of one or two clergymen in the Close, certainly seemed to justify his lordship's interference. But this that was threatened was very terrible. There was a determination about the Doctor which made it clear to the Bishop that he would be as bad as he said. When he, the Bishop, had spoken of scandal, of course he had not intended to say that the Doctor's conduct was scandalous; nor had he said anything of the kind. He had used the word in its proper sense,--and had declared that offence would be created in the minds of people unless an injurious report were stopped. "It is not enough to be innocent," he had said, "but men must know that we are so." He had declared in that his belief in Dr. Wortle's innocence. But yet there might, no doubt, be an action for libel against the newspaper. And when damages came to be considered, much weight would be placed naturally on the attention which the Bishop had paid to the article. The result of this was that the Bishop invited the Doctor to come and spend a night with him in the palace. The Doctor went, reaching the palace only just before dinner. During dinner and in the drawing-room Dr. Wortle made himself very pleasant. He was a man who could always be soft and gentle in a drawing-room. To see him talking with Mrs. Rolland and the Bishop's daughters, you would not have thought that there was anything wrong with him. The discussion with the Bishop came after that, and lasted till midnight. "It will be for the disadvantage of the diocese that this matter should be dragged into Court,--and for the disadvantage of the Church in general that a clergyman should seem to seek such redress against his bishop." So said the Bishop. But the Doctor was obdurate. "I seek no redress," he said, "against my bishop. I seek redress against a newspaper which has calumniated me. It is your good opinion, my lord,--your good opinion or your ill opinion which is the breath of my nostrils. I have to refer to you in order that I may show that this paper, which I should otherwise have despised, has been strong enough to influence that opinion." CHAPTER III. "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING." THE Doctor went up to London, and was told by his lawyers that an action for damages probably would lie. "'Amo' in the cool of the evening," certainly meant making love. There could be no doubt that allusion was made to Mrs. Peacocke. To accuse a clergyman of a parish, and a schoolmaster, of making love to a lady so circumstanced as Mrs. Peacocke, no doubt was libellous. Presuming that the libel could not be justified, he would probably succeed. "Justified!" said the Doctor, almost shrieking, to his lawyers; "I never said a word to the lady in my life except in pure kindness and charity. Every word might have been heard by all the world." Nevertheless, had all the world been present, he would not have held her hand so tenderly or so long as he had done on a certain occasion which has been mentioned. "They will probably apologise," said the lawyer. "Shall I be bound to accept their apology?" "No; not bound; but you would have to show, if you went on with the action, that the damage complained of was of so grievous a nature that the apology would not salve it." "The damage has been already done," said the Doctor, eagerly. "I have received the Bishop's rebuke,--a rebuke in which he has said that I have brought scandal upon the diocese." "Rebukes break no bones," said the lawyer. "Can you show that it will serve to prevent boys from coming to your school?" "It may not improbably force me to give up the living. I certainly will not remain there subject to the censure of the Bishop. I do not in truth want any damages. I would not accept money. I only want to set myself right before the world." It was then agreed that the necessary communication should be made by the lawyer to the newspaper proprietors, so as to put the matter in a proper train for the action. After this the Doctor returned home, just in time to open his school with his diminished forces. At the last moment there was another defaulter, so that there were now no more than twenty pupils. The school had not been so low as this for the last fifteen years. There had never been less than eight-and-twenty before, since Mrs. Stantiloup had first begun her campaign. It was heartbreaking to him. He felt as though he were almost ashamed to go into his own school. In directing his housekeeper to send the diminished orders to the tradesmen he was thoroughly ashamed of himself; in giving his directions to the usher as to the re-divided classes he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He wished that there was no school, and would have been contented now to give it all up, and to confine Mary's fortune to £10,000 instead of £20,000, had it not been that he could not bear to confess that he was beaten. The boys themselves seemed almost to carry their tails between their legs, as though even they were ashamed of their own school. If, as was too probable, another half-dozen should go at Christmas, then the thing must be abandoned. And how could he go on as rector of the parish with the abominable empty building staring him in the face every moment of his life. "I hope you are not really going to law," said his wife to him. "I must, my dear. I have no other way of defending my honour." "Go to law with the Bishop?" "No, not with the Bishop." "But the Bishop would be brought into it?" "Yes; he will certainly be brought into it." "And as an enemy. What I mean is, that he will be brought in very much against his own will." "Not a doubt about it," said the Doctor. "But he will have brought it altogether upon himself. How he can have condescended to send that scurrilous newspaper is more than I can understand. That one gentleman should have so treated another is to me incomprehensible. But that a bishop should have done so to a clergyman of his own diocese shakes all my old convictions. There is a vulgarity about it, a meanness of thinking, an aptitude to suspect all manner of evil, which I cannot fathom. What! did he really think that I was making love to the woman; did he doubt that I was treating her and her husband with kindness, as one human being is bound to treat another in affliction; did he believe, in his heart, that I sent the man away in order that I might have an opportunity for a wicked purpose of my own? It is impossible. When I think of myself and of him, I cannot believe it. That woman who has succeeded at last in stirring up all this evil against me,--even she could not believe it. Her malice is sufficient to make her conduct intelligible;--but there is no malice in the Bishop's mind against me. He would infinitely sooner live with me on pleasant terms if he could justify his doing so to his conscience. He has been stirred to do this in the execution of some presumed duty. I do not accuse him of malice. But I do accuse him of a meanness of intellect lower than what I could have presumed to have been possible in a man so placed. I never thought him clever; I never thought him great; I never thought him even to be a gentleman, in the fullest sense of the word; but I did think he was a man. This is the performance of a creature not worthy to be called so." "Oh, Jeffrey, he did not believe all that." "What did he believe? When he read that article, did he see in it a true rebuke against a hypocrite, or did he see in it a scurrilous attack upon a brother clergyman, a neighbour, and a friend? If the latter, he certainly would not have been instigated by it to write to me such a letter as he did. He certainly would not have sent the paper to me had he felt it to contain a foul-mouthed calumny." "He wanted you to know what people of that sort were saying." "Yes; he wanted me to know that, and he wanted me to know also that the knowledge had come to me from my bishop. I should have thought evil of any one who had sent me the vile ribaldry. But coming from him, it fills me with despair." "Despair!" she said, repeating his word. "Yes; despair as to the condition of the Church when I see a man capable of such meanness holding so high place. '"Amo" in the cool of the evening!' That words such as those should have been sent to me by the Bishop, as showing what the 'metropolitan press' of the day was saying about my conduct! Of course, my action will be against him,--against the Bishop. I shall be bound to expose his conduct. What else can I do? There are things which a man cannot bear and live. Were I to put up with this I must leave the school, leave the parish;--nay, leave the country. There is a stain upon me which I must wash out, or I cannot remain here." "No, no, no," said his wife, embracing him. "'"Amo" in the cool of the evening!' And that when, as God is my judge above me, I have done my best to relieve what has seemed to me the unmerited sorrows of two poor sufferers! Had it come from Mrs. Stantiloup, it would, of course, have been nothing. I could have understood that her malice should have condescended to anything, however low. But from the Bishop!" "How will you be the worse? Who will know?" "I know it," said he, striking his breast. "I know it. The wound is here. Do you think that when a coarse libel is welcomed in the Bishop's palace, and treated there as true, that it will not be spread abroad among other houses? When the Bishop has thought it necessary to send it me, what will other people do,--others who are not bound to be just and righteous in their dealings with me as he is? '"Amo" in the cool of the evening!'" Then he seized his hat and rushed out into the garden. The gentleman who had written the paragraph certainly had had no idea that his words would have been thus effectual. The little joke had seemed to him to be good enough to fill a paragraph, and it had gone from him without further thought. Of the Doctor or of the lady he had conceived no idea whatsoever. Somebody else had said somewhere that a clergyman had sent a lady's reputed husband away to look for another husband, while he and the lady remained together. The joke had not been much of a joke, but it had been enough. It had gone forth, and had now brought the whole palace of Broughton into grief, and had nearly driven our excellent Doctor mad! "'Amo' in the cool of the evening!" The words stuck to him like the shirt of Nessus, lacerating his very spirit. That words such as those should have been sent to him in a solemn sober spirit by the bishop of his diocese! It never occurred to him that he had, in truth, been imprudent when paying his visits alone to Mrs. Peacocke. It was late in the evening, and he wandered away up through the green rides of a wood the borders of which came down to the glebe fields. He had been boiling over with indignation while talking to his wife. But as soon as he was alone he endeavoured,--purposely endeavoured to rid himself for a while of his wrath. This matter was so important to him that he knew well that it behoved him to look at it all round in a spirit other than that of anger. He had talked of giving up his school, and giving up his parish, and had really for a time almost persuaded himself that he must do so unless he could induce the Bishop publicly to withdraw the censure which he felt to have been expressed against him. And then what would his life be afterwards? His parish and his school had not been only sources of income to him. The duty also had been dear, and had been performed on the whole with conscientious energy. Was everything to be thrown up, and his whole life hereafter be made a blank to him, because the Bishop had been unjust and injudicious? He could see that it well might be so, if he were to carry this contest on. He knew his own temper well enough to be sure that, as he fought, he would grow hotter in the fight, and that when he was once in the midst of it nothing would be possible to him but absolute triumph or absolute annihilation. If once he should succeed in getting the Bishop into court as a witness, either the Bishop must be crushed or he himself. The Bishop must be got to say why he had sent that low ribaldry to a clergyman in his parish. He must be asked whether he had himself believed it, or whether he had not believed it. He must be made to say that there existed no slightest reason for believing the insinuation contained; and then, having confessed so much, he must be asked why he had sent that letter to Bowick parsonage. If it were false as well as ribald, slanderous as well as vulgar, malicious as well as mean, was the sending of it a mode of communication between a bishop and a clergyman of which he as a bishop could approve? Questions such as these must be asked him; and the Doctor, as he walked alone, arranging these questions within his own bosom, putting them into the strongest language which he could find, almost assured himself that the Bishop would be crushed in answering them. The Bishop had made a great mistake. So the Doctor assured himself. He had been entrapped by bad advisers, and had fallen into a pit. He had gone wrong, and had lost himself. When cross-questioned, as the Doctor suggested to himself that he should be cross-questioned, the Bishop would have to own all this;--and then he would be crushed. But did he really want to crush the Bishop? Had this man been so bitter an enemy to him that, having him on the hip, he wanted to strike him down altogether? In describing the man's character to his wife, as he had done in the fury of his indignation, he had acquitted the man of malice. He was sure now, in his calmer moments, that the man had not intended to do him harm. If it were left in the Bishop's bosom, his parish, his school, and his character would all be made safe to him. He was sure of that. There was none of the spirit of Mrs. Stantiloup in the feeling that had prevailed at the palace. The Bishop, who had never yet been able to be masterful over him, had desired in a mild way to become masterful. He had liked the opportunity of writing that affectionate letter. That reference to the "metropolitan press" had slipt from him unawares; and then, when badgered for his authority, when driven to give an instance from the London newspapers, he had sent the objectionable periodical. He had, in point of fact, made a mistake;--a stupid, foolish mistake, into which a really well-bred man would hardly have fallen. "Ought I to take advantage of it?" said the Doctor to himself when he had wandered for an hour or more alone through the wood. He certainly did not wish to be crushed himself. Ought he to be anxious to crush the Bishop because of this error? "As for the paper," he said to himself, walking quicker as his mind turned to this side of the subject,--"as for the paper itself, it is beneath my notice. What is it to me what such a publication, or even the readers of it, may think of me? As for damages, I would rather starve than soil my hands with their money. Though it should succeed in ruining me, I could not accept redress in that shape." And thus having thought the matter fully over, he returned home, still wrathful, but with mitigated wrath. A Saturday was fixed on which he should again go up to London to see the lawyer. He was obliged now to be particular about his days, as, in the absence of Mr. Peacocke, the school required his time. Saturday was a half-holiday, and on that day he could be absent on condition of remitting the classical lessons in the morning. As he thought of it all he began to be almost tired of Mr. Peacocke. Nevertheless, on the Saturday morning, before he started, he called on Mrs. Peacocke,--in company with his wife,--and treated her with all his usual cordial kindness. "Mrs. Wortle," he said, "is going up to town with me; but we shall be home to-night, and we will see you on Monday if not to-morrow." Mrs. Wortle was going with him, not with the view of being present at his interview with the lawyer, which she knew would not be allowed, but on the pretext of shopping. Her real reason for making the request to be taken up to town was, that she might use the last moment possible in mitigating her husband's wrath against the Bishop. "I have seen one of the proprietors and the editor," said the lawyer, "and they are quite willing to apologise. I really do believe they are very sorry. The words had been allowed to pass without being weighed. Nothing beyond an innocent joke was intended." "I dare say. It seems innocent enough to them. If soot be thrown at a chimney-sweeper the joke is innocent, but very offensive when it is thrown at you." "They are quite aware that you have ground to complain. Of course you can go on if you like. The fact that they have offered to apologise will no doubt be a point in their favour. Nevertheless you would probably get a verdict." "We could bring the Bishop into court?" "I think so. You have got his letter speaking of the 'metropolitan press'?" "Oh yes." "It is for you to think, Dr. Wortle, whether there would not be a feeling against you among clergymen." "Of course there will. Men in authority always have public sympathy with them in this country. No man more rejoices that it should be so than I do. But not the less is it necessary that now and again a man shall make a stand in his own defence. He should never have sent me that paper." "Here," said the lawyer, "is the apology they propose to insert if you approve of it. They will also pay my bill,--which, however, will not, I am sorry to say, be very heavy." Then the lawyer handed to the Doctor a slip of paper, on which the following words were written;-- "Our attention has been called to a notice which was made in our impression of the -- ultimo on the conduct of a clergyman in the diocese of Broughton. A joke was perpetrated which, we are sorry to find, has given offence where certainly no offence was intended. We have since heard all the details of the case to which reference was made, and are able to say that the conduct of the clergyman in question has deserved neither censure nor ridicule. Actuated by the purest charity he has proved himself a sincere friend to persons in great trouble." "They'll put in your name if you wish it," said the lawyer, "or alter it in any way you like, so that they be not made to eat too much dirt." "I do not want them to alter it," said the Doctor, sitting thoughtfully. "Their eating dirt will do no good to me. They are nothing to me. It is the Bishop." Then, as though he were not thinking of what he did, he tore the paper and threw the fragments down on the floor. "They are nothing to me." "You will not accept their apology?" said the lawyer. "Oh yes;--or rather, it is unnecessary. You may tell them that I have changed my mind, and that I will ask for no apology. As far as the paper is concerned, it will be better to let the thing die a natural death. I should never have troubled myself about the newspaper if the Bishop had not sent it to me. Indeed I had seen it before the Bishop sent it, and thought little or nothing of it. Animals will after their kind. The wasp stings, and the polecat stinks, and the lion tears its prey asunder. Such a paper as that of course follows its own bent. One would have thought that a bishop would have done the same." "I may tell them that the action is withdrawn." "Certainly; certainly. Tell them also that they will oblige me by putting in no apology. And as for your bill, I would prefer to pay it myself. I will exercise no anger against them. It is not they who in truth have injured me." As he returned home he was not altogether happy, feeling that the Bishop would escape him; but he made his wife happy by telling her the decision to which he had come. CHAPTER IV. "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE." THE absence of Dr. and Mrs. Wortle was peculiarly unfortunate on that afternoon, as a visitor rode over from a distance to make a call,--a visitor whom they both would have been very glad to welcome, but of whose coming Mrs. Wortle was not so delighted to hear when she was told by Mary that he had spent two or three hours at the Rectory. Mrs. Wortle began to think whether the visitor could have known of her intended absence and the Doctor's. That Mary had not known that the visitor was coming she was quite certain. Indeed she did not really suspect the visitor, who was one too ingenuous in his nature to preconcert so subtle and so wicked a scheme. The visitor, of course, had been Lord Carstairs. "Was he here long?" asked Mrs. Wortle anxiously. "Two or three hours, mamma. He rode over from Buttercup where he is staying, for a cricket match, and of course I got him some lunch." "I should hope so," said the Doctor. "But I didn't think that Carstairs was so fond of the Momson lot as all that." Mrs. Wortle at once doubted the declared purpose of this visit to Buttercup. Buttercup was more than half-way between Carstairs and Bowick. "And then we had a game of lawn-tennis. Talbot and Monk came through to make up sides." So much Mary told at once, but she did not tell more till she was alone with her mother. Young Carstairs had certainly not come over on the sly, as we may call it, but nevertheless there had been a project in his mind, and fortune had favoured him. He was now about nineteen, and had been treated for the last twelve months almost as though he had been a man. It had seemed to him that there was no possible reason why he should not fall in love as well as another. Nothing more sweet, nothing more lovely, nothing more lovable than Mary Wortle had he ever seen. He had almost made up his mind to speak on two or three occasions before he left Bowick; but either his courage or the occasion had failed him. Once, as he was walking home with her from church, he had said one word;--but it had amounted to nothing. She had escaped from him before she was bound to understand what he meant. He did not for a moment suppose that she had understood anything. He was only too much afraid that she regarded him as a mere boy. But when he had been away from Bowick two months he resolved that he would not be regarded as a mere boy any longer. Therefore he took an opportunity of going to Buttercup, which he certainly would not have done for the sake of the Momsons or for the sake of the cricket. He ate his lunch before he said a word, and then, with but poor grace, submitted to the lawn-tennis with Talbot and Monk. Even to his youthful mind it seemed that Talbot and Monk were brought in on purpose. They were both of them boys he had liked, but he hated them now. However, he played his game, and when that was over, managed to get rid of them, sending them back through the gate to the school-ground. "I think I must say good-bye now," said Mary, "because there are ever so many things in the house which I have got to do." "I am going almost immediately," said the young lord. "Papa will be so sorry not to have seen you." This had been said once or twice before. "I came over," he said, "on purpose to see you." They were now standing on the middle of the lawn, and Mary had assumed a look which intended to signify that she expected him to go. He knew the place well enough to get his own horse, or to order the groom to get it for him. But instead of that, he stood his ground, and now declared his purpose. "To see me, Lord Carstairs!" "Yes, Miss Wortle. And if the Doctor had been here, or your mother, I should have told them." "Have told them what?" she asked. She knew; she felt sure that she knew; and yet she could not refrain from the question. "I have come here to ask if you can love me." It was a most decided way of declaring his purpose, and one which made Mary feel that a great difficulty was at once thrown upon her. She really did not know whether she could love him or not. Why shouldn't she have been able to love him? Was it not natural enough that she should be able? But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether able or not. There were various reasons which were apparent enough to her though it might be very difficult to make him see them. He was little more than a boy, and had not yet finished his education. His father and mother would not expect him to fall in love, at any rate till he had taken his degree. And they certainly would not expect him to fall in love with the daughter of his tutor. She had an idea that, circumstanced as she was, she was bound by loyalty both to her own father and to the lad's father not to be able to love him. She thought that she would find it easy enough to say that she did not love him; but that was not the question. As for being able to love him,--she could not answer that at all. "Lord Carstairs," she said, severely, "you ought not to have come here when papa and mamma are away." "I didn't know they were away. I expected to find them here." "But they ain't. And you ought to go away." "Is that all you can say to me?" "I think it is. You know you oughtn't to talk to me like that. Your own papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it." "Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell them?" "I am sure they would disapprove it altogether," said Mary. "In fact it is all nonsense, and you really must go away." Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the drawing-room window, which opened out on a gravel terrace. But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. "I think you ought to give me an answer, Mary," he said. "I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in." "If they say that it's all right at Carstairs, then will you love me?" "They won't say that it's all right; and papa won't think that it's right. It's very wrong. You haven't been to Oxford yet, and you'll have to remain there for three years. I think it's very ill-natured of you to come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are only a boy, but yet you ought to know better." "It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy, I am older than you are, and have quite as much right to know my own mind." Hereupon she took advantage of some little movement in his position, and, tripping by him hastily, made good her escape into the house. Young Carstairs, perceiving that his occasion for the present was over, went into the yard and got upon his horse. He was by no means contented with what he had done, but still he thought that he must have made her understand his purpose. Mary, when she found herself safe within her own room, could not refrain from asking herself the question which her lover had asked her. "Could she love him?" She didn't see any reason why she couldn't love him. It would be very nice, she thought, to love him. He was sweet-tempered, handsome, bright, and thoroughly good-humoured; and then his position in the world was very high. Not for a moment did she tell herself that she would love him. She did not understand all the differences in the world's ranks quite as well as did her father, but still she felt that because of his rank,--because of his rank and his youth combined,--she ought not to allow herself to love him. There was no reason why the son of a peer should not marry the daughter of a clergyman. The peer and the clergyman might be equally gentlemen. But young Carstairs had been there in trust. Lord Bracy had sent him there to be taught Latin and Greek, and had a right to expect that he should not be encouraged to fall in love with his tutor's daughter. It was not that she did not think herself good enough to be loved by any young lord, but that she was too good to bring trouble on the people who had trusted her father. Her father would despise her were he to hear that she had encouraged the lad, or as some might say, had entangled him. She did not know whether she should not have spoken to Lord Carstairs more decidedly. But she could, at any rate, comfort herself with the assurance that she had given him no encouragement. Of course she must tell it all to her mother, but in doing so could declare positively that she had given the young man no encouragement. "It was very unfortunate that Lord Carstairs should have come just when I was away," said Mrs. Wortle to her daughter as soon as they were alone together. "Yes, mamma; it was." "And so odd. I haven't been away from home any day all the summer before." "He expected to find you." "Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!" "Yes, mamma." "He had? What was it, my dear?" "I was very much surprised, mamma, but I couldn't help it. He asked me----" "Asked you what, Mary?" "Oh, mamma!" Here she knelt down and hid her face in her mother's lap. "Oh, my dear, this is very bad;--very bad indeed." "It needn't be bad for you, mamma; or for papa." "Is it bad for you, my child?" "No, mamma; except of course that I am sorry that it should be so." "What did you say to him?" "Of course I told him that it was impossible. He is only a boy, and I told him so." "You made him no promise." "No, mamma; no! A promise! Oh dear no! Of course it is impossible. I knew that. I never dreamed of anything of the kind; but he said it all there out on the lawn." "Had he come on purpose?" "Yes;--so he said. I think he had. But he will go to Oxford, and will of course forget it." "He is such a nice boy," said Mrs. Wortle, who, in all her anxiety, could not but like the lad the better for having fallen in love with her daughter. "Yes, mamma; he is. I always liked him. But this is quite out of the question. What would his papa and mamma say?" "It would be very dreadful to have a quarrel, wouldn't it,--and just at present, when there are so many things to trouble your papa." Though Mrs. Wortle was quite honest and true in the feeling she had expressed as to the young lord's visit, yet she was alive to the glory of having a young lord for her son-in-law. "Of course it is out of the question, mamma. It has never occurred to me for a moment as otherwise. He has got to go to Oxford and take his degree before he thinks of such a thing. I shall be quite an old woman by that time, and he will have forgotten me. You may be sure, mamma, that whatever I did say to him was quite plain. I wish you could have been here and heard it all, and seen it all." "My darling," said the mother, embracing her, "I could not believe you more thoroughly even though I saw it all, and heard it all." That night Mrs. Wortle felt herself constrained to tell the whole story to her husband. It was indeed impossible for her to keep any secret from her husband. When Mary, in her younger years, had torn her frock or cut her finger, that was always told to the Doctor. If a gardener was seen idling his time, or a housemaid flirting with the groom, that certainly would be told to the Doctor. What comfort does a woman get out of her husband unless she may be allowed to talk to him about everything? When it had been first proposed that Lord Carstairs should come into the house as a private pupil she had expressed her fear to the Doctor,--because of Mary. The Doctor had ridiculed her fears, and this had been the result. Of course she must tell the Doctor. "Oh, dear," she said, "what do you think has happened while we were up in London?" "Carstairs was here." "Oh, yes; he was here. He came on purpose to make a regular declaration of love to Mary." "Nonsense." "But he did, Jeffrey." "How do you know he came on purpose." "He told her so." "I did not think the boy had so much spirit in him," said the Doctor. This was a way of looking at it which Mrs. Wortle had not expected. Her husband seemed rather to approve than otherwise of what had been done. At any rate, he had expressed none of that loud horror which she had expected. "Nevertheless," continued the Doctor, "he's a stupid fool for his pains." "I don't know that he is a fool," said Mrs. Wortle. "Yes; he is. He is not yet twenty, and he has all Oxford before him. How did Mary behave?" "Like an angel," said Mary's mother. "That's of course. You and I are bound to believe so. But what did she do, and what did she say?" "She told him that it was simply impossible." "So it is,--I'm afraid. She at any rate was bound to give him no encouragement." "She gave him none. She feels quite strongly that it is altogether impossible. What would Lord Bracy say?" "If Carstairs were but three or four years older," said the Doctor, proudly, "Lord Bracy would have much to be thankful for in the attachment on the part of his son, if it were met by a return of affection on the part of my daughter. What better could he want?" "But he is only a boy," said Mrs. Wortle. "No; that's where it is. And Mary was quite right to tell him that it is impossible. It is impossible. And I trust, for her sake, that his words have not touched her young heart." "Oh, no," said Mrs. Wortle. "Had it been otherwise how could we have been angry with the child?" Now this did seem to the mother to be very much in contradiction to that which the Doctor had himself said when she had whispered to him that Lord Carstairs's coming might be dangerous. "I was afraid of it, as you know," said she. "His character has altered during the last twelve months." "I suppose when boys grow into men it is so with them." "Not so quickly," said the Doctor. "A boy when he leaves Eton is not generally thinking of these things." "A boy at Eton is not thrown into such society," said Mrs. Wortle. "I suppose his being here and seeing Mary every day has done it. Poor Mary!" "I don't think she is poor at all," said Mary's mother. "I am afraid she must not dream of her young lover." "Of course she will not dream of him. She has never entertained any idea of the kind. There never was a girl with less nonsense of that kind than Mary. When Lord Carstairs spoke to her to-day I do not suppose she had thought about him more than any other boy that has been here." "But she will think now." "No;--not in the least. She knows it is impossible." "Nevertheless she will think about it. And so will you." "I!" "Yes,--why not? Why should you be different from other mothers? Why should I not think about it as other fathers might do? It is impossible. I wish it were not. For Mary's sake, I wish he were three or four years older. But he is as he is, and we know that it is impossible. Nevertheless, it is natural that she should think about him. I only hope that she will not think about him too much." So saying he closed the conversation for that night. Mary did not think very much about "it" in such a way as to create disappointment. She at once realised the impossibilities, so far as to perceive that the young lord was the top brick of the chimney as far as she was concerned. The top brick of the chimney may be very desirable, but one doesn't cry for it, because it is unattainable. Therefore Mary did not in truth think of loving her young lover. He had been to her a very nice boy; and so he was still; that;--that, and nothing more. Then had come this little episode in her life which seemed to lend it a gentle tinge of romance. But had she inquired of her bosom she would have declared that she had not been in love. With her mother there was perhaps something of regret. But it was exactly the regret which may be felt in reference to the top brick. It would have been so sweet had it been possible; but then it was so evidently impossible. With the Doctor the feeling was somewhat different. It was not quite so manifest to him that this special brick was altogether unattainable, nor even that it was quite at the top of the chimney. There was no reason why his daughter should not marry an earl's son and heir. No doubt the lad had been confided to him in trust. No doubt it would have been his duty to have prevented anything of the kind, had anything of the kind seemed to him to be probable. Had there been any moment in which the duty had seemed to him to be a duty, he would have done it, even though it had been necessary to caution the Earl to take his son away from Bowick. But there had been nothing of the kind. He had acted in the simplicity of his heart, and this had been the result. Of course it was impossible. He acknowledged to himself that it was so, because of the necessity of those Oxford studies and those long years which would be required for the taking of the degree. But to his thinking there was no other ground for saying that it was impossible. The thing must stand as it was. If this youth should show himself to be more constant than other youths,--which was not probable,--and if, at the end of three or four years, Mary should not have given her heart to any other lover,--which was also improbable,--why, then, it might come to pass that he should some day find himself father-in-law to the future Earl Bracy. Though Mary did not think of it, nor Mrs. Wortle, he thought of it,--so as to give an additional interest to these disturbed days. CHAPTER V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. THE possible glory of Mary's future career did not deter the Doctor from thinking of his troubles,--and especially that trouble with the Bishop which was at present heavy on his hand. He had determined not to go on with his action, and had so resolved because he had felt, in his more sober moments, that in bringing the Bishop to disgrace, he would be as a bird soiling its own nest. It was that conviction, and not any idea as to the sufficiency or insufficiency, as to the truth or falsehood, of the editor's apology, which had actuated him. As he had said to his lawyer, he did not in the least care for the newspaper people. He could not condescend to be angry with them. The abominable joke as to the two verbs was altogether in their line. As coming from them, they were no more to him than the ribald words of boys which he might hear in the street. The offence to him had come from the Bishop,--and he resolved to spare the Bishop because of the Church. But yet something must be done. He could not leave the man to triumph over him. If nothing further were done in the matter, the Bishop would have triumphed over him. As he could not bring himself to expose the Bishop, he must see whether he could not reach the man by means of his own power of words;--so he wrote as follows;-- "MY DEAR LORD,--I have to own that this letter is written with feelings which have been very much lacerated by what your lordship has done. I must tell you, in the first place, that I have abandoned my intention of bringing an action against the proprietors of the scurrilous newspaper which your lordship sent me, because I am unwilling to bring to public notice the fact of a quarrel between a clergyman of the Church of England and his Bishop. I think that, whatever may be the difficulty between us, it should be arranged without bringing down upon either of us adverse criticism from the public press. I trust your lordship will appreciate my feeling in this matter. Nothing less strong could have induced me to abandon what seems to be the most certain means by which I could obtain redress. "I had seen the paper which your lordship sent to me before it came to me from the palace. The scurrilous, unsavoury, and vulgar words which it contained did not matter to me much. I have lived long enough to know that, let a man's own garments be as clean as they may be, he cannot hope to walk through the world without rubbing against those who are dirty. It was only when those words came to me from your lordship,--when I found that the expressions which I found in that paper were those to which your lordship had before alluded as being criticisms on my conduct in the metropolitan press,--criticisms so grave as to make your lordship think it necessary to admonish me respecting them,--it was only then, I say, that I considered them to be worthy of my notice. When your lordship, in admonishing me, found it necessary to refer me to the metropolitan press, and to caution me to look to my conduct because the metropolitan press had expressed its dissatisfaction, it was, I submit to you, natural for me to ask you where I should find that criticism which had so strongly affected your lordship's judgment. There are perhaps half a score of newspapers published in London whose animadversions I, as a clergyman, might have reason to respect,--even if I did not fear them. Was I not justified in thinking that at least some two or three of these had dealt with my conduct, when your lordship held the metropolitan press _in terrorem_ over my head? I applied to your lordship for the names of these newspapers, and your lordship, when pressed for a reply, sent to me--that copy of 'Everybody's Business.' "I ask your lordship to ask yourself whether, so far, I have overstated anything. Did not that paper come to me as the only sample you were able to send me of criticism made on my conduct in the metropolitan press? No doubt my conduct was handled there in very severe terms. No doubt the insinuations, if true,--or if of such kind as to be worthy of credit with your lordship, whether true or false,--were severe, plain-spoken, and damning. The language was so abominable, so vulgar, so nauseous, that I will not trust myself to repeat it. Your lordship, probably, when sending me one copy, kept another. Now, I must ask your lordship,--and I must beg of your lordship for a reply,--whether the periodical itself has such a character as to justify your lordship in founding a complaint against a clergyman on its unproved statements, and also whether the facts of the case, as they were known to you, were not such as to make your lordship well aware that the insinuations were false. Before these ribald words were printed, your lordship had heard all the facts of the case from my own lips. Your lordship had known me and my character for, I think, a dozen years. You know the character that I bear among others as a clergyman, a schoolmaster, and a gentleman. You have been aware how great is the friendship I have felt for the unfortunate gentleman whose career is in question, and for the lady who bears his name. When you read those abominable words did they induce your lordship to believe that I had been guilty of the inexpressible treachery of making love to the poor lady whose misfortunes I was endeavouring to relieve, and of doing so almost in my wife's presence? "I defy you to have believed them. Men are various, and their minds work in different ways,--but the same causes will produce the same effects. You have known too much of me to have thought it possible that I should have done as I was accused. I should hold a man to be no less than mad who could so have believed, knowing as much as your lordship knew. Then how am I to reconcile to my idea of your lordship's character the fact that you should have sent me that paper? What am I to think of the process going on in your lordship's mind when your lordship could have brought yourself to use a narrative which you must have known to be false, made in a newspaper which you knew to be scurrilous, as the ground for a solemn admonition to a clergyman of my age and standing? You wrote to me, as is evident from the tone and context of your lordship's letter, because you found that the metropolitan press had denounced my conduct. And this was the proof you sent to me that such had been the case! "It occurred to me at once that, as the paper in question had vilely slandered me, I could redress myself by an action of law, and that I could prove the magnitude of the evil done me by showing the grave importance which your lordship had attached to the words. In this way I could have forced an answer from your lordship to the questions which I now put to you. Your lordship would have been required to state on oath whether you believed those insinuations or not; and, if so, why you believed them. On grounds which I have already explained I have thought it improper to do so. Having abandoned that course, I am unable to force any answer from your lordship. But I appeal to your sense of honour and justice whether you should not answer my questions;--and I also ask from your lordship an ample apology, if, on consideration, you shall feel that you have done me an undeserved injury.--I have the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's most obedient, very humble servant, "JEFFREY WORTLE." He was rather proud of this letter as he read it to himself, and yet a little afraid of it, feeling that he had addressed his Bishop in very strong language. It might be that the Bishop should send him no answer at all, or some curt note from his chaplain in which it would be explained that the tone of the letter precluded the Bishop from answering it. What should he do then? It was not, he thought, improbable, that the curt note from the chaplain would be all that he might receive. He let the letter lie by him for four-and-twenty hours after he had composed it, and then determined that not to send it would be cowardly. He sent it, and then occupied himself for an hour or two in meditating the sort of letter he would write to the Bishop when that curt reply had come from the chaplain. That further letter must be one which must make all amicable intercourse between him and the Bishop impossible. And it must be so written as to be fit to meet the public eye if he should be ever driven by the Bishop's conduct to put it in print. A great wrong had been done him;--a great wrong! The Bishop had been induced by influences which should have had no power over him to use his episcopal rod and to smite him,--him Dr. Wortle! He would certainly show the Bishop that he should have considered beforehand whom he was about to smite. "'Amo' in the cool of the evening!" And that given as an expression of opinion from the metropolitan press in general! He had spared the Bishop as far as that action was concerned, but he would not spare him should he be driven to further measures by further injustice. In this way he lashed himself again into a rage. Whenever those odious words occurred to him he was almost mad with anger against the Bishop. When the letter had been two days sent, so that he might have had a reply had a reply come to him by return of post, he put a copy of it into his pocket and rode off to call on Mr. Puddicombe. He had thought of showing it to Mr. Puddicombe before he sent it, but his mind had revolted from such submission to the judgment of another. Mr. Puddicombe would no doubt have advised him not to send it, and then he would have been almost compelled to submit to such advice. But the letter was gone now. The Bishop had read it, and no doubt re-read it two or three times. But he was anxious that some other clergyman should see it,--that some other clergyman should tell him that, even if inexpedient, it had still been justified. Mr. Puddicombe had been made acquainted with the former circumstances of the affair; and now, with his mind full of his own injuries, he went again to Mr. Puddicombe. "It is just the sort of letter that you would write, as a matter of course," said Mr. Puddicombe. "Then I hope that you think it is a good letter?" "Good as being expressive, and good also as being true, I do think it." "But not good as being wise?" "Had I been in your case I should have thought it unnecessary. But you are self-demonstrative, and cannot control your feelings." "I do not quite understand you." "What did it all matter? The Bishop did a foolish thing in talking of the metropolitan press. But he had only meant to put you on your guard." "I do not choose to be put on my guard in that way," said the Doctor. "No; exactly. And he should have known you better than to suppose you would bear it. Then you pressed him, and he found himself compelled to send you that stupid newspaper. Of course he had made a mistake. But don't you think that the world goes easier when mistakes are forgiven?" "I did forgive it, as far as foregoing the action." "That, I think, was a matter of course. If you had succeeded in putting the poor Bishop into a witness-box you would have had every sensible clergyman in England against you. You felt that yourself." "Not quite that," said the Doctor. "Something very near it; and therefore you withdrew. But you cannot get the sense of the injury out of your mind, and, therefore, you have persecuted the Bishop with that letter." "Persecuted?" "He will think so. And so should I, had it been addressed to me. As I said before, all your arguments are true,--only I think you have made so much more of the matter than was necessary! He ought not to have sent you that newspaper, nor ought he to have talked about the metropolitan press. But he did you no harm; nor had he wished to do you harm;--and perhaps it might have been as well to pass it over." "Could you have done so?" "I cannot imagine myself in such a position. I could not, at any rate, have written such a letter as that, even if I would; and should have been afraid to write it if I could. I value peace and quiet too greatly to quarrel with my bishop,--unless, indeed, he should attempt to impose upon my conscience. There was nothing of that kind here. I think I should have seen that he had made a mistake, and have passed it over." The Doctor, as he rode home, was, on the whole, better pleased with his visit than he had expected to be. He had been told that his letter was argumentative and true, and that in itself had been much. At the end of the week he received a reply from the Bishop, and found that it was not, at any rate, written by the chaplain. "MY DEAR DR. WORTLE," said the reply; "your letter has pained me exceedingly, because I find that I have caused you a degree of annoyance which I am certainly very sorry I have inflicted. When I wrote to you in my letter,--which I certainly did not intend as an admonition,--about the metropolitan press, I only meant to tell you, for your own information, that the newspapers were making reference to your affair with Mr. Peacocke. I doubt whether I knew anything of the nature of 'Everybody's Business.' I am not sure even whether I had ever actually read the words to which you object so strongly. At any rate, they had had no weight with me. If I had read them,--which I probably did very cursorily,--they did not rest on my mind at all when I wrote to you. My object was to caution you, not at all as to your own conduct, but as to others who were speaking evil of you. "As to the action of which you spoke so strongly when I had the pleasure of seeing you here, I am very glad that you abandoned it, for your own sake and for mine, and the sake of all us generally to whom the peace of the Church is dear. "As to the nature of the language in which you have found yourself compelled to write to me, I must remind you that it is unusual as coming from a clergyman to a bishop. I am, however, ready to admit that the circumstances of the case were unusual, and I can understand that you should have felt the matter severely. Under these circumstances, I trust that the affair may now be allowed to rest without any breach of those kind feelings which have hitherto existed between us.--Yours very faithfully, "C. BROUGHTON." "It is a beastly letter," the Doctor said to himself, when he had read it, "a beastly letter;" and then he put it away without saying any more about it to himself or to any one else. It had appeared to him to be a "beastly letter," because it had exactly the effect which the Bishop had intended. It did not eat "humble pie;" it did not give him the full satisfaction of a complete apology; and yet it left no room for a further rejoinder. It had declared that no censure had been intended, and expressed sorrow that annoyance had been caused. But yet to the Doctor's thinking it was an unmanly letter. "Not intended as an admonition!" Then why had the Bishop written in that severely affectionate and episcopal style? He had intended it as an admonition, and the excuse was false. So thought the Doctor, and comprised all his criticism in the one epithet given above. After that he put the letter away, and determined to think no more about it. "Will you come in and see Mrs. Peacocke after lunch?" the Doctor said to his wife the next morning. They paid their visit together; and after that, when the Doctor called on the lady, he was generally accompanied by Mrs. Wortle. So much had been effected by 'Everybody's Business,' and its abominations. CHAPTER VI. THE JOURNEY. WE will now follow Mr. Peacocke for a while upon his journey. He began his close connection with Robert Lefroy by paying the man's bill at the inn before he left Broughton, and after that found himself called upon to defray every trifle of expense incurred as they went along. Lefroy was very anxious to stay for a week in town. It would, no doubt, have been two weeks or a month had his companion given way;--but on this matter a line of conduct had been fixed by Mr. Peacocke in conjunction with the Doctor from which he never departed. "If you will not be guided by me, I will go without you," Mr. Peacocke had said, "and leave you to follow your own devices on your own resources." "And what can you do by yourself?" "Most probably I shall be able to learn all that I want to learn. It may be that I shall fail to learn anything either with you or without you. I am willing to make the attempt with you if you will come along at once;--but I will not be delayed for a single day. I shall go whether you go or stay." Then Lefroy had yielded, and had agreed to be put on board a German steamer starting from Southampton to New York. But an hour or two before the steamer started he made a revelation. "This is all gammon, Peacocke," he said, when on board. "What is all gammon?" "My taking you across to the States." "Why is it gammon?" "Because Ferdinand died more than a year since;--almost immediately after you took her off." "Why did you not tell me that at Bowick?" "Because you were so uncommon uncivil. Was it likely I should have told you that when you cut up so uncommon rough?" "An honest man would have told me the very moment that he saw me." "When one's poor brother has died, one does not blurt it like that all at once." "Your poor brother!" "Why not my poor brother as well as anybody else's? And her husband too! How was I to let it out in that sort of way? At any rate he is dead as Julius Cæsar. I saw him buried,--right away at 'Frisco." "Did he go to San Francisco?" "Yes,--we both went there right away from St. Louis. When we got up to St. Louis we were on our way with them other fellows. Nobody meant to disturb you; but Ferdy got drunk, and would go and have a spree, as he called it." "A spree, indeed!" "But we were off by train to Kansas at five o'clock the next morning. The devil wouldn't keep him sober, and he died of D.T. the day after we got him to 'Frisco. So there's the truth of it, and you needn't go to New York at all. Hand me the dollars. I'll be off to the States; and you can go back and marry the widow,--or leave her alone, just as you please." They were down below when this story was told, sitting on their portmanteaus in the little cabin in which they were to sleep. The prospect of the journey certainly had no attraction for Mr. Peacocke. His companion was most distasteful to him; the ship was abominable; the expense was most severe. How glad would he avoid it all if it were possible! "You know it all as well as if you were there," said Robert, "and were standing on his grave." He did believe it. The man in all probability had at the last moment told the true story. Why not go back and be married again? The Doctor could be got to believe it. But then if it were not true? It was only for a moment that he doubted. "I must go to 'Frisco all the same," he said. "Why so?" "Because I must in truth stand upon his grave. I must have proof that he has been buried there." "Then you may go by yourself," said Robert Lefroy. He had said this more than once or twice already, and had been made to change his tone. He could go or stay as he pleased, but no money would be paid to him until Peacocke had in his possession positive proof of Ferdinand Lefroy's death. So the two made their unpleasant journey to New York together. There was complaining on the way, even as to the amount of liquor that should be allowed. Peacocke would pay for nothing that he did not himself order. Lefroy had some small funds of his own, and was frequently drunk while on board. There were many troubles; but still they did at last reach New York. Then there was a great question whether they would go on direct from thence to San Francisco, or delay themselves three or four days by going round by St. Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St. Louis,--and on that account Peacocke was almost resolved to take tickets direct through for San Francisco. Why should Lefroy wish to go to St. Louis? But then, if the story were altogether false, some truth might be learned at St. Louis; and it was at last decided that thither they would go. As they went on from town to town, changing carriages first at one place and then at another, Lefroy's manner became worse and worse, and his language more and more threatening. Peacocke was asked whether he thought a man was to be brought all that distance without being paid for his time. "You will be paid when you have performed your part of the bargain," said Peacocke. "I'll see some part of the money at St. Louis," said Lefroy, "or I'll know the reason why. A thousand dollars! What are a thousand dollars? Hand out the money." This was said as they were sitting together in a corner or separated portion of the smoking-room of a little hotel at which they were waiting for a steamer which was to take them down the Mississippi to St. Louis. Peacocke looked round and saw that they were alone. "I shall hand out nothing till I see your brother's grave," said Peacocke. "You won't?" "Not a dollar! What is the good of your going on like that? You ought to know me well enough by this time." "But you do not know me well enough. You must have taken me for a very tame sort o' critter." "Perhaps I have." "Maybe you'll change your mind." "Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me. But you will not get any money by that." "Murder you. You ain't worth murdering." Then they sat in silence, waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr. Peacocke. They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours, during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided for him. Before, however, they reached St. Louis, which they did late at night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr. Peacocke bore his position as well as he could, and accompanied him up to the hotel. It was arranged that they should remain two days at St. Louis, and then start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loafe and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o'clock, there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around him. "Here's a fellow," said he, "has come out from England to find out what's become of Ferdinand Lefroy." "I knew Ferdinand Lefroy," said one man, "and I know you too, Master Robert." "What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?" asked Mr. Peacocke. "He's gone where all the good fellows go," said another. "You mean that he is dead?" asked Peacocke. "Of course he's dead," said Robert. "I've been telling him so ever since we left England; but he is such a d---- unbelieving infidel that he wouldn't credit the man's own brother. He won't learn much here about him." "Ferdinand Lefroy," said the first man, "died on the way as he was going out West. I was over the road the day after." "You know nothing about it," said Robert. "He died at 'Frisco two days after we'd got him there." "He died at Ogden Junction, where you turn down to Utah City." "You didn't see him dead," said the other. "If I remember right," continued the first man, "they'd taken him away to bury him somewhere just there in the neighbourhood. I didn't care much about him, and I didn't ask any particular questions. He was a drunken beast,--better dead than alive." "You've been drunk as often as him, I guess," said Robert. "I never gave nobody the trouble to bury me at any rate," said the other. "Do you mean to say positively of your own knowledge," asked Peacocke, "that Ferdinand Lefroy died at that station?" "Ask him; he's his brother, and he ought to know best." "I tell you," said Robert, earnestly, "that we carried him on to 'Frisco, and there he died. If you think you know best, you can go to Utah City and wait there till you hear all about it. I guess they'll make you one of their elders if you wait long enough." Then they all went to bed. It was now clear to Mr. Peacocke that the man as to whose life or death he was so anxious had really died. The combined evidence of these men, which had come out without any preconcerted arrangement, was proof to his mind. But there was no evidence which he could take back with him to England and use there as proof in a court of law, or even before the Bishop and Dr. Wortle. On the next morning, before Robert Lefroy was up, he got hold of the man who had been so positive that death had overtaken the poor wretch at the railway station which is distant from San Francisco two days' journey. Had the man died there, and been buried there, nothing would be known of him in San Francisco. The journey to San Francisco would be entirely thrown away, and he would be as badly off as ever. "I wouldn't like to say for certain," said the man when he was interrogated. "I only tell you what they told me. As I was passing along somebody said as Ferdy Lefroy had been taken dead out of the cars on to the platform. Now you know as much about it as I do." He was thus assured that at any rate the journey to San Francisco had not been altogether a fiction. The man had gone "West," as had been said, and nothing more would be known of him at St. Louis. He must still go on upon his journey and make such inquiry as might be possible at the Ogden Junction. On the day but one following they started again, taking their tickets as far as Leavenworth. They were told by the officials that they would find a train at Leavenworth waiting to take them on across country into the regular San Francisco line. But, as is not unusual with railway officials in that part of the world, they were deceived. At Leavenworth they were forced to remain for four-and-twenty hours, and there they put themselves up at a miserable hotel in which they were obliged to occupy the same room. It was a rough, uncouth place, in which, as it seemed to Mr. Peacocke, the men were more uncourteous to him, and the things around more unlike to what he had met elsewhere, than in any other town of the Union. Robert Lefroy, since the first night at St. Louis, had become sullen rather than disobedient. He had not refused to go on when the moment came for starting, but had left it in doubt till the last moment whether he did or did not intend to prosecute his journey. When the ticket was taken for him he pretended to be altogether indifferent about it, and would himself give no help whatever in any of the usual troubles of travelling. But as far as this little town of Leavenworth he had been carried, and Peacocke now began to think it probable that he might succeed in taking him to San Francisco. On that night he endeavoured to induce him to go first to bed, but in this he failed. Lefroy insisted on remaining down at the bar, where he had ordered for himself some liquor for which Mr. Peacocke, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, would have to pay. If the man would get drunk and lie there, he could not help himself. On this he was determined, that whether with or without the man, he would go on by the first train;--and so he took himself to his bed. He had been there perhaps half-an-hour when his companion came into the room,--certainly not drunk. He seated himself on his bed, and then, pulling to him a large travelling-bag which he used, he unpacked it altogether, laying all the things which it contained out upon the bed. "What are you doing that for?" said Mr. Peacocke; "we have to start from here to-morrow morning at five." "I'm not going to start to-morrow at five, nor yet to-morrow at all, nor yet next day." "You are not?" "Not if I know it. I have had enough of this game. I am not going further West for any one. Hand out the money. You have been told everything about my brother, true and honest, as far as I know it. Hand out the money." "Not a dollar," said Peacocke. "All that I have heard as yet will be of no service to me. As far as I can see, you will earn it; but you will have to come on a little further yet." "Not a foot; I ain't a-going out of this room to-morrow." "Then I must go without you;--that's all." "You may go and be ----. But you'll have to shell out the money first, old fellow." "Not a dollar." "You won't?" "Certainly I will not. How often have I told you so." "Then I shall take it." "That you will find very difficult. In the first place, if you were to cut my throat----" "Which is just what I intend to do." "If you were to cut my throat,--which in itself will be difficult,--you would only find the trifle of gold which I have got for our journey as far as 'Frisco. That won't do you much good. The rest is in circular notes, which to you would be of no service whatever." "My God," said the man suddenly, "I am not going to be done in this way." And with that he drew out a bowie-knife which he had concealed among the things which he had extracted from the bag. "You don't know the sort of country you're in now. They don't think much here of the life of such a skunk as you. If you mean to live till to-morrow morning you must come to terms." The room was a narrow chamber in which two beds ran along the wall, each with its foot to the other, having a narrow space between them and the other wall. Peacocke occupied the one nearest to the door. Lefroy now got up from the bed in the further corner, and with the bowie-knife in his hand rushed against the door as though to prevent his companion's escape. Peacocke, who was in bed undressed, sat up at once; but as he did so he brought a revolver out from under his pillow. "So you have been and armed yourself, have you?" said Robert Lefroy. "Yes," said Peacocke;--"if you come nearer me with that knife I shall shoot you. Put it down." "Likely I shall put it down at your bidding." With the pistol still held at the other man's head, Peacocke slowly extracted himself from his bed. "Now," said he, "if you don't come away from the door I shall fire one barrel just to let them know in the house what sort of affair is going on. Put the knife down. You know that I shall not hurt you then." After hesitating for a moment or two, Lefroy did put the knife down. "I didn't mean anything, old fellow," said he. "I only wanted to frighten you." "Well; you have frightened me. Now, what's to come next?" "No, I ain't;--not frightened you a bit. A pistol's always better than a knife any day. Well now, I'll tell ye how it all is." Saying this, he seated himself on his own bed, and began a long narration. He would not go further West than Leavenworth. Whether he got his money or whether he lost it, he would not travel a foot further. There were reasons which would make it disagreeable for him to go into California. But he made a proposition. If Peacocke would only give him money enough to support himself for the necessary time, he would remain at Leavenworth till his companion should return there, or would make his way to Chicago, and stay there till Peacocke should come to him. Then he proceeded to explain how absolute evidence might be obtained at San Francisco as to his brother's death. "That fellow was lying altogether," he said, "about my brother dying at the Ogden station. He was very bad there, no doubt, and we thought it was going to be all up with him. He had the horrors there, worse than I ever saw before, and I hope never to see the like again. But we did get him on to San Francisco; and when he was able to walk into the city on his own legs, I thought that, might be, he would rally and come round. However, in two days he died;--and we buried him in the big cemetery just out of the town." "Did you put a stone over him?" "Yes; there is a stone as large as life. You'll find the name on it,--Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana. Kilbrack was the name of our plantation, where we should be living now as gentlemen ought, with three hundred niggers of our own, but for these accursed Northern hypocrites." "How can I find the stone?" "There's a chap there who knows, I guess, where all them graves are to be found. But it's on the right hand, a long way down, near the far wall at the bottom, just where the ground takes a little dip to the north. It ain't so long ago but what the letters on the stone will be as fresh as if they were cut yesterday." "Does no one in San Francisco know of his death?" "There's a chap named Burke at Johnson's, the cigar-shop in Montgomery Street. He was brother to one of our party, and he went out to the funeral. Maybe you'll find him, or, any way, some traces of him." The two men sat up discussing the matter nearly the whole of the night, and Peacocke, before he started, had brought himself to accede to Lefroy's last proposition. He did give the man money enough to support him for two or three weeks and also to take him to Chicago, promising at the same time that he would hand to him the thousand dollars at Chicago should he find him there at the appointed time, and should he also have found Ferdinand Lefroy's grave at San Francisco in the manner described. CHAPTER VII. "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE." MRS. WORTLE, when she perceived that her husband no longer called on Mrs. Peacocke alone, became herself more assiduous in her visits, till at last she too entertained a great liking for the woman. When Mr. Peacocke had been gone for nearly a month she had fallen into a habit of going across every day after the performance of her own domestic morning duties, and remaining in the school-house for an hour. On one morning she found that Mrs. Peacocke had just received a letter from New York, in which her husband had narrated his adventures so far. He had written from Southampton, but not after the revelation which had been made to him there as to the death of Ferdinand. He might have so done, but the information given to him had, at the spur of the moment, seemed to be so doubtful that he had refrained. Then he had been able to think of it all during the voyage, and from New York he had written at great length, detailing everything. Mrs. Peacocke did not actually read out loud the letter, which was full of such terms of affection as are common between man and wife, knowing that her title to be called a wife was not admitted by Mrs. Wortle; but she read much of it, and told all the circumstances as they were related. "Then," said Mrs. Wortle, "he certainly is--no more." There came a certain accession of sadness to her voice, as she reflected that, after all, she was talking to this woman of the death of her undoubted husband. "Yes; he is dead--at last." Mrs. Wortle uttered a deep sigh. It was dreadful to her to think that a woman should speak in that way of the death of her husband. "I know all that is going on in your mind," said Mrs. Peacocke, looking up into her face. "Do you?" "Every thought. You are telling yourself how terrible it is that a woman should speak of the death of her husband without a tear in her eye, without a sob,--without one word of sorrow." "It is very sad." "Of course it is sad. Has it not all been sad? But what would you have me do? It is not because he was always bad to me,--because he marred all my early life, making it so foul a blotch that I hardly dare to look back upon it from the quietness and comparative purity of these latter days. It is not because he has so treated me as to make me feel that it has been a misfortune to me to be born, that I now receive these tidings with joy. It is because of him who has always been good to me as the other was bad, who has made me wonder at the noble instincts of a man, as the other has made me shudder at his possible meanness." "It has been very hard upon you," said Mrs. Wortle. "And hard upon him, who is dearer to me than my own soul. Think of his conduct to me! How he went away to ascertain the truth when he first heard tidings which made him believe that I was free to become his! How he must have loved me then, when, after all my troubles, he took me to himself at the first moment that was possible! Think, too, what he has done for me since,----and I for him! How I have marred his life, while he has striven to repair mine! Do I not owe him everything?" "Everything," said Mrs. Wortle,--"except to do what is wrong." "I did do what was wrong. Would not you have done so under such circumstances? Would not you have obeyed the man who had been to you so true a husband while he believed himself entitled to the name? Wrong! I doubt whether it was wrong. It is hard to know sometimes what is right and what is wrong. What he told me to do, that to me was right. Had he told me to go away and leave him, I should have gone,--and have died. I suppose that would have been right." She paused as though she expected an answer. But the subject was so difficult that Mrs. Wortle was unable to make one. "I have sometimes wished that he had done so. But as I think of it when I am alone, I feel how impossible that would have been to him. He could not have sent me away. That which you call right would have been impossible to him whom I regard as the most perfect of human beings. As far as I know him, he is faultless;--and yet, according to your judgment, he has committed a sin so deep that he must stand disgraced before the eyes of all men." "I have not said so." "It comes to that. I know how good you are; how much I owe to you. I know that Dr. Wortle and yourself have been so kind to us, that were I not grateful beyond expression I should be the meanest human creature. Do not suppose that I am angry or vexed with you because you condemn me. It is necessary that you should do so. But how can I condemn myself;--or how can I condemn him?" "If you are both free now, it may be made right." "But how about repentance? Will it be all right though I shall not have repented? I will never repent. There are laws in accordance with which I will admit that I have done wrong; but had I not broken those laws when he bade me, I should have hated myself through all my life afterwards." "It was very different." "If you could know, Mrs. Wortle, how difficult it would have been to go away and leave him! It was not till he came to me and told me that he was going down to Texas, to see how it had been with my husband, that I ever knew what it was to love a man. He had never said a word. He tried not to look it. But I knew that I had his heart and that he had mine. From that moment I have thought of him day and night. When I gave him my hand then as he parted from me, I gave it him as his own. It has been his to do what he liked with it ever since, let who might live or who might die. Ought I not to rejoice that he is dead?" Mrs. Wortle could not answer the question. She could only shudder. "It was not by any will of my own," continued the eager woman, "that I married Ferdinand Lefroy. Everything in our country was then destroyed. All that we loved and all that we valued had been taken away from us. War had destroyed everything. When I was just springing out of childhood, we were ruined. We had to go, all of us; women as well as men, girls as well as boys;--and be something else than we had been. I was told to marry him." "That was wrong." "When everything is in ruin about you, what room is there for ordinary well-doing? It seemed then that he would have some remnant of property. Our fathers had known each other long. The wretched man whom drink afterwards made so vile might have been as good a gentleman as another, if things had gone well with him. He could not have been a hero like him whom I will always call my husband; but it is not given to every man to be a hero." "Was he bad always from the first?" "He always drank,--from his wedding-day; and then Robert was with him, who was worse than he. Between them they were very bad. My life was a burden to me. It was terrible. It was a comfort to me even to be deserted and to be left. Then came this Englishman in my way; and it seemed to me, on a sudden, that the very nature of mankind was altered. He did not lie when he spoke. He was never debased by drink. He had other care than for himself. For himself, I think, he never cared. Since he has been here, in the school, have you found any cause of fault in him?" "No, indeed." "No, indeed! nor ever will;--unless it be a fault to love a woman as he loves me. See what he is doing now,--where he has gone,--what he has to suffer, coupled as he is with that wretch! And all for my sake!" "For both your sakes." "He would have been none the worse had he chosen to part with me. He was in no trouble. I was not his wife; and he need only--bid me go. There would have been no sin with him then,--no wrong. Had he followed out your right and your wrong, and told me that, as we could not be man and wife, we must just part, he would have been in no trouble;--would he?" "I don't know how it would have been then," said Mrs. Wortle, who was by this time sobbing aloud in tears. "No; nor I, nor I. I should have been dead;--but he? He is a sinner now, so that he may not preach in your churches, or teach in your schools; so that your dear husband has to be ruined almost because he has been kind to him. He then might have preached in any church,--have taught in any school. What am I to think that God will think of it? Will God condemn him?" "We must leave that to Him," sobbed Mrs. Wortle. "Yes; but in thinking of our souls we must reflect a little as to what we believe to be probable. He, you say, has sinned,--is sinning still in calling me his wife. Am I not to believe that if he were called to his long account he would stand there pure and bright, in glorious garments,--one fit for heaven, because he has loved others better than he has loved himself, because he has done to others as he might have wished that they should do to him? I do believe it! Believe! I know it. And if so, what am I to think of his sin, or of my own? Not to obey him, not to love him, not to do in everything as he counsels me,--that, to me, would be sin. To the best of my conscience he is my husband and my master. I will not go into the rooms of such as you, Mrs. Wortle, good and kind as you are; but it is not because I do not think myself fit. It is because I will not injure you in the estimation of those who do not know what is fit and what is unfit. I am not ashamed of myself. I owe it to him to blush for nothing that he has caused me to do. I have but two judges,--the Lord in heaven, and he, my husband, upon earth." "Nobody has condemned you here." "Yes;--they have condemned me. But I am not angry at that. You do not think, Mrs. Wortle, that I can be angry with you,--so kind as you have been, so generous, so forgiving;--the more kind because you think that we are determined, headstrong sinners? Oh no! It is natural that you should think so,--but I think differently. Circumstances have so placed me that they have made me unfit for your society. If I had no decent gown to wear, or shoes to my feet, I should be unfit also;--but not on that account disgraced in my own estimation. I comfort myself by thinking that I cannot be altogether bad when a man such as he has loved me and does love me." The two women, when they parted on that morning, kissed each other, which they had not done before; and Mrs. Wortle had been made to doubt whether, after all, the sin had been so very sinful. She did endeavour to ask herself whether she would not have done the same in the same circumstances. The woman, she thought, must have been right to have married the man whom she loved, when she heard that that first horrid husband was dead. There could, at any rate, have been no sin in that. And then, what ought she to have done when the dead man,--dead as he was supposed to have been,--burst into her room? Mrs. Wortle,--who found it indeed extremely difficult to imagine herself to be in such a position,--did at last acknowledge that, in such circumstances, she certainly would have done whatever Dr. Wortle had told her. She could not bring it nearer to herself than that. She could not suggest to herself two men as her own husbands. She could not imagine that the Doctor had been either the bad husband, who had unexpectedly come to life,--or the good husband, who would not, in truth, be her husband at all; but she did determine, in her own mind, that, however all that might have been, she would clearly have done whatever the Doctor told her. She would have sworn to obey him, even though, when swearing, she should not have really married him. It was terrible to think of,--so terrible that she could not quite think of it; but in struggling to think of it her heart was softened towards this other woman. After that day she never spoke further of the woman's sin. Of course she told it all to the Doctor,--not indeed explaining the working of her own mind as to that suggestion that he should have been, in his first condition, a very bad man, and have been reported dead, and have come again, in a second shape, as a good man. She kept that to herself. But she did endeavour to describe the effect upon herself of the description the woman had given her of her own conduct. "I don't quite know how she could have done otherwise," said Mrs. Wortle. "Nor I either; I have always said so." "It would have been so very hard to go away, when he told her not." "It would have been very hard to go away," said the Doctor, "if he had told her to do so. Where was she to go? What was she to do? They had been brought together by circumstances, in such a manner that it was, so to say, impossible that they should part. It is not often that one comes across events like these, so altogether out of the ordinary course that the common rules of life seem to be insufficient for guidance. To most of us it never happens; and it is better for us that it should not happen. But when it does, one is forced to go beyond the common rules. It is that feeling which has made me give them my protection. It has been a great misfortune; but, placed as I was, I could not help myself. I could not turn them out. It was clearly his duty to go, and almost as clearly mine to give her shelter till he should come back." "A great misfortune, Jeffrey?" "I am afraid so. Look at this." Then he handed to her a letter from a nobleman living at a great distance,--at a distance so great that Mrs. Stantiloup would hardly have reached him there,--expressing his intention to withdraw his two boys from the school at Christmas. "He doesn't give this as a reason." "No; we are not acquainted with each other personally, and he could hardly have alluded to my conduct in this matter. It was easier for him to give a mere notice such as this. But not the less do I understand it. The intention was that the elder Mowbray should remain for another year, and the younger for two years. Of course he is at liberty to change his mind; nor do I feel myself entitled to complain. A school such as mine must depend on the credit of the establishment. He has heard, no doubt, something of the story which has injured our credit, and it is natural that he should take the boys away." "Do you think that the school will be put an end to?" "It looks very like it." "Altogether?" "I shall not care to drag it on as a failure. I am too old now to begin again with a new attempt if this collapses. I have no offers to fill up the vacancies. The parents of those who remain, of course, will know how it is going with the school. I shall not be disposed to let it die of itself. My idea at present is to carry it on without saying anything till the Christmas holidays, and then to give notice to the parents that the establishment will be closed at Midsummer." "Will it make you very unhappy?" "No doubt it will. A man does not like to fail. I am not sure but what I am less able to bear such failure than most men." "But you have sometimes thought of giving it up." "Have I? I have not known it. Why should I give it up? Why should any man give up a profession while he has health and strength to carry it on?" "You have another." "Yes; but it is not the one to which my energies have been chiefly applied. The work of a parish such as this can be done by one person. I have always had a curate. It is, moreover, nonsense to say that a man does not care most for that by which he makes his money. I am to give up over £2000 a-year, which I have had not a trouble but a delight in making! It is like coming to the end of one's life." "Oh, Jeffrey!" "It has to be looked in the face, you know." "I wish,--I wish they had never come." "What is the good of wishing? They came, and according to my way of thinking I did my duty by them. Much as I am grieved by this, I protest that I would do the same again were it again to be done. Do you think that I would be deterred from what I thought to be right by the machinations of a she-dragon such as that?" "Has she done it?" "Well, I think so," said the Doctor, after some little hesitation. "I think it has been, in truth, her doing. There has been a grand opportunity for slander, and she has used it with uncommon skill. It was a wonderful chance in her favour. She has been enabled without actual lies,--lies which could be proved to be lies,--to spread abroad reports which have been absolutely damning. And she has succeeded in getting hold of the very people through whom she could injure me. Of course all this correspondence with the Bishop has helped. The Bishop hasn't kept it as a secret. Why should he?" "The Bishop has had nothing to do with the school," said Mrs. Wortle. "No; but the things have been mixed up together. Do you think it would have no effect with such a woman as Lady Anne Clifford, to be told that the Bishop had censured my conduct severely? If it had not been for Mrs. Stantiloup, the Bishop would have heard nothing about it. It is her doing. And it pains me to feel that I have to give her credit for her skill and her energy." "Her wickedness, you mean." "What does it signify whether she has been wicked or not in this matter?" "Oh, Jeffrey!" "Her wickedness is a matter of course. We all knew that beforehand. If a person has to be wicked, it is a great thing for him to be successful in his wickedness. He would have to pay the final penalty even if he failed. To be wicked and to do nothing is to be mean all round. I am afraid that Mrs. Stantiloup will have succeeded in her wickedness." CHAPTER VIII. LORD BRACY'S LETTER. THE school and the parish went on through August and September, and up to the middle of October, very quietly. The quarrel between the Bishop and the Doctor had altogether subsided. People in the diocese had ceased to talk continually of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. There was still alive a certain interest as to what might be the ultimate fate of the poor lady; but other matters had come up, and she no longer formed the one topic of conversation at all meetings. The twenty boys at the school felt that, as their numbers had been diminished, so also had their reputation. They were less loud, and, as other boys would have said of them, less "cocky" than of yore. But they ate and drank and played, and, let us hope, learnt their lessons as usual. Mrs. Peacocke had from time to time received letters from her husband, the last up to the time of which we speak having been written at the Ogden Junction, at which Mr. Peacocke had stopped for four-and-twenty hours with the object of making inquiry as to the statement made to him at St. Louis. Here he learned enough to convince him that Robert Lefroy had told him the truth in regard to what had there occurred. The people about the station still remembered the condition of the man who had been taken out of the car when suffering from delirium tremens; and remembered also that the man had not died there, but had been carried on by the next train to San Francisco. One of the porters also declared that he had heard a few days afterwards that the sufferer had died almost immediately on his arrival at San Francisco. Information as far as this Mr. Peacocke had sent home to his wife, and had added his firm belief that he should find the man's grave in the cemetery, and be able to bring home with him testimony to which no authority in England, whether social, episcopal, or judicial, would refuse to give credit. "Of course he will be married again," said Mrs. Wortle to her husband. "They shall be married here, and I will perform the ceremony. I don't think the Bishop himself would object to that; and I shouldn't care a straw if he did." "Will he go on with the school?" whispered Mrs. Wortle. "Will the school go on? If the school goes on, he will go on, I suppose. About that you had better ask Mrs. Stantiloup." "I will ask nobody but you," said the wife, putting up her face to kiss him. As this was going on, everything was said to comfort Mrs. Peacocke, and to give her hopes of new life. Mrs. Wortle told her how the Doctor had promised that he himself would marry them as soon as the forms of the Church and the legal requisitions would allow. Mrs. Peacocke accepted all that was said to her quietly and thankfully, but did not again allow herself to be roused to such excitement as she had shown on the one occasion recorded. It was at this time that the Doctor received a letter which greatly affected his mode of thought at the time. He had certainly become hipped and low-spirited, if not despondent, and clearly showed to his wife, even though he was silent, that his mind was still intent on the injury which that wretched woman had done him by her virulence. But the letter of which we speak for a time removed this feeling, and gave him, as it were, a new life. The letter, which was from Lord Bracy, was as follows;-- "MY DEAR DOCTOR WORTLE.--Carstairs left us for Oxford yesterday, and before he went, startled his mother and me considerably by a piece of information. He tells us that he is over head and ears in love with your daughter. The communication was indeed made three days ago, but I told him that I should take a day or two to think of it before I wrote to you. He was very anxious, when he told me, to go off at once to Bowick, and to see you and your wife, and of course the young lady;--but this I stopped by the exercise of somewhat peremptory parental authority. Then he informed me that he had been to Bowick, and had found his lady-love at home, you and Mrs. Wortle having by chance been absent at the time. It seems that he declared himself to the young lady, who, in the exercise of a wise discretion, ran away from him and left him planted on the terrace. That is his account of what passed, and I do not in the least doubt its absolute truth. It is at any rate quite clear, from his own showing, that the young lady gave him no encouragement. "Such having been the case, I do not think that I should have found it necessary to write to you at all had not Carstairs persevered with me till I promised to do so. He was willing, he said, not to go to Bowick on condition that I would write to you on the subject. The meaning of this is, that had he not been very much in earnest, I should have considered it best to let the matter pass on as such matters do, and be forgotten. But he is very much in earnest. However foolish it is,--or perhaps I had better say unusual,--that a lad should be in love before he is twenty, it is, I suppose, possible. At any rate it seems to be the case with him, and he has convinced his mother that it would be cruel to ignore the fact. "I may at once say that, as far as you and your girl are concerned, I should be quite satisfied that he should choose for himself such a marriage. I value rank, at any rate, as much as it is worth; but that he will have of his own, and does not need to strengthen it by intermarriage with another house of peculiarly old lineage. As far as that is concerned, I should be contented. As for money, I should not wish him to think of it in marrying. If it comes, _tant mieux_. If not, he will have enough of his own. I write to you, therefore, exactly as I should do if you had happened to be a brother peer instead of a clergyman. "But I think that long engagements are very dangerous; and you probably will agree with me that they are likely to be more prejudicial to the girl than to the man. It may be that, as difficulties arise in the course of years, he can forget the affair, and that she cannot. He has many things of which to think; whereas she, perhaps, has only that one. She may have made that thing so vital to her that it cannot be got under and conquered; whereas, without any fault or heartlessness on his part, occupation has conquered it for him. In this case I fear that the engagement, if made, could not but be long. I should be sorry that he should not take his degree. And I do not think it wise to send a lad up to the University hampered with the serious feeling that he has already betrothed himself. "I tell you all just as it is, and I leave it to your wisdom to suggest what had better be done. He wished me to promise that I would undertake to induce you to tell Miss Wortle of his conversation with me. He said that he had a right to demand so much as that, and that, though he would not for the present go to Bowick, he should write to you. The young gentleman seems to have a will of his own,--which I cannot say that I regret. What you will do as to the young lady,--whether you will or will not tell her what I have written,--I must leave to yourself. If you do, I am to send word to her from Lady Bracy to say that she shall be delighted to see her here. She had better, however, come when that inflammatory young gentleman shall be at Oxford. Yours very faithfully, "BRACY." This letter certainly did a great deal to invigorate the Doctor, and to console him in his troubles. Even though the debated marriage might prove to be impossible, as it had been declared by the voices of all the Wortles one after another, still there was something in the tone in which it was discussed by the young man's father which was in itself a relief. There was, at any rate, no contempt in the letter. "I may at once say that, as far as you and your girl are concerned, I shall be very well pleased." That, at any rate, was satisfactory. And the more he looked at it the less he thought that it need be altogether impossible. If Lord Bracy liked it, and Lady Bracy liked it,--and young Carstairs, as to whose liking there seemed to be no reason for any doubt,--he did not see why it should be impossible. As to Mary,--he could not conceive that she should make objection if all the others were agreed. How could she possibly fail to love the young man if encouraged to do so? Suitors who are good-looking, rich, of high rank, sweet-tempered, and at the same time thoroughly devoted, are not wont to be discarded. All the difficulty lay in the lad's youth. After all, how many noblemen have done well in the world without taking a degree? Degrees, too, have been taken by married men. And, again, young men have been persistent before now, even to the extent of waiting three years. Long engagements are bad,--no doubt. Everybody has always said so. But a long engagement may be better than none at all. He at last made up his mind that he would speak to Mary; but he determined that he would consult his wife first. Consulting Mrs. Wortle, on his part, generally amounted to no more than instructing her. He found it sometimes necessary to talk her over, as he had done in that matter of visiting Mrs. Peacocke; but when he set himself to work he rarely failed. She had nowhere else to go for a certain foundation and support. Therefore he hardly doubted much when he began his operation about this suggested engagement. "I have got that letter this morning from Lord Bracy," he said, handing her the document. "Oh dear! Has he heard about Carstairs?" "You had better read it." "He has told it all," she exclaimed, when she had finished the first sentence. "He has told it all, certainly. But you had better read the letter through." Then she seated herself and read it, almost trembling, however, as she went on with it. "Oh dear;--that is very nice what he says about you and Mary." "It is all very nice as far as that goes. There is no reason why it should not be nice." "It might have made him so angry!" "Then he would have been very unreasonable." "He acknowledges that Mary did not encourage him." "Of course she did not encourage him. He would have been very unlike a gentleman had he thought so. But in truth, my dear, it is a very good letter. Of course there are difficulties." "Oh;--it is impossible!" "I do not see that at all. It must rest very much with him, no doubt;--with Carstairs; and I do not like to think that our girl's happiness should depend on any young man's constancy. But such dangers have to be encountered. You and I were engaged for three years before we were married, and we did not find it so very bad." "It was very good. Oh, I was so happy at the time." "Happier than you've been since?" "Well; I don't know. It was very nice to know that you were my lover." "Why shouldn't Mary think it very nice to have a lover?" "But I knew that you would be true." "Why shouldn't Carstairs be true?" "Remember he is so young. You were in orders." "I don't know that I was at all more likely to be true on that account. A clergyman can jilt a girl just as well as another. It depends on the nature of the man." "And you were so good." "I never came across a better youth than Carstairs. You see what his father says about his having a will of his own. When a young man shows a purpose of that kind he generally sticks to it." The upshot of it all was, that Mary was to be told, and that her father was to tell her. "Yes, papa, he did come," she said. "I told mamma all about me." "And she told me, of course. You did what was quite right, and I should not have thought it necessary to speak to you had not Lord Bracy written to me." "Lord Bracy has written!" said Mary. It seemed to her, as it had done to her mother, that Lord Bracy must have written angrily; but though she thought so, she plucked up her spirit gallantly, telling herself that though Lord Bracy might be angry with his own son, he could have no cause to be displeased with her. "Yes; I have a letter, which you shall read. The young man seems to have been very much in earnest." "I don't know," said Mary, with some little exultation at her heart. "It seems but the other day that he was a boy, and now he has become suddenly a man." To this Mary said nothing; but she also had come to the conclusion that, in this respect, Lord Carstairs had lately changed,--very much for the better. "Do you like him, Mary?" "Like him, papa?" "Well, my darling; how am I to put it? He is so much in earnest that he has got his father to write to me. He was coming over himself again before he went to Oxford; but he told his father what he was going to do, and the Earl stopped him. There's the letter, and you may read it." Mary read the letter, taking herself apart to a corner of the room, and seemed to her father to take a long time in reading it. But there was very much on which she was called upon to make up her mind during those few minutes. Up to the present time,--up to the moment in which her father had now summoned her into his study, she had resolved that it was "impossible." She had become so clear on the subject that she would not ask herself the question whether she could love the young man. Would it not be wrong to love the young man? Would it not be a longing for the top brick of the chimney, which she ought to know was out of her reach? So she had decided it, and had therefore already taught herself to regard the declaration made to her as the ebullition of a young man's folly. But not the less had she known how great had been the thing suggested to her,--how excellent was this top brick of the chimney; and as to the young man himself, she could not but feel that, had matters been different, she might have loved him. Now there had come a sudden change; but she did not at all know how far she might go to meet the change, nor what the change altogether meant. She had been made sure by her father's question that he had taught himself to hope. He would not have asked her whether she liked him,--would not, at any rate, have asked that question in that voice,--had he not been prepared to be good to her had she answered in the affirmative. But then this matter did not depend upon her father's wishes,--or even on her father's judgment. It was necessary that, before she said another word, she should find out what Lord Bracy said about it. There she had Lord Bracy's letter in her hand, but her mind was so disturbed that she hardly knew how to read it aright at the spur of the moment. "You understand what he says, Mary?" "I think so, papa." "It is a very kind letter." "Very kind indeed. I should have thought that he would not have liked it at all." "He makes no objection of that kind. To tell the truth, Mary, I should have thought it unreasonable had he done so. A gentleman can do no better than marry a lady. And though it is much to be a nobleman, it is more to be a gentleman." "Some people think so much of it. And then his having been here as a pupil! I was very sorry when he spoke to me." "All that is past and gone. The danger is that such an engagement would be long." "Very long." "You would be afraid of that, Mary?" Mary felt that this was hard upon her, and unfair. Were she to say that the danger of a long engagement did not seem to her to be very terrible, she would at once be giving up everything. She would have declared then that she did love the young man; or, at any rate, that she intended to do so. She would have succumbed at the first hint that such succumbing was possible to her. And yet she had not known that she was very much afraid of a long engagement. She would, she thought, have been much more afraid had a speedy marriage been proposed to her. Upon the whole, she did not know whether it would not be nice to go on knowing that the young man loved her, and to rest secure on her faith in him. She was sure of this,--that the reading of Lord Bracy's letter had in some way made her happy, though she was unwilling at once to express her happiness to her father. She was quite sure that she could make no immediate reply to that question, whether she was afraid of a long engagement. "I must answer Lord Bracy's letter, you know," said the Doctor. "Yes, papa." "And what shall I say to him?" "I don't know, papa." "And yet you must tell me what to say, my darling." "Must I, papa?" "Certainly! Who else can tell me? But I will not answer it to-day. I will put it off till Monday." It was Saturday morning on which the letter was being discussed,--a day of which a considerable portion was generally appropriated to the preparation of a sermon. "In the mean time you had better talk to mamma; and on Monday we will settle what is to be said to Lord Bracy." CHAPTER IX. AT CHICAGO. MR. PEACOCKE went on alone to San Francisco from the Ogden Junction, and there obtained full information on the matter which had brought him upon this long and disagreeable journey. He had no difficulty in obtaining the evidence which he required. He had not been twenty-four hours in the place before he was, in truth, standing on the stone which had been placed over the body of Ferdinand Lefroy, as he had declared to Robert Lefroy that he would stand before he would be satisfied. On the stone was cut simply the names, Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana; and to these were added the dates of the days on which the man had been born and on which he died. Of this stone he had a photograph made, of which he took copies with him; and he obtained also from the minister who had buried the body and from the custodian who had charge of the cemetery certificates of the interment. Armed with these he could no longer doubt himself, or suppose that others would doubt, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead. Having thus perfected his object, and feeling but little interest in a town to which he had been brought by such painful circumstances, he turned round, and on the second day after his arrival, again started for Chicago. Had it been possible, he would fain have avoided any further meeting with Robert Lefroy. Short as had been his stay at San Francisco he had learnt that Robert, after his brother's death, had been concerned in buying mining shares and paying for them with forged notes. It was not supposed that he himself had been engaged in the forgery, but that he had come into the city with men who had been employed for years on this operation, and had bought shares and endeavoured to sell them on the following day. He had, however, managed to leave the place before the police had got hold of him, and had escaped, so that no one had been able to say at what station he had got upon the railway. Nor did any one in San Francisco know where Robert Lefroy was now to be found. His companions had been taken, tried, and convicted, and were now in the State prison,--where also would Robert Lefroy soon be if any of the officers of the State could get hold of him. Luckily Mr. Peacocke had said little or nothing of the man in making his own inquiries. Much as he had hated and dreaded the man; much as he had suffered from his companionship,--good reason as he had to dislike the whole family,--he felt himself bound by their late companionship not to betray him. The man had assisted Mr. Peacocke simply for money; but still he had assisted him. Mr. Peacocke therefore held his peace and said nothing. But he would have been thankful to have been able to send the money that was now due to him without having again to see him. That, however, was impossible. On reaching Chicago he went to an hotel far removed from that which Lefroy had designated. Lefroy had explained to him something of the geography of the town, and had explained that for himself he preferred a "modest, quiet hotel." The modest, quiet hotel was called Mrs. Jones's boarding-house, and was in one of the suburbs far from the main street. "You needn't say as you're coming to me," Lefroy had said to him; "nor need you let on as you know anything of Mrs. Jones at all. People are so curious; and it may be that a gentleman sometimes likes to lie _perdu_." Mr. Peacocke, although he had but small sympathy for the taste of a gentleman who likes to lie _perdu_, nevertheless did as he was bid, and found his way to Mrs. Jones's boarding-house without telling any one whither he was going. Before he started he prepared himself with a thousand dollars in bank-notes, feeling that this wretched man had earned them in accordance with their compact. His only desire now was to hand over the money as quickly as possible, and to hurry away out of Chicago. He felt as though he himself were almost guilty of some crime in having to deal with this man, in having to give him money secretly, and in carrying out to the end an arrangement of which no one else was to know the details. How would it be with him if the police of Chicago should come upon him as a friend, and probably an accomplice, of one who was "wanted" on account of forgery at San Francisco? But he had no help for himself, and at Mrs. Jones's he found his wife's brother-in-law seated in the bar of the public-house,--that everlasting resort for American loungers,--with a cigar as usual stuck in his mouth, loafing away his time as only American frequenters of such establishments know how to do. In England such a man would probably be found in such a place with a glass of some alcoholic mixture beside him, but such is never the case with an American. If he wants a drink he goes to the bar and takes it standing,--will perhaps take two or three, one after another; but when he has settled himself down to loafe, he satisfies himself with chewing a cigar, and covering a circle around him with the results. With this amusement he will remain contented hour after hour;--nay, throughout the entire day if no harder work be demanded of him. So was Robert Lefroy found now. When Peacocke entered the hall or room the man did not rise from his chair, but accosted him as though they had parted only an hour since. "So, old fellow, you've got back all alive." "I have reached this place at any rate." "Well; that's getting back, ain't it?" "I have come back from San Francisco." "H'sh!" exclaimed Lefroy, looking round the room, in which, however, there was no one but themselves. "You needn't tell everybody where you've been." "I have nothing to conceal." "That is more than anybody knows of himself. It's a good maxim to keep your own affairs quiet till they're wanted. In this country everybody is spry enough to learn all about everything. I never see any good in letting them know without a reason. Well;--what did you do when you got there?" "It was all as you told me." "Didn't I say so? What was the good of bringing me all this way, when, if you'd only believed me, you might have saved me the trouble. Ain't I to be paid for that?" "You are to be paid. I have come here to pay you." "That's what you owe for the knowledge. But for coming? Ain't I to be paid extra for the journey?" "You are to have a thousand dollars." "H'sh!--you speak of money as though every one has a business to know that you have got your pockets full. What's a thousand dollars, seeing all that I have done for you!" "It's all that you're going to get. It's all, indeed, that I have got to give you." "Gammon." "It's all, at any rate, that you're going to get. Will you have it now?" "You found the tomb, did you?" "Yes; I found the tomb. Here is a photograph of it. You can keep a copy if you like it." "What do I want of a copy," said the man, taking the photograph in his hand. "He was always more trouble than he was worth,--was Ferdy. It's a pity she didn't marry me. I'd 've made a woman of her." Peacocke shuddered as he heard this, but he said nothing. "You may as well give us the picter;--it'll do to hang up somewhere if ever I have a room of my own. How plain it is. Ferdinand Lefroy,--of Kilbrack! Kilbrack indeed! It's little either of us was the better for Kilbrack. Some of them psalm-singing rogues from New England has it now;--or perhaps a right-down nigger. I shouldn't wonder. One of our own lot, maybe! Oh; that's the money, is it?--A thousand dollars; all that I'm to have for coming to England and telling you, and bringing you back, and showing you where you could get this pretty picter made." Then he took the money, a thick roll of notes, and crammed them into his pocket. "You'd better count them." "It ain't worth the while with such a trifle as that." "Let me count them then." "You'll never have that plunder in your fists again, my fine fellow." "I do not want it." "And now about my expenses out to England, on purpose to tell you all this. You can go and make her your wife now,--or can leave her, just as you please. You couldn't have done neither if I hadn't gone out to you." "You have got what was promised." "But my expenses,--going out?" "I have promised you nothing for your expenses going out,--and will pay you nothing." "You won't?" "Not a dollar more." "You won't?" "Certainly not. I do not suppose that you expect it for a moment, although you are so persistent in asking for it." "And you think you've got the better of me, do you? You think you've carried me along with you, just to do your bidding and take whatever you please to give me? That's your idea of me?" "There was a clear bargain between us. I have not got the better of you at all." "I rather think not, Peacocke. I rather think not. You'll have to get up earlier before you get the better of Robert Lefroy. You don't expect to get this money back again,--do you?" "Certainly not,--any more than I should expect a pound of meat out of a dog's jaw." Mr. Peacocke, as he said this, was waxing angry. "I don't suppose you do;--but you expected that I was to earn it by doing your bidding;--didn't you?" "And you have." "Yes, I have; but how? You never heard of my cousin, did you;--Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana?" "Heard of whom?" "My cousin; Ferdinand Lefroy. He was very well known in his own State, and in California too, till he died. He was a good fellow, but given to drink. We used to tell him that if he would marry it would be better for him;--but he never would;--he never did." Robert Lefroy as he said this put his left hand into his trousers-pocket over the notes which he had placed there, and drew a small revolver out of his pocket with the other hand. "I am better prepared now," he said, "than when you had your six-shooter under your pillow at Leavenworth." "I do not believe a word of it. It's a lie," said Peacocke. "Very well. You're a chap that's fond of travelling, and have got plenty of money. You'd better go down to Louisiana and make your way straight from New Orleans to Kilbrack. It ain't above forty miles to the south-west, and there's a rail goes within fifteen miles of it. You'll learn there all about Ferdinand Lefroy as was our cousin,--him as never got married up to the day he died of drink and was buried at San Francisco. They'll be very glad, I shouldn't wonder, to see that pretty little picter of yours, because they was always uncommon fond of cousin Ferdy at Kilbrack. And I'll tell you what; you'll be sure to come across my brother Ferdy in them parts, and can tell him how you've seen me. You can give him all the latest news, too, about his own wife. He'll be glad to hear about her, poor woman." Mr. Peacocke listened to this without saying a word since that last exclamation of his. It might be true. Why should it not be true? If in truth there had been these two cousins of the same name, what could be more likely than that his money should be lured out of him by such a fraud as this? But yet,--yet, as he came to think of it all, it could not be true. The chance of carrying such a scheme to a successful issue would have been too small to induce the man to act upon it from the day of his first appearance at Bowick. Nor was it probable that there should have been another Ferdinand Lefroy unknown to his wife; and the existence of such a one, if known to his wife, would certainly have been made known to him. "It's a lie," said he, "from beginning to end." "Very well; very well. I'll take care to make the truth known by letter to Dr. Wortle and the Bishop and all them pious swells over there. To think that such a chap as you, a minister of the gospel, living with another man's wife and looking as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth! I tell you what; I've got a little money in my pocket now, and I don't mind going over to England again and explaining the whole truth to the Bishop myself. I could make him understand how that photograph ain't worth nothing, and how I explained to you myself as the lady's righteous husband is all alive, keeping house on his own property down in Louisiana. Do you think we Lefroys hadn't any place beside Kilbrack among us?" "Certainly you are a liar," said Peacocke. "Very well. Prove it." "Did you not tell me that your brother was buried at San Francisco?" "Oh, as for that, that don't matter. It don't count for much whether I told a crammer or not. That picter counts for nothing. It ain't my word you were going on as evidence. You is able to prove that Ferdy Lefroy was buried at 'Frisco. True enough. I buried him. I can prove that. And I would never have treated you this way, and not have said a word as to how the dead man was only a cousin, if you'd treated me civil over there in England. But you didn't." "I am going to treat you worse now," said Peacocke, looking him in the face. "What are you going to do now? It's I that have the revolver this time." As he said this he turned the weapon round in his hand. "I don't want to shoot you,--nor yet to frighten you, as I did in the bed-room at Leavenworth. Not but what I have a pistol too." And he slowly drew his out of his pocket. At this moment two men sauntered in and took their places in the further corner of the room. "I don't think there is to be any shooting between us." "There may," said Lefroy. "The police would have you." "So they would--for a time. What does that matter to me? Isn't a fellow to protect himself when a fellow like you comes to him armed?" "But they would soon know that you are the swindler who escaped from San Francisco eighteen months ago. Do you think it wouldn't be found out that it was you who paid for the shares in forged notes?" "I never did. That's one of your lies." "Very well. Now you know what I know; and you had better tell me over again who it is that lies buried under the stone that's been photographed there." "What are you men doing with them pistols?" said one of the strangers, walking across the room, and standing over the backs of their chairs. "We are alooking at 'em," said Lefroy. "If you're agoing to do anything of that kind you'd better go and do it elsewhere," said the stranger. "Just so," said Lefroy. "That's what I was thinking myself." "But we are not going to do anything," said Mr. Peacocke. "I have not the slightest idea of shooting the gentleman; and he has just as little of shooting me." "Then what do you sit with 'em out in your hands in that fashion for?" said the stranger. "It's a decent widow woman as keeps this house, and I won't see her set upon. Put 'em up." Whereupon Lefroy did return his pistol to his pocket,--upon which Mr. Peacocke did the same. Then the stranger slowly walked back to his seat at the other side of the room. "So they told you that lie; did they,--at 'Frisco?" asked Lefroy. "That was what I heard over there when I was inquiring about your brother's death." "You'd believe anything if you'd believe that." "I'd believe anything if I'd believe in your cousin." Upon this Lefroy laughed, but made no further allusion to the romance which he had craftily invented on the spur of the moment. After that the two men sat without a word between them for a quarter of an hour, when the Englishman got up to take his leave. "Our business is over now," he said, "and I will bid you good-bye." "I'll tell you what I'm athinking," said Lefroy. Mr. Peacocke stood with his hand ready for a final adieu, but he said nothing. "I've half a mind to go back with you to England. There ain't nothing to keep me here." "What could you do there?" "I'd be evidence for you, as to Ferdy's death, you know." "I have evidence. I do not want you." "I'll go, nevertheless." "And spend all your money on the journey." "You'd help;--wouldn't you now?" "Not a dollar," said Peacocke, turning away and leaving the room. As he did so he heard the wretch laughing loud at the excellence of his own joke. Before he made his journey back again to England he only once more saw Robert Lefroy. As he was seating himself in the railway car that was to take him to Buffalo the man came up to him with an affected look of solicitude. "Peacocke," he said, "there was only nine hundred dollars in that roll." "There were a thousand. I counted them half-an-hour before I handed them to you." "There was only nine hundred when I got 'em." "There were all that you will get. What kind of notes were they you had when you paid for the shares at 'Frisco?" This question he asked out loud, before all the passengers. Then Robert Lefroy left the car, and Mr. Peacocke never saw him or heard from him again. Conclusion. CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER. WHEN the Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of at Bowick. Mrs. Peacocke on that day received a letter from San Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of God. The writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days, from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph. When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to Mrs. Wortle. Would Mrs. Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs. Wortle was, of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o'clock, when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy,--and Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her father for aid;--she could not, at any rate, go to him until the appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment, her father would certainly decide for her,--and had her experience of the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father would decide in her favour. But as it was, she was quivering and shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother's very inefficient aid, nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o'clock she must be ready to say something quite decided. And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just at ten o'clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could say to each other. Mrs. Peacocke felt it to be necessary to let the Doctor know that Mr. Peacocke would be back almost at once, and took this means of doing so. "In a week!" said Mrs. Wortle, as though painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival. "In a week or ten days. He was to follow his letter as quickly as possible from San Francisco." "And he has found it all out?" "Yes; he has learned everything, I think. Look at this!" And Mrs. Peacocke handed to her friend the photograph of the tombstone. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Wortle. "Ferdinand Lefroy! And this was his grave?" "That is his grave," said Mrs. Peacocke, turning her face away. "It is very sad; very sad indeed;--but you had to learn it, you know." "It will not be sad for him, I hope," said Mrs. Peacocke. "In all this, I endeavour to think of him rather than of myself. When I am forced to think of myself, it seems to me that my life has been so blighted and destroyed that it must be indifferent what happens to me now. What has happened to me has been so bad that I can hardly be injured further. But if there can be a good time coming for him,--something at least of relief, something perhaps of comfort,--then I shall be satisfied." "Why should there not be comfort for you both?" "I am almost as dead to hope as I am to shame. Some year or two ago I should have thought it impossible to bear the eyes of people looking at me, as though my life had been sinful and impure. I seem now to care nothing for all that. I can look them back again with bold eyes and a brazen face, and tell them that their hardness is at any rate as bad as my impurity." "We have not looked at you like that," said Mrs. Wortle. "No; and therefore I send to you in my trouble, and tell you all this. The strangest thing of all to me is that I should have come across one man so generous as your husband, and one woman so soft-hearted as yourself." There was nothing further to be said then. Mrs. Wortle was instructed to tell her husband that Mr. Peacocke was to be expected in a week or ten days, and then hurried back to give what assistance she could in the much more important difficulties of her own daughter. Of course they were much more important to her. Was her girl to become the wife of a young lord,--to be a future countess? Was she destined to be the mother-in-law of an earl? Of course this was much more important to her. And then through it all,--being as she was a dear, good, Christian, motherly woman,--she was well aware that there was something, in truth, much more important even than that. Though she thought much of the earl-ship, and the countess-ship, and the great revenue, and the big house at Carstairs, and the fine park with its magnificent avenues, and the carriage in which her daughter would be rolled about to London parties, and the diamonds which she would wear when she should be presented to the Queen as the bride of the young Lord Carstairs, yet she knew very well that she ought not in such an emergency as the present to think of these things as being of primary importance. What would tend most to her girl's happiness,--and welfare in this world and the next? It was of that she ought to think,--of that only. If some answer were now returned to Lord Bracy, giving his lordship to understand that they, the Wortles, were anxious to encourage the idea, then in fact her girl would be tied to an engagement whether the young lord should hold himself to be so tied or no! And how would it be with her girl if the engagement should be allowed to run on in a doubtful way for years, and then be dropped by reason of the young man's indifference? How would it be with her if, after perhaps three or four years, a letter should come saying that the young lord had changed his mind, and had engaged himself to some nobler bride? Was it not her duty, as a mother, to save her child from the too probable occurrence of some crushing grief such as this? All of it was clear to her mind;--but then it was clear also that, if this opportunity of greatness were thrown away, no such chance in all probability would ever come again. Thus she was so tossed to and fro between a prospect of glorious prosperity for her child on one side, and the fear of terrible misfortune for her child on the other, that she was altogether unable to give any salutary advice. She, at any rate, ought to have known that her advice would at last be of no importance. Her experience ought to have told her that the Doctor would certainly settle the matter himself. Had it been her own happiness that was in question, her own conduct, her own greatness, she would not have dreamed of having an opinion of her own. She would have consulted the Doctor, and simply have done as he directed. But all this was for her child, and in a vague, vacillating way she felt that for her child she ought to be ready with counsel of her own. "Mamma," said Mary, when her mother came back from Mrs. Peacocke, "what am I to say when he sends for me?" "If you think that you can love him, my dear----" "Oh, mamma, you shouldn't ask me!" "My dear!" "I do like him,--very much." "If so----" "But I never thought of it before;--and then, if he,--if he----" "If he what, my dear?" "If he were to change his mind?" "Ah, yes;--there it is. It isn't as though you could be married in three months' time." "Oh, mamma! I shouldn't like that at all." "Or even in six." "Oh, no." "Of course he is very young." "Yes, mamma." "And when a young man is so very young, I suppose he doesn't quite know his own mind." "No, mamma. But----" "Well, my dear." "His father says that he has got--such a strong will of his own," said poor Mary, who was anxious, unconsciously anxious, to put in a good word on her own side of the question, without making her own desire too visible. "He always had that. When there was any game to be played, he always liked to have his own way. But then men like that are just as likely to change as others." "Are they, mamma?" "But I do think that he is a lad of very high principle." "Papa has always said that of him." "And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a weather-cock." "If you think he would change at all, I would rather,--rather,--rather----. Oh, mamma, why did you tell me?" "My darling, my child, my angel! What am I to tell you? I do think of all the young men I ever knew he is the nicest, and the sweetest, and the most thoroughly good and affectionate." "Oh, mamma, do you?" said Mary, rushing at her mother and kissing her and embracing her. "But if there were to be no regular engagement, and you were to let him have your heart,--and then things were to go wrong!" Mary left the embracings, gave up the kissings, and seated herself on the sofa alone. In this way the morning was passed;--and when Mary was summoned to her father's study, the mother and daughter had not arrived between them at any decision. "Well, my dear," said the Doctor, smiling, "what am I to say to the Earl?" "Must you write to-day, papa?" "I think so. His letter is one that should not be left longer unanswered. Were we to do so, he would only think that we didn't know what to say for ourselves." "Would he, papa?" "He would fancy that we are half-ashamed to accept what has been offered to us, and yet anxious to take it." "I am not ashamed of anything." "No, my dear; you have no reason." "Nor have you, papa." "Nor have I. That is quite true. I have never been wont to be ashamed of myself;--nor do I think that you ever will have cause to be ashamed of yourself. Therefore, why should we hesitate? Shall I help you, my darling, in coming to a decision on the matter?" "Yes, papa." "If I can understand your heart on this matter, it has never as yet been given to this young man." "No, papa." This Mary said not altogether with that complete power of asseveration which the negative is sometimes made to bear. "But there must be a beginning to such things. A man throws himself into it headlong,--as my Lord Carstairs seems to have done. At least all the best young men do." Mary at this point felt a great longing to get up and kiss her father; but she restrained herself. "A young woman, on the other hand, if she is such as I think you are, waits till she is asked. Then it has to begin." The Doctor, as he said this, smiled his sweetest smile. "Yes, papa." "And when it has begun, she does not like to blurt it out at once, even to her loving old father." "Papa!" "That's about it, isn't it? Haven't I hit it off?" He paused, as though for a reply, but she was not as yet able to make him any. "Come here, my dear." She came and stood by him, so that he could put his arm round her waist. "If it be as I suppose, you are better disposed to this young man than you are likely to be to any other, just at present." "Oh yes, papa." "To all others you are quite indifferent?" "Yes,--indeed, papa." "I am sure you are. But not quite indifferent to this one? Give me a kiss, my darling, and I will take that for your speech." Then she kissed him,--giving him her very best kiss. "And now, my child, what shall I say to the Earl?" "I don't know, papa." "Nor do I, quite. I never do know what to say till I've got the pen in my hand. But you'll commission me to write as I may think best?" "Oh yes, papa." "And I may presume that I know your mind?" "Yes, papa." "Very well. Then you had better leave me, so that I can go to work with the paper straight before me, and my pen fixed in my fingers. I can never begin to think till I find myself in that position." Then she left him, and went back to her mother. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Wortle. "He is going to write to Lord Bracy." "But what does he mean to say?" "I don't know at all, mamma." "Not know!" "I think he means to tell Lord Bracy that he has got no objection." Then Mrs. Wortle was sure that the Doctor meant to face all the dangers, and that therefore it would behove her to face them also. The Doctor, when he was left alone, sat a while thinking of the matter before he put himself into the position fitted for composition which he had described to his daughter. He acknowledged to himself that there was a difficulty in making a fit reply to the letter which he had to answer. When his mind was set on sending an indignant epistle to the Bishop, the words flew from him like lightning out of the thunder-clouds. But now he had to think much of it before he could make any light to come which should not bear a different colour from that which he intended. "Of course such a marriage would suit my child, and would suit me," he wished to say;--"not only, or not chiefly, because your son is a nobleman, and will be an earl and a man of great property. That goes a long way with us. We are too true to deny it. We hate humbug, and want you to know simply the truth about us. The title and the money go far,--but not half so far as the opinion which we entertain of the young man's own good gifts. I would not give my girl to the greatest and richest nobleman under the British Crown, if I did not think that he would love her and be good to her, and treat her as a husband should treat his wife. But believing this young man to have good gifts such as these, and a fine disposition, I am willing, on my girl's behalf,--and she also is willing,--to encounter the acknowledged danger of a long engagement in the hope of realising all the good things which would, if things went fortunately, thus come within her reach." This was what he wanted to say to the Earl, but he found it very difficult to say it in language that should be natural. "MY DEAR LORD BRACY,--When I learned, through Mary's mother, that Carstairs had been here in our absence and made a declaration of love to our girl, I was, I must confess, annoyed. I felt, in the first place, that he was too young to have taken in hand such a business as that; and, in the next, that you might not unnaturally have been angry that your son, who had come here simply for tuition, should have fallen into a matter of love. I imagine that you will understand exactly what were my feelings. There was, however, nothing to be said about it. The evil, so far as it was an evil, had been done, and Carstairs was going away to Oxford, where, possibly, he might forget the whole affair. I did not, at any rate, think it necessary to make a complaint to you of his coming. "To all this your letter has given altogether a different aspect. I think that I am as little likely as another to spend my time or thoughts in looking for external advantages, but I am as much alive as another to the great honour to myself and advantage to my child of the marriage which is suggested to her. I do not know how any more secure prospect of happiness could be opened to her than that which such a marriage offers. I have thought myself bound to give her your letter to read because her heart and her imagination have naturally been affected by what your son said to her. I think I may say of my girl that none sweeter, none more innocent, none less likely to be over-anxious for such a prospect could exist. But her heart has been touched; and though she had not dreamt of him but as an acquaintance till he came here and told his own tale, and though she then altogether declined to entertain his proposal when it was made, now that she has learnt so much more through you, she is no longer indifferent. This, I think, you will find to be natural. "I and her mother also are of course alive to the dangers of a long engagement, and the more so because your son has still before him a considerable portion of his education. Had he asked advice either of you or of me he would of course have been counselled not to think of marriage as yet. But the very passion which has prompted him to take this action upon himself shows,--as you yourself say of him,--that he has a stronger will than is usual to be found at his years. As it is so, it is probable that he may remain constant to this as to a fixed idea. "I think you will now understand my mind and Mary's and her mother's." Lord Bracy as he read this declared to himself that though the Doctor's mind was very clear, Mrs. Wortle, as far as he knew, had no mind in the matter at all. "I would suggest that the affair should remain as it is, and that each of the young people should be made to understand that any future engagement must depend, not simply on the persistency of one of them, but on the joint persistency of the two. "If, after this, Lady Bracy should be pleased to receive Mary at Carstairs, I need not say that Mary will be delighted to make the visit.--Believe me, my dear Lord Bracy, yours most faithfully. "JEFFREY WORTLE." The Earl, when he read this, though there was not a word in it to which he could take exception, was not altogether pleased. "Of course it will be an engagement," he said to his wife. "Of course it will," said the Countess. "But then Carstairs is so very much in earnest. He would have done it for himself if you hadn't done it for him." "At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman," the Earl said, comforting himself. CHAPTER XI. MR. PEACOCKE'S RETURN. THE Earl's rejoinder to the Doctor was very short: "So let it be." There was not another word in the body of the letter; but there was appended to it a postscript almost equally short; "Lady Bracy will write to Mary and settle with her some period for her visit." And so it came to be understood by the Doctor, by Mrs. Wortle, and by Mary herself, that Mary was engaged to Lord Carstairs. The Doctor, having so far arranged the matter, said little or nothing more on the subject, but turned his mind at once to that other affair of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. It was evident to his wife, who probably alone understood the buoyancy of his spirit and its corresponding susceptibility to depression, that he at once went about Mr. Peacocke's affairs with renewed courage. Mr. Peacocke should resume his duties as soon as he was remarried, and let them see what Mrs. Stantiloup or the Bishop would dare to say then! It was impossible, he thought, that parents would be such asses as to suppose that their boys' morals could be affected to evil by connection with a man so true, so gallant, and so manly as this. He did not at this time say anything further as to abandoning the school, but seemed to imagine that the vacancies would get themselves filled up as in the course of nature. He ate his dinner again as though he liked it, and abused the Liberals, and was anxious about the grapes and peaches, as was always the case with him when things were going well. All this, as Mrs. Wortle understood, had come to him from the brilliancy of Mary's prospects. But though he held his tongue on the subject, Mrs. Wortle did not. She found it absolutely impossible not to talk of it when she was alone with Mary, or alone with the Doctor. As he counselled her not to make Mary think too much about it, she was obliged to hold her peace when both were with her; but with either of them alone she was always full of it. To the Doctor she communicated all her fears and all her doubts, showing only too plainly that she would be altogether broken-hearted if anything should interfere with the grandeur and prosperity which seemed to be partly within reach, but not altogether within reach of her darling child. If he, Carstairs, should prove to be a recreant young lord! If Aristotle and Socrates should put love out of his heart! If those other wicked young lords at Christ-Church were to teach him that it was a foolish thing for a young lord to become engaged to his tutor's daughter before he had taken his degree! If some better born young lady were to come in his way and drive Mary out of his heart! No more lovely or better girl could be found to do so;--of that she was sure. To the latter assertion the Doctor agreed, telling her that, as it was so, she ought to have a stronger trust in her daughter's charms,--telling her also, with somewhat sterner voice, that she should not allow herself to be so disturbed by the glories of the Bracy coronet. In this there was, I think, some hypocrisy. Had the Doctor been as simple as his wife in showing her own heart, it would probably have been found that he was as much set upon the coronet as she. Then Mrs. Wortle would carry the Doctor's wisdom to her daughter. "Papa says, my dear, that you shouldn't think of it too much." "I do think of him, mamma. I do love him now, and of course I think of him." "Of course you do, my dear;--of course you do. How should you not think of him when he is all in all to you? But papa means that it can hardly be called an engagement yet." "I don't know what it should be called; but of course I love him. He can change it if he likes." "But you shouldn't think of it, knowing his rank and wealth." "I never did, mamma; but he is what he is, and I must think of him." Poor Mrs. Wortle did not know what special advice to give when this declaration was made. To have held her tongue would have been the wisest, but that was impossible to her. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and her heart was very full of Lord Carstairs and of Carstairs House, and of the diamonds which her daughter would certainly be called upon to wear before the Queen,--if only that young man would do his duty. Poor Mary herself probably had the worst of it. No provision was made either for her to see her lover or to write to him. The only interview which had ever taken place between them as lovers was that on which she had run by him into the house, leaving him, as the Earl had said, planted on the terrace. She had never been able to whisper one single soft word into his ear, to give him even one touch of her fingers in token of her affection. She did not in the least know when she might be allowed to see him,--whether it had not been settled among the elders that they were not to see each other as real lovers till he should have taken his degree,--which would be almost in a future world, so distant seemed the time. It had been already settled that she was to go to Carstairs in the middle of November and stay till the middle of December; but it was altogether settled that her lover was not to be at Carstairs during the time. He was to be at Oxford then, and would be thinking only of his Greek and Latin,--or perhaps amusing himself, in utter forgetfulness that he had a heart belonging to him at Bowick Parsonage. In this way Mary, though no doubt she thought the most of it all, had less opportunity of talking of it than either her father or her mother. In the mean time Mr. Peacocke was coming home. The Doctor, as soon as he heard that the day was fixed, or nearly fixed, being then, as has been explained, in full good humour with all the world except Mrs. Stantiloup and the Bishop, bethought himself as to what steps might best be taken in the very delicate matter in which he was called upon to give advice. He had declared at first that they should be married at his own parish church; but he felt that there would be difficulties in this. "She must go up to London and meet him there," he said to Mrs. Wortle. "And he must not show himself here till he brings her down as his actual wife." Then there was very much to be done in arranging all this. And something to be done also in making those who had been his friends, and perhaps more in making those who had been his enemies, understand exactly how the matter stood. Had no injury been inflicted upon him, as though he had done evil to the world in general in befriending Mr. Peacocke, he would have been quite willing to pass the matter over in silence among his friends; but as it was he could not afford to hide his own light under a bushel. He was being punished almost to the extent of ruin by the cruel injustice which had been done him by the evil tongue of Mrs. Stantiloup, and, as he thought, by the folly of the Bishop. He must now let those who had concerned themselves know as accurately as he could what he had done in the matter, and what had been the effect of his doing. He wrote a letter, therefore, which was not, however, to be posted till after the Peacocke marriage had been celebrated, copies of which he prepared with his own hand in order that he might send them to the Bishop and to Lady Anne Clifford, and to Mr. Talbot and,--not, indeed, to Mrs. Stantiloup, but to Mrs. Stantiloup's husband. There was a copy also made for Mr. Momson, though in his heart he despised Mr. Momson thoroughly. In this letter he declared the great respect which he had entertained, since he had first known them, both for Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke, and the distress which he had felt when Mr. Peacocke had found himself obliged to explain to him the facts,--the facts which need not be repeated, because the reader is so well acquainted with them. "Mr. Peacocke," he went on to say, "has since been to America, and has found that the man whom he believed to be dead when he married his wife, has died since his calamitous reappearance. Mr. Peacocke has seen the man's grave, with the stone on it bearing his name, and has brought back with him certificates and evidence as to his burial. "Under these circumstances, I have no hesitation in re-employing both him and his wife; and I think that you will agree that I could not do less. I think you will agree, also, that in the whole transaction I have done nothing of which the parent of any boy intrusted to me has a right to complain." Having done this, he went up to London, and made arrangements for having the marriage celebrated there as soon as possible after the arrival of Mr. Peacocke. And on his return to Bowick, he went off to Mr. Puddicombe with a copy of his letter in his pocket. He had not addressed a copy to his friend, nor had he intended that one should be sent to him. Mr. Puddicombe had not interfered in regard to the boys, and had, on the whole, shown himself to be a true friend. There was no need for him to advocate his cause to Mr. Puddicombe. But it was right, he thought, that that gentleman should know what he did; and it might be that he hoped that he would at length obtain some praise from Mr. Puddicombe. But Mr. Puddicombe did not like the letter. "It does not tell the truth," he said. "Not the truth!" "Not the whole truth." "As how! Where have I concealed anything?" "If I understand the question rightly, they who have thought proper to take their children away from your school because of Mr. Peacocke, have done so because that gentleman continued to live with that lady when they both knew that they were not man and wife." "That wasn't my doing." "You condoned it. I am not condemning you. You condoned it, and now you defend yourself in this letter. But in your defence you do not really touch the offence as to which you are, according to your own showing, accused. In telling the whole story, you should say; 'They did live together though they were not married;--and, under all the circumstances, I did not think that they were on that account unfit to be left in charge of my boys."' "But I sent him away immediately,--to America." "You allowed the lady to remain." "Then what would you have me say?" demanded the Doctor. "Nothing," said Mr. Puddicombe;--"not a word. Live it down in silence. There will be those, like myself, who, though they could not dare to say that in morals you were strictly correct, will love you the better for what you did." The Doctor turned his face towards the dry, hard-looking man and showed that there was a tear in each of his eyes. "There are few of us not so infirm as sometimes to love best that which is not best. But when a man is asked a downright question, he is bound to answer the truth." "You would say nothing in your own defence." "Not a word. You know the French proverb: 'Who excuses himself is his own accuser.' The truth generally makes its way. As far as I can see, a slander never lives long." "Ten of my boys are gone!" said the Doctor, who had not hitherto spoken a word of this to any one out of his own family;--"ten out of twenty." "That will only be a temporary loss." "That is nothing,--nothing. It is the idea that the school should be failing." "They will come again. I do not believe that that letter would bring a boy. I am almost inclined to say, Dr. Wortle, that a man should never defend himself." "He should never have to defend himself." "It is much the same thing. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Dr. Wortle,--if it will suit your plans. I will go up with you and will assist at the marriage. I do not for a moment think that you will require any countenance, or that if you did, that I could give it you." "No man that I know so efficiently." "But it may be that Mr. Peacocke will like to find that the clergymen from his neighbourhood are standing with him." And so it was settled, that when the day should come on which the Doctor would take Mrs. Peacocke up with him to London, Mr. Puddicombe was to accompany them. The Doctor when he left Mr. Puddicombe's parsonage had by no means pledged himself not to send the letters. When a man has written a letter, and has taken some trouble with it, and more specially when he has copied it several times himself so as to have made many letters of it,--when he has argued his point successfully to himself, and has triumphed in his own mind, as was likely to be the case with Dr. Wortle in all that he did, he does not like to make waste paper of his letters. As he rode home he tried to persuade himself that he might yet use them. He could not quite admit his friend's point. Mr. Peacocke, no doubt, had known his own condition, and him a strict moralist might condemn. But he,--he,--Dr. Wortle,--had known nothing. All that he had done was not to condemn the other man when he did know! Nevertheless as he rode into his own yard, he made up his mind that he would burn the letters. He had shown them to no one else. He had not even mentioned them to his wife. He could burn them without condemning himself in the opinion of any one. And he burned them. When Mr. Puddicombe found him at the station at Broughton as they were about to proceed to London with Mrs. Peacocke, he simply whispered the fate of the letters. "After what you said I destroyed what I had written." "Perhaps it was as well," said Mr. Puddicombe. When the telegram came to say that Mr. Peacocke was at Liverpool, Mrs. Peacocke was anxious immediately to rush up to London. But she was restrained by the Doctor,--or rather by Mrs. Wortle under the Doctor's orders. "No, my dear; no. You must not go till all will be ready for you to meet him in the church. The Doctor says so." "Am I not to see him till he comes up to the altar?" On this there was another consultation between Mrs. Wortle and the Doctor, at which she explained how impossible it would be for the woman to go through the ceremony with due serenity and propriety of manner unless she should be first allowed to throw herself into his arms, and to welcome him back to her. "Yes," she said, "he can come and see you at the hotel on the evening before, and again in the morning,--so that if there be a word to say you can say it. Then when it is over he will bring you down here. The Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe will come down by a later train. Of course it is painful," said Mrs. Wortle, "but you must bear up." To her it seemed to be so painful that she was quite sure that she could not have borne it. To be married for the third time, and for the second time to the same husband! To Mrs. Peacocke, as she thought of it, the pain did not so much rest in that, as in the condition of life which these things had forced upon her. "I must go up to town to-morrow, and must be away for two days," said the Doctor out loud in the school, speaking immediately to one of the ushers, but so that all the boys present might hear him. "I trust that we shall have Mr. Peacocke with us the day after to-morrow." "We shall be very glad of that," said the usher. "And Mrs. Peacocke will come and eat her dinner again like before?" asked a little boy. "I hope so, Charley." "We shall like that, because she has to eat it all by herself now." All the school, down even to Charley, the smallest boy in it, knew all about it. Mr. Peacocke had gone to America, and Mrs. Peacocke was going up to London to be married once more to her own husband,--and the Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe were both going to marry them. The usher of course knew the details more clearly than that,--as did probably the bigger boys. There had even been a rumour of the photograph which had been seen by one of the maid-servants,--who had, it is to be feared, given the information to the French teacher. So much, however, the Doctor had felt it wise to explain, not thinking it well that Mr. Peacocke should make his reappearance among them without notice. On the afternoon of the next day but one, Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were driven up to the school in one of the Broughton flys. She went quickly up into her own house, when Mr. Peacocke walked into the school. The boys clustered round him, and the three assistants, and every word said to him was kind and friendly;--but in the whole course of his troubles there had never been a moment to him more difficult than this,--in which he found it so nearly impossible to say anything or to say nothing. "Yes, I have been over very many miles since I saw you last." This was an answer to young Talbot, who asked him whether he had not been a great traveller whilst he was away. "In America," suggested the French usher, who had heard of the photograph, and knew very well where it had been taken. "Yes, in America." "All the way to San Francisco," suggested Charley. "All the way to San Francisco, Charley,--and back again." "Yes; I know you're come back again," said Charley, "because I see you here." "There are only twenty boys this half," said one of the twenty. "Then I shall have more time to attend to you now." "I suppose so," said the lad, not seeming to find any special consolation in that view of the matter. Painful as this first re-introduction had been, there was not much more in it than that. No questions were asked, and no explanations expected. It may be that Mrs. Stantiloup was affected with fresh moral horrors when she heard of the return, and that the Bishop said that the Doctor was foolish and headstrong as ever. It may be that there was a good deal of talk about it in the Close at Broughton. But at the school there was very little more said about it than what has been stated above. CHAPTER XII. MARY'S SUCCESS. IN this last chapter of our short story I will venture to run rapidly over a few months so as to explain how the affairs of Bowick arranged themselves up to the end of the current year. I cannot pretend that the reader shall know, as he ought to be made to know, the future fate and fortunes of our personages. They must be left still struggling. But then is not such always in truth the case, even when the happy marriage has been celebrated?--even when, in the course of two rapid years, two normal children make their appearance to gladden the hearts of their parents? Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke fell into their accustomed duties in the diminished school, apparently without difficulty. As the Doctor had not sent those ill-judged letters he of course received no replies, and was neither troubled by further criticism nor consoled by praise as to his conduct. Indeed, it almost seemed to him as though the thing, now that it was done, excited less observation than it deserved. He heard no more of the metropolitan press, and was surprised to find that the 'Broughton Gazette' inserted only a very short paragraph, in which it stated that "they had been given to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke had resumed their usual duties at the Bowick School, after the performance of an interesting ceremony in London, at which Dr. Wortle and Mr. Puddicombe had assisted." The press, as far as the Doctor was aware, said nothing more on the subject. And if remarks injurious to his conduct were made by the Stantiloups and the Momsons, they did not reach his ears. Very soon after the return of the Peacockes there was a grand dinner-party at the palace, to which the Doctor and his wife were invited. It was not a clerical dinner-party, and so the honour was the greater. The aristocracy of the neighbourhood were there, including Lady Anne Clifford, who was devoted, with almost repentant affection, to her old friend. And Lady Margaret Momson was there, the only clergyman's wife besides his own, who declared to him with unblushing audacity that she had never regretted anything so much in her life as that Augustus should have been taken away from the school. It was evident that there had been an intention at the palace to make what amends the palace could for the injuries it had done. "Did Lady Anne say anything about the boys?" asked Mrs. Wortle, as they were going home. "She was going to, but I would not let her. I managed to show her that I did not wish it, and she was clever enough to stop." "I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs. Wortle. "She won't do that. Indeed, I doubt whether I should take them. But if it should come to pass that she should wish to send them back, you may be sure that others will come. In such a matter she is very good as a weathercock, showing how the wind blows." In this way the dinner-party at the palace was in a degree comforting and consolatory. But an incident which of all was most comforting and most consolatory to one of the inhabitants of the parsonage took place two or three days after the dinner-party. On going out of his own hall-door one Saturday afternoon, immediately after lunch, whom should the Doctor see driving himself into the yard in a hired gig from Broughton--but young Lord Carstairs. There had been no promise, or absolute compact made, but it certainly had seemed to be understood by all of them that Carstairs was not to show himself at Bowick till at some long distant period, when he should have finished all the trouble of his education. It was understood even that he was not to be at Carstairs during Mary's visit,--so imperative was it that the young people should not meet. And now here he was getting out of a gig in the Rectory yard! "Halloa! Carstairs, is that you?" "Yes, Dr. Wortle,--here I am." "We hardly expected to see you, my boy." "No,--I suppose not. But when I heard that Mr. Peacocke had come back, and all about his marriage, you know, I could not but come over to see him. He and I have always been such great friends." "Oh,--to see Mr. Peacocke?" "I thought he'd think it unkind if I didn't look him up. He has made it all right; hasn't he?" "Yes;--he has made it all right, I think. A finer fellow never lived. But he'll tell you all about it. He travelled with a pistol in his pocket, and seemed to want it too. I suppose you must come in and see the ladies after we have been to Peacocke?" "I suppose I can just see them," said the young lord, as though moved by equal anxiety as to the mother and as to the daughter. "I'll leave word that you are here, and then we'll go into the school." So the Doctor found a servant, and sent what message he thought fit into the house. "Lord Carstairs here?" "Yes, indeed, Miss! He's with your papa, going across to the school. He told me to take word in to Missus that he supposes his lordship will stay to dinner." The maid who carried the tidings, and who had received no commission to convey them to Miss Mary, was, no doubt, too much interested in an affair of love, not to take them first to the one that would be most concerned with them. That very morning Mary had been bemoaning herself as to her hard condition. Of what use was it to her to have a lover, if she was never to see him, never to hear from him,--only to be told about him,--that she was not to think of him more than she could help? She was already beginning to think that a long engagement carried on after this fashion would have more of suffering in it than she had anticipated. It seemed to her that while she was, and always would be, thinking of him, he never, never would continue to think of her. If it could be only a word once a month it would be something,--just one or two written words under an envelope,--even that would have sufficed to keep her hope alive! But never to see him;--never to hear from him! Her mother had told her that very morning that there was to be no meeting,--probably for three years, till he should have done with Oxford. And here he was in the house,--and her papa had sent in word to say that he was to eat his dinner there! It so astonished her that she felt that she would be afraid to meet him. Before she had had a minute to think of it all, her mother was with her. "Carstairs, love, is here!" "Oh mamma, what has brought him?" "He has gone into the school with your papa to see Mr. Peacocke. He always was very fond of Mr. Peacocke." For a moment something of a feeling of jealousy crossed her heart,--but only for a moment. He would not surely have come to Bowick if he had begun to be indifferent to her already! "Papa says that he will probably stay to dinner." "Then I am to see him?" "Yes;--of course you must see him." "I didn't know, mamma." "Don't you wish to see him?" "Oh yes, mamma. If he were to come and go, and we were not to meet at all, I should think it was all over then. Only,--I don't know what to say to him." "You must take that as it comes, my dear." Two hours afterwards they were walking, the two of them alone together, out in the Bowick woods. When once the law,--which had been rather understood than spoken,--had been infringed and set at naught, there was no longer any use in endeavouring to maintain a semblance of its restriction. The two young people had met in the presence both of the father and mother, and the lover had had her in his arms before either of them could interfere. There had been a little scream from Mary, but it may probably be said of her that she was at the moment the happiest young lady in the diocese. "Does your father know you are here?" said the Doctor, as he led the young lord back from the school into the house. "He knows I'm coming, for I wrote and told my mother. I always tell everything; but it's sometimes best to make up your mind before you get an answer." Then the Doctor made up his mind that Lord Carstairs would have his own way in anything that he wished to accomplish. "Won't the Earl be angry?" Mrs. Wortle asked. "No;--not angry. He knows the world too well not to be quite sure that something of the kind would happen. And he is too fond of his son not to think well of anything that he does. It wasn't to be supposed that they should never meet. After all that has passed I am bound to make him welcome if he chooses to come here, and as Mary's lover to give him the best welcome that I can. He won't stay, I suppose, because he has got no clothes." "But he has;--John brought in a portmanteau and a dressing-bag out of the gig." So that was settled. In the mean time Lord Carstairs had taken Mary out for a walk into the wood, and she, as she walked beside him, hardly knew whether she was going on her head or her heels. This, indeed, it was to have a lover. In the morning she was thinking that when three years were past he would hardly care to see her ever again. And now they were together among the falling leaves, and sitting about under the branches as though there was nothing in the world to separate them. Up to that day there had never been a word between them but such as is common to mere acquaintances, and now he was calling her every instant by her Christian name, and telling her all his secrets. "We have such jolly woods at Carstairs," he said; "but we shan't be able to sit down when we're there, because it will be winter. We shall be hunting, and you must come out and see us." "But you won't be there when I am," she said, timidly. "Won't I? That's all you know about it. I can manage better than that." "You'll be at Oxford." "You must stay over Christmas, Mary; that's what you must do. You musn't think of going till January." "But Lady Bracy won't want me." "Yes, she will. We must make her want you. At any rate they'll understand this; if you don't stay for me, I shall come home even if it's in the middle of term. I'll arrange that. You don't suppose I'm not going to be there when you make your first visit to the old place." All this was being in Paradise. She felt when she walked home with him, and when she was alone afterwards in her own room, that, in truth, she had only liked him before. Now she loved him. Now she was beginning to know him, and to feel that she would really,--really die of a broken heart if anything were to rob her of him. But she could let him go now, without a feeling of discomfort, if she thought that she was to see him again when she was at Carstairs. But this was not the last walk in the woods, even on this occasion. He remained two days at Bowick, so necessary was it for him to renew his intimacy with Mr. Peacocke. He explained that he had got two days' leave from the tutor of his College, and that two days, in College parlance, always meant three. He would be back on the third day, in time for "gates"; and that was all which the strictest college discipline would require of him. It need hardly be said of him that the most of his time he spent with Mary; but he did manage to devote an hour or two to his old friend, the school-assistant. Mr. Peacocke told his whole story, and Carstairs, whose morals were perhaps not quite so strict as those of Mr. Puddicombe, gave him all his sympathy. "To think that a man can be such a brute as that," he said, when he heard that Ferdinand Lefroy had shown himself to his wife at St. Louis,--"only on a spree." "There is no knowing to what depth utter ruin may reduce a man who has been born to better things. He falls into idleness, and then comforts himself with drink. So it seems to have been with him." "And that other fellow;--do you think he meant to shoot you?" "Never. But he meant to frighten me. And when he brought out his knife in the bedroom at Leavenworth he did. My pistol was not loaded." "Why not?" "Because little as I wish to be murdered, I should prefer that to murdering any one else. But he didn't mean it. His only object was to get as much out of me as he could. As for me, I couldn't give him more because I hadn't got it." After that they made a league of friendship, and Mr. Peacocke promised that he would, on some distant occasion, take his wife with him on a visit to Carstairs. It was about a month after this that Mary was packed up and sent on her journey to Carstairs. When that took place, the Doctor was in supreme good-humour. There had come a letter from the father of the two Mowbrays, saying that he had again changed his mind. He had, he said, heard a story told two ways. He trusted Dr. Wortle would understand him and forgive him, when he declared that he had believed both the stories. If after this the Doctor chose to refuse to take his boys back again, he would have, he acknowledged, no ground for offence. But if the Doctor would take them, he would intrust them to the Doctor's care with the greatest satisfaction in the world,--as he had done before. For a while the Doctor had hesitated; but here, perhaps for the first time in her life, his wife was allowed to persuade him. "They are such leading people," she said. "Who cares for that? I have never gone in for that." This, however, was hardly true. "When I have been sure that a man is a gentleman, I have taken his son without inquiring much farther. It was mean of him to withdraw after I had acceded to his request." "But he withdraws his withdrawal in such a flattering way!" Then the Doctor assented, and the two boys were allowed to come. Lady Anne Clifford hearing this, learning that the Doctor was so far willing to relent, became very piteous and implored forgiveness. The noble relatives were all willing now. It had not been her fault. As far as she was concerned herself she had always been anxious that her boys should remain at Bowick. And so the two Cliffords came back to their old beds in the old room. Mary, when she first arrived at Carstairs, hardly knew how to carry herself. Lady Bracy was very cordial and the Earl friendly, but for the first two days nothing was said about Carstairs. There was no open acknowledgment of her position. But then she had expected none; and though her tongue was burning to talk, of course she did not say a word. But before a week was over Lady Bracy had begun, and by the end of the fortnight Lord Bracy had given her a beautiful brooch. "That means," said Lady Bracy in the confidence of her own little sitting-room up-stairs, "that he looks upon you as his daughter." "Does it?" "Yes, my dear, yes." Then they fell to kissing each other, and did nothing but talk about Carstairs and all his perfections, and his unalterable love, and how these three years could be made to wear themselves away, till the conversation,--simmering over as such conversation is wont to do,--gave the whole household to understand that Miss Wortle was staying there as Lord Carstairs's future bride. Of course she stayed over the Christmas, or went back to Bowick for a week, and then returned to Carstairs, so that she might tell her mother everything, and hear of the six new boys who were to come after the holidays. "Papa couldn't take both the Buncombes," said Mrs. Wortle in her triumph, "and one must remain till midsummer. Sir George did say that it must be two or none, but he had to give way. I wanted papa to have another bed in the east room, but he wouldn't hear of it." Mary went back for the Christmas and Carstairs came; and the house was full, and everybody knew of the engagement. She walked with him, and rode with him, and danced with him, and talked secrets with him,--as though there were no Oxford, no degree before him. No doubt it was very imprudent, but the Earl and the Countess knew all about it. What might be, or would be, or was the end of such folly, it is not my purpose here to tell. I fear that there was trouble before them. It may, however, be possible that the degree should be given up on the score of love, and Lord Carstairs should marry his bride,--at any rate when he came of age. As to the school, it certainly suffered nothing by the Doctor's generosity, and when last I heard of Mr. Peacocke, the Bishop had offered to grant him a licence for the curacy. Whether he accepted it I have not yet heard, but I am inclined to think that in this matter he will adhere to his old determination. * * * * * Textual emendations and noteworthy items 1 Alterations 1 1 Word changes 1 1 1 Additions 1 1 1 1 Added "l" to "crue" Vol. I--Page 146, line 8 did sit down. "He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel* bigamist." 1 1 1 2 Added "b" to "Puddicome's" Vol. II--Page 15, line 1 he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr. Puddicomb*e's dirty boot had 1 1 1 3 Added "e" to "Ann" Vol. II--Page 215, line 6 hand in order that he might send them to the Bishop and to Lady Anne* 1 1 2 Deletions 1 1 2 1 Deleted repeated word "not" Vol. II--Page 15, line 10 been a grain of tenderness there, he could not* have spoken so often as he 1 1 2 2 Deleted repeated "i" in "hiim" Vol. II--Page 87, line 9 not leave the man to triumph over hi*m. If nothing further were done in 1 1 3 Substitutions 1 1 3 1 Changed lowercase "de" to uppercase "De" to conform to majority usage (11 out of 14 times with uppercase) Vol. I--Page 34, line 7 Lawle, who had in early years been a dear friend to Mrs. Wortle. Lady *De Lawle was the widow Vol. I--Page 48, line 9 Bishop,--before Mrs. Wortle or the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup, or Lady *De Lawle. Vol. I--Page 82, line 17 to you; different in not accepting Lady *De Lawle's hospitality; different 1 1 3 2 Changed "out" to "our" Vol. I--Page 88, line 22 and me, can have no effect but to increase our* troubles. You are a woman, 1 1 3 3 Changed lowercase "junction" to uppercase "Junction" to conform to majority usage (3 out of 4 times with uppercase) Vol. II--Page 147, line 6 been written at the Ogden *Junction, at which Mr. Peacocke had stopped for 1 2 Punctuation changes 1 2 1 Additions 1 2 1 1 Added quotation marks 1 2 1 1 1 ...opening double quotation mark Vol. I--Page 146, line 7 did sit down. *"He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel Vol. II--Page 102, line 3 kind feelings which have hitherto existed between us.--Yours very faithfully, *"C. BROUGHTON." 1 2 1 1 2 ...closing double quotation mark Vol. II--Page 35, line 16 were given. "It is not enough to be innocent," said the Bishop, "but men must know that we are so."* 1 2 1 1 3 ...opening single quotation mark Vol. II--Page 103, line 11 Mrs. Wortle. So much had been effected by *'Everybody's Business,' and its 1 2 1 1 4 ...closing single quotation mark Vol. I--Page 48, line 21 'Black Dwarf'* be if every one knew from the beginning that he was a rich 1 2 1 1 5 ...single quotation marks Vol. II--Page 95, line 15 beforehand whom he was about to smite. "*'Amo' in the cool of the 1 2 1 2 Added apostrophe Vol. I--Page 120, line 19 ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them'*s 1 2 1 3 Added full stop 1 2 1 3 1 ...after "more" Vol. II--Page 83, line 11 very nice boy; and so he was still; that;--that, and nothing more.* Then 1 2 1 3 2 ...after "St" Vol. II--Page 109, line 7 round by St.* Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St. Louis,--and on that 1 2 1 3 3 ...after "engagement" Vol. II--Page 163, line 21 not known that she was very much afraid of a long engagement.* She would, 1 2 1 3 4 ...after "Wortle" Vol. II--Page 231, line 2 "I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs. Wortle.* 1 2 2 Deletions 1 2 2 1 Deleted quotation marks 1 2 2 1 1 ...opening double quotation mark Vol. II--Page 222, line 18 *On this there was another consultation between Mrs. Wortle and the Doctor, 1 2 2 1 2 ...closing double quotation mark Vol. I--Page 146, line 11 "I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from his chair.* Vol. II--Page 221, line 14 Wortle,--had known nothing. All that he had done was not to condemn the other man when he did know!* 1 2 2 1 3 ...opening single quotation mark Vol. II--Page 238, line 12 between them but such as is common *to mere acquaintances, and now he was 1 2 2 2 Deleted extra space after opening double quotation mark Vol. I--Page 81, line 14 at his feet, buried her face in his lap. "*Ella," he said, "the only 1 2 3 Substitutions 1 2 3 1 Changed single closing quotation mark to double closing quotation mark Vol. II--Page 105, line 18 "My taking you across to the States."* 1 2 3 2 Changed full stop to comma Vol. I--Page 185, line 18 facts were known to the entire diocese." After this there was a pause,* 2 Items of note 2 1 Spelling 2 1 1 Verbs in "-ize" normally in "-ise" 2 1 1 1 sympathize Vol. I--Page 156, line 4 only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized* with 2 1 1 2 apologize Vol. II--Page 14, line 17 found himself obliged to apologize* before he left the house! And, too, he 2 1 2 Variation in hyphenation 2 1 2 1 weather(-)cock Vol. II--Page 196, line 2 "And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a weather-*cock." Vol. II--Page 231, line 8 weathercock*, showing how the wind blows." In this way the dinner-party at 2 1 2 2 a(-)verb-ing Vol. II--Page 119, line 1 "Not a foot; I ain't a-*going out of this room to-morrow." Vol. II--Page 182, lines 5 & 6 "We are *alooking at 'em," said Lefroy. "If you're *agoing to do anything of that kind you'd better go and do it 2 2 Punctuation 2 2 1 Full stop changed to question mark Vol. I--Page 134, line 3 longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you." "You will?*" 2 2 2 Full stop used instead of question mark Vol. II--Page 47, line 16 building staring him in the face every moment of his life.* Vol. II--Page 63, line 17 "I may tell them that the action is withdrawn.*" 2 2 3 Exclamation point used instead of question mark Vol. II--Page 75, line 8 "Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!*" 
48021	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page mages generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/aurorafloyd00bradgoog Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work. Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48020 Volume III: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48022 AURORA FLOYD. by M. E. BRADDON, Author of "Lady Audley's Secret." In Three Volumes. VOL. II. Fifth Edition. London: Tinsley Brothers, 18 Catherine Steeet, Strand. 1863. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. "LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME, AND TURNED IT IN HIS GLOWING HANDS" II. MR. PASTERN'S LETTER III. MR. JAMES CONYERS IV. THE TRAINER'S MESSENGER V. OUT IN THE RAIN VI. MONEY MATTERS VII. CAPTAIN PRODDER VIII. "HE ONLY SAID, I AM A-WEARY" IX. STILL CONSTANT X. ON THE THRESHOLD OF DARKER MISERIES XI. CAPTAIN PRODDER CARRIES BAD NEWS TO HIS NIECE'S HOUSE XII. THE DEED THAT HAD BEEN DONE IN THE WOOD CHAPTER I. "LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME, AND TURNED IT IN HIS GLOWING HANDS." Talbot Bulstrode yielded at last to John's repeated invitations, and consented to pass a couple of days at Mellish Park. He despised and hated himself for the absurd concession. In what a pitiful farce had the tragedy ended! A visitor in the house of his rival. A calm spectator of Aurora's every-day, commonplace happiness. For the space of two days he had consented to occupy this most preposterous position. Two days only; then back to the Cornish miners, and the desolate bachelor's lodgings in Queen's Square, Westminster; back to his tent in life's Great Sahara. He could not for the very soul of him resist the temptation of beholding the inner life of that Yorkshire mansion. He wanted to know for certain--what was it to him, I wonder?--whether she was really happy, and had utterly forgotten him. They all returned to the Park together, Aurora, John, Archibald Floyd, Lucy, Talbot Bulstrode, and Captain Hunter. The last-named officer was a jovial gentleman, with a hook nose and auburn whiskers; a gentleman whose intellectual attainments were of no very oppressive order, but a hearty, pleasant guest in an honest country mansion, where there is cheer and welcome for all. Talbot could but inwardly confess that Aurora became her new position. How everybody loved her! What an atmosphere of happiness she created about her wherever she went! How joyously the dogs barked and leapt at sight of her, straining their chains in the desperate effort to approach her! How fearlessly the thorough-bred mares and foals ran to the paddock-gates to bid her welcome, bending down their velvet nostrils to nestle upon her shoulder, responsive to the touch of her caressing hand! Seeing all this, how could Talbot refrain from remembering that this same sunlight might have shone upon that dreary castle far away by the surging western sea? She might have been his, this beautiful creature; but at what price? At the price of honour; at the price of every principle of his mind, which had set up for himself a holy and perfect standard--a pure and spotless ideal for the wife of his choice. Forbid it, manhood! He might have weakly yielded; he might have been happy, with the blind happiness of a lotus-eater, but not the reasonable bliss of a Christian. Thank Heaven for the strength which had been given to him to escape from the silken net! Thank Heaven for the power which had been granted to him to fight the battle! Standing by Aurora's side in one of the wide windows of Mellish Park, looking far out over the belted lawn to the glades in which the deer lay basking drowsily in the April sunlight, he could not repress the thought uppermost in his mind. "I am--very glad--to see you so happy, Mrs. Mellish." She looked at him with frank, truthful eyes, in whose brightness there was not one latent shadow. "Yes," she said, "I am very, very happy. My husband is very good to me. He loves--and trusts me." She could not resist that one little stab--the only vengeance she ever took upon him; but a stroke that pierced him to the heart. "Aurora! Aurora! Aurora!" he cried. That half-stifled cry revealed the secret of wounds that were not yet healed. Mrs. Mellish turned pale at the traitorous sound. This man must be cured. The happy wife, secure in her own stronghold of love and confidence, could not bear to see this poor fellow still adrift. She by no means despaired of his cure, for experience had taught her, that although love's passionate fever takes several forms, there are very few of them incurable. Had she not passed safely through the ordeal herself, without one scar to bear witness of the old wounds? She left Captain Bulstrode staring moodily out of the window, and went away to plan the saving of this poor shipwrecked soul. She ran in the first place to tell Mr. John Mellish of her discovery, as it was her custom to carry to him every scrap of intelligence great and small. "My dearest old Jack," she said--it was another of her customs to address him by every species of exaggeratedly endearing appellation; it may be that she did this for the quieting of her own conscience, being well aware that she tyrannized over him--"my darling boy, I have made a discovery." "About the filly?" "About Talbot Bulstrode." John's blue eyes twinkled maliciously. He was evidently half prepared for what was coming. "What is it, Lolly?" Lolly was a corruption of Aurora, devised by John Mellish. "Why, I'm really afraid, my precious darling, that he hasn't quite got over----" "My taking you away from him!" roared John. "I thought as much. Poor devil--poor Talbot! I could see that he would have liked to fight me on the stand at York. Upon my word, I pity him!" and in token of his compassion Mr. Mellish burst into that old joyous, boisterous, but musical laugh, which Talbot might almost have heard at the other end of the house. This was a favourite delusion of John's. He firmly believed that he had won Aurora's affection in fair competition with Captain Bulstrode; pleasantly ignoring that the captain had resigned all pretensions to Miss Floyd's hand nine or ten months before his own offer had been accepted. The genial, sanguine creature had a habit of deceiving himself in this manner. He saw all things in the universe just as he wished to see them; all men and women good and honest; life one long, pleasant voyage in a well-fitted ship, with only first-class passengers on board. He was one of those men who are likely to cut their throats or take prussic acid upon the day they first encounter the black visage of Care. "And what are we to do with this poor fellow, Lolly?" "Marry him!" exclaimed Mrs. Mellish. "Both of us?" said John simply. "My dearest pet, what an obtuse old darling you are! No; marry him to Lucy Floyd, my first cousin once removed, and keep the Bulstrode estate in the family." "Marry him to Lucy!" "Yes; why not? She has studied enough, and learnt history, and geography, and astronomy, and botany, and geology, and conchology, and entomology enough; and she has covered I don't know how many China jars with impossible birds and flowers; and she has illuminated missals, and read High-Church novels. So the next best thing she can do is to marry Talbot Bulstrode." John had his own reasons for agreeing with Aurora in this matter. He remembered that secret of poor Lucy's, which he had discovered more than a year before at Felden Woods: the secret which had been revealed to him by some mysterious sympathetic power belonging to hopeless love. So Mr. Mellish declared his hearty concurrence in Aurora's scheme, and the two amateur match-makers set to work to devise a complicated man-trap, in the which Talbot was to be entangled; never for a moment imagining that, while they were racking their brains in the endeavour to bring this piece of machinery to perfection, the intended victim was quietly strolling across the sunlit lawn towards the very fate they desired for him. Yes, Talbot Bulstrode lounged with languid step to meet his Destiny, in a wood upon the borders of the Park; a part of the Park, indeed, inasmuch as it was within the boundary-fence of John's domain. The wood-anemones trembled in the spring breezes, deep in those shadowy arcades; pale primroses showed their mild faces amid their sheltering leaves; and in shady nooks, beneath low-spreading boughs of elm and beech, oak and ash, the violets hid their purple beauty from the vulgar eye. A lovely spot, soothing by its harmonious influence; a very forest sanctuary, without whose dim arcades man cast his burden down, to enter in a child. Captain Bulstrode had felt in no very pleasant humour as he walked across the lawn; but some softening influence stole upon him, on the threshold of that sylvan shelter, which made him feel a better man. He began to question himself as to how he was playing his part in the great drama of life. "Good heavens!" he thought, "what a shameful coward, what a negative wretch, I have become by this one grief of my manhood! An indifferent son, a careless brother, a useless, purposeless creature, content to dawdle away my life in feeble pottering with political economy. Shall I ever be in earnest again? Is this dreary doubt of every living creature to go with me to my grave? Less than two years ago my heart sickened at the thought that I had lived to two-and-thirty years of age, and had never been loved. Since then--since then--since then I had lived through life's brief fever; I have fought manhood's worst and sharpest battle, and find myself--where? Exactly where I was before; still companionless upon the dreary journey; only a little nearer to the end." He walked slowly onward into the woodland aisle, other aisles branching away from him right and left into deep glades and darkening shadow. A month or so later, and the mossy ground beneath his feet would be one purple carpet of hyacinths, the very air thick with a fatal-scented vapour from the perfumed bulbs. "I asked too much," said Talbot, in that voiceless argument we are perpetually carrying on with ourselves; "I asked too much; I yielded to the spell of the siren, and was angry because I missed the white wings of the angel. I was bewitched by the fascinations of a beautiful woman, when I should have sought for a noble-minded wife." He went deeper and deeper into the wood, going to his fate, as another man was to do before the coming summer was over; but to what a different fate! The long arcades of beech and elm had reminded him from the first of the solemn aisles of a cathedral. The saint was only needed. And coming suddenly to a spot where a new arcade branched off abruptly on his right hand, he saw, in one of the sylvan niches, as fair a saint as had ever been modelled by the hand of artist and believer,--the same golden-haired angel he had seen in the long drawing-room at Felden Woods,--Lucy Floyd, with the pale aureola about her head, her large straw-hat in her lap filled with anemones and violets, and the third volume of a novel in her hand. How much in life often hangs, or seems to us to hang, upon what is called by playwrights, "a situation!" But for this sudden encounter, but for thus coming upon this pretty picture, Talbot Bulstrode might have dropped into his grave ignorant to the last of Lucy's love for him. But, given a sunshiny April morning (April's fairest bloom, remember, when the capricious nymph is mending her manners, aware that her lovelier sister May is at hand, and anxious to make a good impression before she drops her farewell curtsy, and weeps her last brief shower of farewell tears)--given a balmy spring morning, solitude, a wood, wild-flowers, golden hair and blue eyes, and is the result difficult to arrive at? Talbot Bulstrode, leaning against the broad trunk of a beech, looked down at the fair face, which crimsoned under his eyes; and the first glimmering hint of Lucy's secret began to dawn upon him. At that moment he had no thought of profiting by the discovery, no thought of what he was afterwards led on to say. His mind was filled with the storm of emotion that had burst from him in that wild cry to Aurora. Rage and jealousy, regret, despair, envy, love, and hate,--all the conflicting feelings that had struggled like so many demons in his soul at sight of Aurora's happiness, were still striving for mastery in his breast; and the first words he spoke revealed the thoughts that were uppermost. "Your cousin is very happy in her new life, Miss Floyd?" he said. Lucy looked up at him with surprise. It was the first time he had spoken to her of Aurora. "Yes," she answered quietly, "I think she is happy." Captain Bulstrode whisked the end of his cane across a group of anemones, and decapitated the tremulous blossoms. He was thinking, rather savagely, what a shame it was that this glorious Aurora could be happy with big, broad-shouldered, jovial-tempered John Mellish. He could not understand the strange anomaly; he could not discover the clue to the secret; he could not comprehend that the devoted love of this sturdy Yorkshireman was in itself strong enough to conquer all difficulties, to outweigh all differences. Little by little, he and Lucy began to talk of Aurora, until Miss Floyd told her companion all about that dreary time at Felden Woods, during which the life of the heiress was well-nigh despaired of. So she had loved him truly, then, after all; she had loved, and had suffered, and had lived down her trouble, and had forgotten him, and was happy. The story was all told in that one sentence. He looked blankly back at the irrecoverable past, and was angry with the pride of the Bulstrodes, which had stood between himself and his happiness. He told sympathizing Lucy something of his sorrow; told her that misapprehension--mistaken pride--had parted him from Aurora. She tried, in her gentle, innocent fashion, to comfort the strong man in his weakness, and in trying revealed--ah, how simply and transparently!--the old secret, which had so long been hidden from him. Heaven help the man whose heart is caught at the rebound by a fair-haired divinity, with dove-like eyes, and a low tremulous voice softly attuned to his grief. Talbot Bulstrode saw that he was beloved; and, in very gratitude, made a dismal offer of the ashes of that fire which had burnt so fiercely at Aurora's shrine. Do not despise this poor Lucy if she accepted her cousin's forgotten lover with humble thankfulness; nay, with a tumult of wild delight, and with joyful fear and trembling. She loved him so well, and had loved him so long. Forgive and pity her, for she was one of those pure and innocent creatures whose whole being resolves itself into _affection;_ to whom passion, anger, and pride are unknown; who live only to love, and who love until death. Talbot Bulstrode told Lucy Floyd that he had loved Aurora with the whole strength of his soul, but that, now the battle was over, he, the stricken warrior, needed a consoler for his declining days: would she, could she, give her hand to one who would strive to the uttermost to fulfil a husband's duty, and to make her happy? Happy! She would have been happy if he had asked her to be his slave; happy if she could have been a scullery-maid at Bulstrode Castle, so that she might have seen the dark face she loved once or twice a day through the obscure panes of some kitchen window. But she was the most undemonstrative of women, and, except by her blushes, and her drooping eyelids, and the tear-drop trembling upon the soft auburn lashes, she made no reply to the captain's appeal, until at last, taking her hand in his, he won from her a low-consenting murmur which meant Yes. Good heavens! how hard it is upon such women as these that they feel so much and yet display so little feeling! The dark-eyed, impetuous creatures, who speak out fearlessly, and tell you that they love or hate you--flinging their arms round your neck or throwing the carving-knife at you, as the case may be--get full value for all their emotion; but these gentle creatures love, and make no sign. They sit, like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief; and no one reads the mournful meaning of that sad smile. Concealment, like the worm i' the bud, feeds on their damask cheeks; and compassionate relatives tell them that they are bilious, and recommend some homely remedy for their pallid complexions. They are always at a disadvantage. Their inner life may be a tragedy, all blood and tears, while their outer existence is some dull domestic drama of every-day life. The only outward sign Lucy Floyd gave of the condition of her heart was that one tremulous, half-whispered affirmative; and yet what a tempest of emotion was going forward within! The muslin folds of her dress rose and fell with the surging billows; but, for the very life of her, she could have uttered no better response to Talbot's pleading. It was only by-and-by, after she and Captain Bulstrode had wandered slowly back to the house, that her emotion betrayed itself. Aurora met her cousin in the corridor out of which their rooms opened, and, drawing Lucy into her own dressing-room, asked the truant where she had been. "Where have you been, you runaway girl? John and I have wanted you half a dozen times." Miss Lucy Floyd explained that she had been in the wood with the last new novel,--a High-Church novel, in which the heroine rejected the clerical hero because he did not perform the service according to the Rubric. Now Miss Lucy Floyd made this admission with so much confusion and so many blushes, that it would have appeared as if there were some lurking criminality in the fact of spending an April morning in a wood; and being further examined as to why she had stayed so long, and whether she had been alone all the time, poor Lucy fell into a pitiful state of embarrassment, declaring that she had been alone; that is to say, part of the time--or at least most of the time; but that Captain Bulstrode---- But in trying to pronounce his name,--this beloved, this sacred name,--Lucy Floyd's utterance failed her; she fairly broke down, and burst into tears. Aurora laid her cousin's face upon her breast, and looked down, with a womanly, matronly glance, into those tearful blue eyes. "Lucy, my darling," she said, "is it really and truly as I think--as I wish:--Talbot loves you?" "He has asked me to marry him," Lucy whispered. "And you--you have consented--you love him?" Lucy Floyd only answered by a new burst of tears. "Why, my darling, how this surprises me! How long has it been so, Lucy? How long have you loved him?" "From the hour I first saw him," murmured Lucy; "from the day he first came to Felden. O Aurora! I know how foolish and weak it was; I hate myself for the folly; but he is so good, so noble, so----" "My silly darling; and because he is good and noble, and has asked you to be his wife, you shed as many tears as if you had been asked to go to his funeral. My loving, tender Lucy, you loved him all the time, then; and you were so gentle and good to me--to me, who was selfish enough never to guess----My dearest, you are a hundred times better suited to him than ever I was, and you will be as happy--as happy as I am with that ridiculous old John." Aurora's eyes filled with tears as she spoke. She was truly and sincerely glad that Talbot was in a fair way to find consolation, still more glad that her sentimental cousin was to be made happy. Talbot Bulstrode lingered on a few days at Mellish Park;--happy, ah! too happy days for Lucy Floyd--and then departed, after receiving the congratulations of John and Aurora. He was to go straight to Alexander Floyd's villa at Fulham, and plead his cause with Lucy's father. There was little fear of his meeting other than a favourable reception; for Talbot Bulstrode of Bulstrode Castle was a very great match for a daughter of the junior branch of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, a young lady whose expectations were considerably qualified by half a dozen brothers and sisters. So Captain Bulstrode went back to London as the betrothed lover of Lucy Floyd; went back with a subdued gladness in his heart, all unlike the stormy joys of the past. He was happy in the choice he had made calmly and dispassionately. He had loved Aurora for her beauty and her fascination; he was going to marry Lucy because he had seen much of her, had observed her closely, and believed her to be all that a woman should be. Perhaps, if stern truth must be told, Lucy's chief charm in the captain's eyes lay in that reverence for himself which she so _naïvely_ betrayed. He accepted her worship with a quiet, unconscious serenity, and thought her the most sensible of women. Mrs. Alexander was utterly bewildered when Aurora's sometime lover pleaded for her daughter's hand. She was too busy a mother amongst her little flock to be the most penetrating of observers, and she had never suspected the state of Lucy's heart. She was glad, therefore, to find that her daughter did justice to her excellent education, and had too much good sense to refuse so advantageous an offer as that of Captain Bulstrode; and she joined with her husband in perfect approval of Talbot's suit. So, there being no let or hindrance, and as the lovers had long known and esteemed each other, it was decided, at the captain's request, that the wedding should take place early in June, and that the honeymoon should be spent at Bulstrode Castle. At the end of May, Mr. and Mrs. Mellish went to Felden, on purpose to attend Lucy's wedding, which took place with great style at Fulham, Archibald Floyd presenting his grand-niece with a cheque for five thousand pounds after the return from church. Once during that marriage ceremony Talbot Bulstrode was nigh upon rubbing his eyes, thinking that the pageant must be a dream. A dream surely; for here was a pale, fair-haired girl by his side, while the woman he had chosen two years before stood amidst a group behind him, and looked on at the ceremony, a pleased spectator. But when he felt the little gloved hand trembling upon his arm, as the bride and bridegroom left the altar, he remembered that it was no dream, and that life held new and solemn duties for him from that hour. Now my two heroines being married, the reader versed in the physiology of novel writing may conclude that my story is done, that the green curtain is ready to fall upon the last act of the play, and that I have nothing more to do than to entreat indulgence for the shortcomings of the performance and the performers. Yet, after all, does the business of the real life-drama always end upon the altar-steps? Must the play needs be over when the hero and heroine have signed their names in the register? Does man cease to be, to do, and to suffer when he gets married? And is it necessary that the novelist, after devoting three volumes to the description of a courtship of six weeks' duration, should reserve for himself only half a page in which to tell us the events of two-thirds of a lifetime? Aurora is married, and settled, and happy; sheltered, as one would imagine, from all dangers, safe under the wing of her stalwart adorer; but it does not therefore follow that the story of her life is done. She has escaped shipwreck for a while, and has safely landed on a pleasant shore; but the storm may still lower darkly upon the horizon, while the hoarse thunder grumbles threateningly in the distance. CHAPTER II. MR. PASTERN'S LETTER. Mr. John Mellish reserved to himself one room upon the ground-floor of his house: a cheerful, airy apartment, with French windows opening upon the lawn; windows that were sheltered from the sun by a verandah overhung with jessamine and roses. It was altogether a pleasant room for the summer season, the floor being covered with an India matting instead of a carpet, and many of the chairs being made of light basket-work. Over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of John's father, and opposite to this work of art there was the likeness of the deceased gentleman's favourite hunter, surmounted by a pair of brightly polished spurs, the glistening rowels of which had often pierced the sides of that faithful steed. In this chamber Mr. Mellish kept his whips, canes, foils, single-sticks, boxing-gloves, spurs, guns, pistols, powder and shot flasks, fishing-tackle, boots, and tops; and many happy mornings were spent by the master of Mellish Park in the pleasing occupation of polishing, repairing, inspecting, and otherwise setting in order, these possessions. He had as many pairs of hunting-boots as would have supplied half Leicestershire--with tops to match. He had whips enough for all the Melton Hunt. Surrounded by these treasures, as it were in a temple sacred to the deities of the race-course and the hunting-field, Mr. John Mellish used to hold solemn audiences with his trainer and his head-groom upon the business of the stable. It was Aurora's custom to peep into this chamber perpetually, very much to the delight and distraction of her adoring husband, who found the black eyes of his divinity a terrible hindrance to business; except, indeed, when he could induce Mrs. Mellish to join in the discussion upon hand, and lend the assistance of her powerful intellect to the little conclave. I believe that John thought she could have handicapped the horses for the Chester Cup as well as Mr. Topham himself. She was such a brilliant creature, that every little smattering of knowledge she possessed appeared to such good account as to make her seem an adept in any subject of which she spoke; and the simple Yorkshireman believed in her as the wisest as well as the noblest and fairest of women. Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to Yorkshire immediately after Lucy's wedding. Poor John was uneasy about his stables; for his trainer was a victim to chronic rheumatism, and Mr. Pastern had not as yet made any communication respecting the young man of whom he had spoken on the Stand at York. "I shall keep Langley," John said to Aurora, speaking of his old trainer; "for he's an honest fellow, and his judgment will always be of use to me. He and his wife can still occupy the rooms over the stables; and the new man, whoever he may be, can live in the lodge on the north side of the Park. Nobody ever goes in at that gate; so the lodge-keeper's post is a sinecure, and the cottage has been shut up for the last year or two. I wish John Pastern would write." "And I wish whatever you wish, my dearest life," Aurora said dutifully to her happy slave. Very little had been heard of Steeve Hargraves, the "Softy," since the day upon which John Mellish had turned him neck and crop out of his service. One of the grooms had seen him in a little village close to the Park, and Stephen had informed the man that he was getting his living by doing odd jobs for the doctor of the parish, and looking after that gentleman's horse and gig; but the "Softy" had seemed inclined to be sulky, and had said very little about himself or his sentiments. He made very particular inquiries, though, about Mrs. Mellish, and asked so many questions as to what Aurora did and said, where she went, whom she saw, and how she agreed with her husband, that at last the groom, although only a simple country lad, refused to answer any more interrogatories about his mistress. Steeve Hargraves rubbed his coarse, sinewy hands, and chuckled as he spoke of Aurora. "She's a rare proud one,--a regular high-spirited lady," he said, in that whispering voice that always sounded strange. "She laid it on to me with that riding-whip of hers; but I bear no malice--I bear no malice. She's a beautiful creature, and I wish Mr. Mellish joy of his bargain." The groom scarcely knew how to take this, not being fully aware if it was intended as a compliment or an impertinence. So he nodded to the "Softy," and strode off, leaving him still rubbing his hands and whispering about Aurora Mellish, who had long ago forgotten her encounter with Mr. Stephen Hargraves. How was it likely that she should remember him, or take heed of him? How was it likely that she should take alarm because the pale-faced widow, Mrs. Walter Powell, sat by her hearth and hated her? Strong in her youth and beauty, rich in her happiness, sheltered and defended by her husband's love, how should she think of danger? How should she dread misfortune? She thanked God every day that the troubles of her youth were past, and that her path in life led henceforth through smooth and pleasant places, where no perils could come. Lucy was at Bulstrode Castle, winning upon the affections of her husband's mother, who patronized her daughter-in-law with lofty kindness, and took the blushing timorous creature under her sheltering wing. Lady Bulstrode was very well satisfied with her son's choice. He might have done better, certainly, as to position and fortune, the lady hinted to Talbot; and in her maternal anxiety, she would have preferred his marrying any one rather than the cousin of that Miss Floyd who ran away from school, and caused such a scandal at the Parisian seminary. But Lady Bulstrode's heart warmed to Lucy, who was so gentle and humble, and who always spoke of Talbot as if he had been a being far "too bright and good," &c., much to the gratification of her ladyship's maternal vanity. "She has a very proper affection for you, Talbot," Lady Bulstrode said, "and, for so young a creature, promises to make an excellent wife; far better suited to you, I am sure, than her cousin could ever have been." Talbot turned fiercely upon his mother, very much to the lady's surprise. "Why will you be for ever bringing Aurora's name into the question, mother?" he cried. "Why cannot you let her memory rest? You parted us for ever,--you and Constance,--and is not that enough? She is married, and she and her husband are a very happy couple. A man might have a worse wife than Mrs. Mellish, I can tell you; and John seems to appreciate her value in his rough way." "You need not be so violent, Talbot," Lady Bulstrode said, with offended dignity. "I am very glad to hear that Miss Floyd has altered since her school-days, and I hope that she may continue to be a good wife," she added, with an emphasis which insinuated that she had no very great hopes of the continuance of Mr. Mellish's happiness. "My poor mother is offended with me," Talbot thought, as Lady Bulstrode swept out of the room. "I know I am an abominable bear, and that nobody will ever truly love me so long as I live. My poor little Lucy loves me after her fashion; loves me in fear and trembling, as if she and I belonged to different orders of beings; very much as the flying woman must have loved my countryman, Peter Wilkins, I think. But, after all, perhaps my mother is right, and my gentle little wife is better suited to me than Aurora would have been." So we dismiss Talbot Bulstrode for a while, moderately happy, and yet not quite satisfied. What mortal ever was _quite_ satisfied in this world? It is a part of our earthly nature always to find something wanting, always to have a vague, dull, ignorant yearning which cannot be appeased. Sometimes, indeed, we are happy; but in our wildest happiness we are still unsatisfied, for it seems then as if the cup of joy were too full, and we grow cold with terror at the thought that, even because of its fulness, it may possibly be dashed to the ground. What a mistake this life would be, what a wild feverish dream, what an unfinished and imperfect story, if it were not a prelude to something better! Taken by itself, it is all trouble and confusion; but taking the future as the keynote of the present, how wondrously harmonious the whole becomes! How little does it signify that our joys here are not complete, our wishes not fulfilled, if the completion and the fulfilment are to come hereafter! Little more than a week after Lucy's wedding, Aurora ordered her horse immediately after breakfast, upon a sunny summer morning, and, accompanied by the old groom who had ridden behind John's father, went out on an excursion amongst the villages round Mellish Park, as it was her habit to do once or twice a week. The poor in the neighbourhood of the Yorkshire mansion had good reason to bless the coming of the banker's daughter. Aurora loved nothing better than to ride from cottage to cottage, chatting with the simple villagers, and finding out their wants. She never found the worthy creatures very remiss in stating their necessities, and the housekeeper at Mellish Park had enough to do in distributing Aurora's bounties amongst the cottagers who came to the servants' hall with pencil orders from Mrs. Mellish. Mrs. Walter Powell sometimes ventured to take Aurora to task on the folly and sinfulness of what she called indiscriminate almsgiving; but Mrs. Mellish would pour such a flood of eloquence upon her antagonist, that the ensign's widow was always glad to retire from the unequal contest. Nobody had ever been able to argue with Archibald Floyd's daughter. Impulsive and impetuous, she had always taken her own course, whether for weal or woe, and nobody had been strong enough to hinder her. Returning on this lovely June morning from one of these charitable expeditions, Mrs. Mellish dismounted from her horse at a little turnstile leading into the wood, and ordered the groom to take the animal home. "I have a fancy for walking through the wood, Joseph," she said; "it's such a lovely morning. Take care of Mazeppa; and if you see Mr. Mellish, tell him that I shall be home directly." The man touched his hat, and rode off, leading Aurora's horse. Mrs. Mellish gathered up the folds of her habit, and strolled slowly into the wood, under whose shadow Talbot Bulstrode and Lucy had wandered on that eventful April day which sealed the young lady's fate. Now Aurora had chosen to ramble homewards through this wood because, being thoroughly happy, the warm gladness of the summer weather filled her with a sense of delight which she was loth to curtail. The drowsy hum of the insects, the rich colouring of the woods, the scent of wild-flowers, the ripple of water,--all blended into one delicious whole, and made the earth lovely. There is something satisfactory, too, in the sense of possession; and Aurora felt, as she looked down the long avenues, and away through distant loopholes in the wood to the wide expanse of park and lawn, and the picturesque, irregular pile of building beyond, half Gothic, half Elizabethan, and so lost in a rich tangle of ivy and bright foliage as to be beautiful at every point,--she felt, I say, that all the fair picture was her own, or her husband's, which was the same thing. She had never for one moment regretted her marriage with John Mellish. She had never, as I have said already, been inconstant to him by one thought. In one part of the wood the ground rose considerably; so that the house, which lay low, was distinctly visible whenever there was a break in the trees. This rising ground was considered the prettiest spot in the wood, and here a summer-house had been erected: a fragile, wooden building, which had fallen into decay of late years, but which was still a pleasant resting-place upon a summer's day, being furnished with a wooden table and a broad bench, and sheltered from the sun and wind by the lower branches of a magnificent beech. A few paces away from this summer-house there was a pool of water, the surface of which was so covered with lilies and tangled weeds as to have beguiled a short-sighted traveller into forgetfulness of the danger beneath. Aurora's way led her past this spot, and she started with a momentary sensation of terror on seeing a man lying asleep by the side of the pool. She quickly recovered herself, remembering that John allowed the public to use the footpath through the wood; but she started again when the man, who must have been a bad sleeper to be aroused by her light footstep, lifted his head, and displayed the white face of the "Softy." He rose slowly from the ground upon seeing Mrs. Mellish, and crawled away, looking at her as he went, but not making any acknowledgment of her presence. Aurora could not repress a brief terrified shudder; it seemed as if her footfall had startled some viperish creature, some loathsome member of the reptile race, and scared it from its lurking-place. Steeve Hargraves disappeared amongst the trees as Mrs. Mellish walked on, her head proudly erect, but her cheek a shade paler than before this unexpected encounter with the "Softy." Her joyous gladness in the bright summer's day had forsaken her as suddenly as she had met Stephen Hargraves; that bright smile, which was even brighter than the morning sunshine, faded out, and left her face unnaturally grave. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "how foolish I am! I am actually afraid of that man,--afraid of that pitiful coward who could hurt my feeble old dog. As if such a creature as that could do one any mischief!" Of course this was very wisely argued, as no coward ever by any chance worked any mischief upon this earth since the Saxon prince was stabbed in the back while drinking at his kinswoman's gate, or since brave King John and his creature plotted together what they should do with the little boy Arthur. Aurora walked slowly across the lawn towards that end of the house at which the apartment sacred to Mr. Mellish was situated. She entered softly at the open window, and laid her hand upon John's shoulder, as he sat at a table covered with a litter of account-books, racing-lists, and disorderly papers. He started at the touch of the familiar hand. "My darling, I'm so glad you've come in. How long you've been!" She looked at her little jewelled watch. Poor John had loaded her with trinkets and gewgaws. His chief grief was that she was a wealthy heiress, and that he could give her nothing but the adoration of his simple, honest heart. "Only half-past one, you silly old John," she said. "What made you think me late?" "Because I wanted to consult you about something, and to tell you something. Such good news!" "About what?" "About the trainer." She shrugged her shoulders, and pursed up her red lips with a bewitching little gesture of indifference. "Is that all?" she said. "Yes; but aint you glad we've got the man at last--the very man to suit us, I think? Where's John Pastern's letter?" Mr. Mellish searched amongst the litter of papers upon the table, while Aurora, leaning against the framework of the open window, watched him, and laughed at his embarrassment. She had recovered her spirits, and looked the very picture of careless gladness as she leaned in one of those graceful and unstudied attitudes peculiar to her, supported by the framework of the window, and with the trailing jessamine waving round her in the soft summer breeze. She lifted her ungloved hand, and gathered the roses above her head as she talked to her husband. "You most disorderly and unmethodical of men," she said, laughing; "I wouldn't mind betting five to one you won't find it." I'm afraid that Mr. Mellish muttered an oath as he tossed about the heterogeneous mass of papers in his search for the missing document. "I had it five minutes before you came in, Aurora," he said, "and now there's not a sign of it----Oh, here it is!" Mr. Mellish unfolded the letter, and, smoothing it out upon the table before him, cleared his throat preparatory to reading the epistle. Aurora still leaned against the window-frame, half in and half out of the room, singing a snatch of a popular song, and trying to gather an obstinate half-blown rose which grew provokingly out of reach. "You're attending, Aurora?" "Yes, dearest and best." "But do come in. You can't hear a word there." Aurora shrugged her shoulders, as who should say, "I submit to the command of a tyrant," and advanced a couple of paces from the window; then looking at John with an enchantingly insolent toss of her head, she folded her hands behind her, and told him she would "be good." She was a careless, impetuous creature, dreadfully forgetful of what Mrs. Walter Powell called her "responsibilities;" every mortal thing by turns, and never any one thing for two minutes together; happy, generous, affectionate; taking life as a glorious summer's holiday, and thanking God for the bounty which made it so pleasant to her. Mr. John Pastern began his letter with an apology for having so long deferred writing. He had lost the address of the person he had wished to recommend, and had waited until the man wrote to him a second time. "I think he will suit you very well," the letter went on to say, "as he is well up in his business, having had plenty of experience, as groom, jockey, and trainer. He is only thirty years of age, but met with an accident some time since, which lamed him for life. He was half killed in a steeple-chase in Prussia, and was for upwards of a year in a hospital at Berlin. His name is James Conyers, and he can have a character from----" The letter dropped out of John Mellish's hand as he looked up at his wife. It was not a scream which she had uttered. It was a gasping cry, more terrible to hear than the shrillest scream that ever came from the throat of woman in all the long history of womanly distress. "Aurora! Aurora!" He looked at her, and his own face changed and whitened at the sight of hers. So terrible a transformation had come over her during the reading of that letter, that the shock could not have been greater had he looked up and seen another person in her place. "It's wrong; it's wrong!" she cried hoarsely; "you've read the name wrong. It can't be that!" "What name?" "What name?" she echoed fiercely, her face flaming up with a wild fury,--"that name! I tell you, it _can't_ be. Give me the letter." He obeyed her mechanically, picking up the paper and handing it to her, but never removing his eyes from her face. She snatched it from him; looked at it for a few moments, with her eyes dilated and her lips apart; then, reeling back two or three paces, her knees bent under her, and she fell heavily to the ground. CHAPTER III. MR. JAMES CONYERS. The first week in July brought James Conyers, the new trainer, to Mellish Park. John had made no particular inquiries as to the man's character of any of his former employers, as a word from Mr. Pastern was all-sufficient. Mr. Mellish had endeavoured to discover the cause of Aurora's agitation at the reading of John Pastern's letter. She had fallen like a dead creature at his feet; she had been hysterical throughout the remainder of the day, and delirious in the ensuing night, but she had not uttered one word calculated to throw any light upon the secret of her strange manifestation of emotion. Her husband sat by her bedside upon the day after that on which she had fallen into the death-like swoon; watching her with a grave, anxious face, and earnest eyes that never wandered from her own. He was suffering very much the same agony that Talbot Bulstrode had endured at Felden on the receipt of his mother's letter. The dark wall was slowly rising and separating him from the woman he loved. He was now to discover the tortures known only to the husband whose wife is parted from him by that which has more power to sever than any width of land or wide extent of ocean--_a secret_. He watched the pale face lying on the pillow; the large, black, haggard eyes, wide open, and looking blankly out at the faraway purple tree-tops in the horizon; but there was no clue to the mystery in any line of that beloved countenance; there was little more than an expression of weariness, as if the soul, looking out of that white face, was so utterly enfeebled as to have lost all power to feel anything but a vague yearning for rest. The wide casement windows were open, but the day was hot and oppressive--oppressively still and sunny; the landscape sweltering under a yellow haze, as if the very atmosphere had been opaque with molten gold. Even the roses in the garden seemed to feel the influence of the blazing summer sky, dropping their heavy heads like human sufferers from headache. The mastiff Bow-wow, lying under an acacia upon the lawn, was as peevish as any captious elderly gentleman, and snapped spitefully at a frivolous butterfly that wheeled, and spun, and threw somersaults about the dog's head. Beautiful as was this summer's day, it was one on which people are apt to lose their tempers, and quarrel with each other, by reason of the heat; every man feeling a secret conviction that his neighbour is in some way to blame for the sultriness of the atmosphere, and that it would be cooler if he were out of the way. It was one of those days on which invalids are especially fractious, and hospital nurses murmur at their vocation; a day on which third-class passengers travelling long distances by excursion train are savagely clamorous for beer at every station, and hate each other for the narrowness and hardness of the carriage seats, and for the inadequate means of ventilation provided by the railway company; a day on which stern business men revolt against the ceaseless grinding of the wheel, and, suddenly reckless of consequences, rush wildly to the Crown and Sceptre, to cool their overheated systems with water souchy and still hock; an abnormal day, upon which the machinery of every-day life gets out of order, and runs riot throughout twelve suffocating hours. John Mellish, sitting patiently by his wife's side, thought very little of the summer weather. I doubt if he knew whether the month was January or June. For him earth only held one creature, and she was ill and in distress--distress from which he was powerless to save her--distress the very nature of which he was ignorant. His voice trembled when he spoke to her. "My darling, you have been very ill," he said. She looked at him with a smile so unlike her own that it was more painful to him to see than the loudest agony of tears, and stretched out her hand. He took the burning hand in his, and held it while he talked to her. "Yes, dearest, you have been ill; but Morton says the attack was merely hysterical, and that you will be yourself again to-morrow, so there's no occasion for anxiety on that score. What grieves me, darling, is to see that there is something on your mind; something which has been the real cause of your illness." She turned her face upon the pillow, and tried to snatch her hand from his in her impatience, but he held it tightly in both his own. "Does my speaking of yesterday distress you, Aurora?" he asked gravely. "Distress me? Oh, no!" "Then tell me, darling, why the mention of that man, the trainer's name, had such a terrible effect upon you." "The doctor told you that the attack was hysterical," she said coldly; "I suppose I was hysterical and nervous yesterday." "But the name, Aurora, the name. This James Conyers--who is he?" He felt the hand he held tighten convulsively upon his own, as he mentioned the trainer's name. "Who is this man? Tell me, Aurora. For God's sake, tell me the truth." She turned her face towards him once more, as he said this. "If you only want the truth from me, John, you must ask me nothing. Remember what I said to you at the Château d'Arques. It was a secret that parted me from Talbot Bulstrode. You trusted me then, John,--you must trust me to the end; if you cannot trust me----" she stopped suddenly, and the tears welled slowly up to her large, mournful eyes, as she looked at her husband. "What, dearest?" "We must part; as Talbot and I parted." "Part!" he cried; "my love, my love! Do you think there is anything upon this earth strong enough to part us, except death? Do you think that any combination of circumstances, however strange, however inexplicable, would ever cause me to doubt your honour; or to tremble for my own? Could I be here if I doubted you? could I sit by your side, asking you these questions, if I feared the issue? Nothing shall shake my confidence; nothing can. But have pity on me; think how bitter a grief it is to sit here, with your hand in mine, and to know that there is a secret between us. Aurora, tell me,--this man, this Conyers,--what is he, and who is he?" "You know that as well as I do. A groom once; afterwards a jockey; and now a trainer." "But you know him?" "I have seen him." "When?" "Some years ago, when he was in my father's service." John Mellish breathed more freely for a moment. The man had been a groom at Felden Woods, that was all. This accounted for the fact of Aurora's recognizing his name; but not for her agitation. He was no nearer the clue to the mystery than before. "James Conyers was in your father's service," he said thoughtfully; "but why should the mention of his name yesterday have caused you such emotion?" "I cannot tell you." "It is another secret, then, Aurora," he said reproachfully; "or has this man anything to do with the old secret of which you told me at the Château d'Arques?" She did not answer him. "Ah, I see; I understand, Aurora," he added, after a pause. "This man was a servant at Felden Woods; a spy, perhaps; and he discovered the secret, and traded upon it, as servants often have done before. This caused your agitation at hearing his name. You were afraid that he would come here and annoy you, making use of this secret to extort money, and keeping you in perpetual terror of him. I think I can understand it all. I am right; am I not?" She looked at him with something of the expression of a hunted animal that finds itself at bay. "Yes, John." "This man--this groom--knows something of--of the secret." "He does." John Mellish turned away his head, and buried his face in his hands. What cruel anguish! what bitter degradation! This man, a groom, a servant, was in the confidence of his wife; and had such power to harass and alarm her, that the very mention of his name was enough to cast her to the earth, as if stricken by sudden death. What, in the name of heaven, could this secret be, which was in the keeping of a servant, and yet could not be told to him? He bit his lip till his strong teeth met upon the quivering flesh, in the silent agony of that thought. What could it be? He had sworn, only a minute before, to trust in her blindly to the end; and yet, and yet---- His massive frame shook from head to heel in that noiseless struggle; doubt and despair rose like twin-demons in his soul; but he wrestled with them, and overcame them; and, turning with a white face to his wife, said quietly-- "I will press these painful questions no further, Aurora. I will write to Pastern, and tell him that the man will not suit us; and----" He was rising to leave her bedside, when she laid her hand upon his arm. "Don't write to Mr. Pastern, John," she said; "the man will suit you very well, I dare say. I had rather he came." "You wish him to come here?" "Yes." "But he will annoy you; he will try to extort money from you." "He would do that in any case, since he is alive. I thought that he was dead." "Then you really wish him to come here?" "I do." John Mellish left his wife's room inexpressibly relieved. The secret could not be so very terrible after all, since she was willing that the man who knew it should come to Mellish Park; where there was at least a remote chance of his revealing it to her husband. Perhaps, after all, this mystery involved others rather than herself,--her father's commercial integrity--her mother? He had heard very little of that mother's history; perhaps she----Pshaw! why weary himself with speculative surmises? He had promised to trust her, and the hour had come in which he was called upon to keep his promise. He wrote to Mr. Pastern, accepting his recommendation of James Conyers, and waited rather impatiently to see what kind of man the trainer was. He received a letter from Conyers, very well written and worded, to the effect that he would arrive at Mellish Park upon the 3rd of July. Aurora had recovered from her brief hysterical attack when this letter arrived; but as she was still weak and out of spirits, her medical man recommended change of air; so Mr. and Mrs. Mellish drove off to Harrogate upon the 28th of June, leaving Mrs. Powell behind them at the Park. The ensign's widow had been scrupulously kept out of Aurora's room during her short illness; being held at bay by John, who coolly shut the door in the lady's sympathetic face, telling her that he'd wait upon his wife himself, and that when he wanted female assistance he would ring for Mrs. Mellish's maid. Now Mrs. Walter Powell, being afflicted with that ravenous curiosity common to people who live in other people's houses, felt herself deeply injured by this line of conduct. There were mysteries and secrets afloat, and she was not to be allowed to discover them; there was a skeleton in the house, and she was not to anatomize the bony horror. She scented trouble and sorrow as carnivorous animals scent their prey; and yet she who hated Aurora was not to be allowed to riot at the unnatural feast. Why is it that the dependents in a household are so feverishly inquisitive about the doings and sayings, the manners and customs, the joys and sorrows, of those who employ them? Is it that, having abnegated for themselves all active share in life, they take an unhealthy interest in those who are in the thick of the strife? Is it because, being cut off in a great measure by the nature of their employment from family ties and family pleasures, they feel a malicious delight in all family trials and vexations, and the ever-recurring breezes which disturb the domestic atmosphere? Remember this, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, when you quarrel. _Your servants enjoy the fun._ Surely that recollection ought to be enough to keep you for ever peaceful and friendly. Your servants listen at your doors, and repeat your spiteful speeches in the kitchen, and watch you while they wait at table, and understand every sarcasm, every innuendo, every look, as well as those at whom the cruel glances and the stinging words are aimed. They understand your sulky silence, your studied and over-acted politeness. The most polished form your hate and anger can take is as transparent to those household spies as if you threw knives at each other, or pelted your enemy with the side-dishes and vegetables, after the fashion of disputants in a pantomime. Nothing that is done in the parlour is lost upon these quiet, well-behaved watchers from the kitchen. They laugh at you; nay worse, they pity you. They discuss your affairs, and make out your income, and settle what you can afford to do and what you can't afford to do; they prearrange the disposal of your wife's fortune, and look prophetically forward to the day when you will avail yourself of the advantages of the new Bankruptcy Act. They know why you live on bad terms with your eldest daughter, and why your favourite son was turned out of doors; and they take a morbid interest in every dismal secret of your life. You don't allow them followers; you look blacker than thunder if you see Mary's sister or John's poor old mother sitting meekly in your hall; you are surprised if the postman brings them letters, and attribute the fact to the pernicious system of over-educating the masses; you shut them from their homes and their kindred, their lovers and their friends; you deny them books, you grudge them a peep at your newspaper; and then you lift up your eyes and wonder at them because they are inquisitive, and because the staple of their talk is scandal and gossip. Mrs. Walter Powell, having been treated by most of her employers, as a species of upper servant, had acquired all the instincts of a servant; and she determined to leave no means untried in order to discover the cause of Aurora's illness, which the doctor had darkly hinted to her had more to do with the mind than the body. John Mellish had ordered a carpenter to repair the lodge at the north gate, for the accommodation of James Conyers; and John's old trainer, Langley, was to receive his colleague and introduce him to the stables. The new trainer made his appearance at the lodge-gates in the glowing July sunset; he was accompanied by no less a person than Steeve Hargraves the "Softy," who had been lurking about the station upon the look out for a job, and who had been engaged by Mr. Conyers to carry his portmanteau. To the surprise of the trainer, Stephen Hargraves set down his burden at the park gates. "You'll have to find some one else to carry it th' rest 't' ro-ad," he said, touching his greasy cap, and extending his broad palm to receive the expected payment. Mr. James Conyers was rather a dashing fellow, with no small amount of that quality which is generally termed "swagger," so he turned sharply round upon the "Softy" and asked him what the devil he meant. "I mean that I mayn't go inside yon geates," muttered Stephen Hargraves; "I mean that I've been toorned oot of yon pleace that I've lived in, man and boy, for forty year,--toorned oot like a dog, neck and crop." Mr. Conyers threw away the stump of his cigar and stared superciliously at the "Softy." "What does the man mean?" he asked of the woman who had opened the gates. "Why, poor fellow, he's a bit fond, sir, and him and Mrs. Mellish didn't get on very well: she has a rare spirit, and I _have_ heard that she horsewhipped him for beating her favourite dog. Any ways, master turned him out of his service." "Because my lady had horsewhipped him. Servants'-hall justice all the world over," said the trainer, laughing, and lighting a second cigar from a metal fusee-box in his waistcoat pocket. "Yes, that's joostice, aint it?" the "Softy" said eagerly. "You wouldn't like to be toorned oot of a pleace as you'd lived in forty year, would you? But Mrs. Mellish has a rare spirit, bless her pretty feace!" The blessing enunciated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves had such a very ominous sound, that the new trainer, who was evidently a shrewd, observant fellow, took his cigar from his mouth on purpose to stare at him. The white face, lighted up by a pair of red eyes with a dim glimmer in them, was by no means the most agreeable of countenances; but Mr. Conyers looked at the man for some moments, holding him by the collar of his coat in order to do so with more deliberation: then pushing the "Softy" away with an affably contemptuous gesture, he said, laughing-- "You're a character, my friend, it strikes me; and not too safe a character either. I'm dashed if I should like to offend you. There's a shilling for your trouble, my man," he added tossing the money into Steeve's extended palm with careless dexterity. "I suppose I can leave my portmanteau here till to-morrow, ma'am?" he said, turning to the woman at the lodge. "I'd carry it down to the house myself if I wasn't lame." He was such a handsome fellow, and had such an easy, careless manner, that the simple Yorkshire woman was quite subdued by his fascinations. "Leave it here, sir, and welcome," she said, curtsying, "and my master shall take it to the house for you as soon as he comes in. Begging your pardon, sir, but I suppose you're the new gentleman that's expected in the stables?" "Precisely." "Then I was to tell you, sir, that they've fitted up the north lodge for you: but you was to please go straight to the house, and the housekeeper was to make you comfortable and give you a bed for to-night." Mr. Conyers nodded, thanked her, wished her good night, and limped slowly away, through the shadows of the evening, and under the shelter of the over-arching trees. He stepped aside from the broad carriage-drive on to the dewy turf that bordered it, choosing the softest, mossiest places with a sybarite's instinct. Look at him as he takes his slow way under those glorious branches, in the holy stillness of the summer sunset, his face sometimes lighted by the low, lessening rays, sometimes darkened by the shadows of the leaves above his head. He is wonderfully handsome--wonderfully and perfectly handsome--the very perfection of physical beauty; faultless in proportion, as if each line in his face and form had been measured by the sculptor's rule, and carved by the sculptor's chisel. He is a man about whose beauty there can be no dispute, whose perfection servant-maids and duchesses must alike confess--albeit they are not bound to admire; yet it is rather a sensual type of beauty, this splendour of form and colour, unallied to any special charm of expression. Look at him now, as he stops to rest, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and smoking his big cigar with easy enjoyment. He is thinking. His dark-blue eyes, deeper in colour by reason of the thick black lashes which fringe them, are half closed, and have a dreamy, semi-sentimental expression, which might lead you to suppose the man was musing upon the beauty of the summer sunset. He is thinking of his losses on the Chester Cup, the wages he is to get from John Mellish, and the perquisites likely to appertain to the situation. You give him credit for thoughts to match with his dark, violet-hued eyes, and the exquisite modelling of his mouth and chin; you give him a mind as æsthetically perfect as his face and figure, and you recoil on discovering what a vulgar, every-day sword may lurk under that beautiful scabbard. Mr. James Conyers is, perhaps, no worse than other men of his station; but he is decidedly no better. He is only very much handsomer; and you have no right to be angry with him because his opinions and sentiments are exactly what they would have been if he had had red hair and a pug nose. With what wonderful wisdom has George Eliot told us that people are not any better because they have long eyelashes! Yet it must be that there is something anomalous in this outward beauty and inward ugliness; for, in spite of all experience, we revolt against it, and are incredulous to the last, believing that the palace which is outwardly so splendid can scarcely be ill furnished within. Heaven help the woman who sells her heart for a handsome face, and awakes when the bargain has been struck, to discover the foolishness of such an exchange! It took Mr. Conyers a long while to walk from the lodge to the house. I do not know how, technically, to describe his lameness. He had fallen, with his horse, in the Prussian steeple-chase, which had so nearly cost him his life, and his left leg had been terribly injured. The bones had been set by wonderful German surgeons, who put the shattered leg together as if it had been a Chinese puzzle, but who, with all their skill, could not prevent the contraction of the sinews, which had left the jockey lamed for life, and no longer fit to ride in any race whatever. He was of the middle height, and weighed something over eleven stone, and had never ridden except in Continental steeple-chases. Mr. James Conyers paused a few paces from the house, and gravely contemplated the irregular pile of buildings before him. "A snug crib," he muttered; "plenty of tin hereabouts, I should think, from the look of the place." Being ignorant of the geography of the neighbourhood, and being, moreover, by no means afflicted by an excess of modesty, Mr. Conyers went straight to the principal door, and rang the bell sacred to visitors and the family. He was admitted by a grave old man-servant, who, after deliberately inspecting his brown shooting-coat, coloured shirt-front, and felt hat, asked him, with considerable asperity, what he was pleased to want. Mr. Conyers explained that he was the new trainer, and that he wished to see the housekeeper; but he had hardly finished doing so, when a door in an angle of the hall was softly opened, and Mrs. Walter Powell peeped out of the snug little apartment sacred to her hours of privacy. "Perhaps the young man will be so good as to step in here," she said, addressing herself apparently to space, but indirectly to James Conyers. The young man took off his hat, uncovering a mass of luxuriant brown curls, and limped across the hall in obedience to Mrs. Powell's invitation. "I dare say I shall be able to give you any information you require." James Conyers smiled, wondering whether the bilious-looking party, as he mentally designated Mrs. Powell, could give him any information about the York Summer Meeting; but he bowed politely, and said he merely wanted to know where he was to hang out--he stopped and apologized--where he was to sleep that night, and whether there were any letters for him. But Mrs. Powell was by no means inclined to let him off so cheaply. She set to work to pump him, and laboured so assiduously that she soon exhausted that very small amount of intelligence which he was disposed to afford her, being perfectly aware of the process to which he was subjected, and more than equal to the lady in dexterity. The ensign's widow, therefore, ascertained little more than that Mr. Conyers was a perfect stranger to John Mellish and his wife, neither of whom he had ever seen. Having failed to gain much by this interview, Mrs. Powell was anxious to bring it to a speedy termination. "Perhaps you would like a glass of wine after your walk?" she said; "I'll ring for some, and I can inquire at the same time about your letters. I dare say you are anxious to hear from the relatives you have left at home." Mr. Conyers smiled for the second time. He had neither had a home nor any relatives to speak of, since the most infantine period of his existence; but had been thrown upon the world a sharp-witted adventurer at seven or eight years old. The "relatives" for whose communication he was looking out so eagerly were members of the humbler class of book-men with whom he did business. The servant despatched by Mrs. Powell returned with a decanter of sherry and about half a dozen letters for Mr. Conyers. "You'd better bring the lamp, William," said Mrs. Powell, as the man left the room; "for I'm sure you'll never be able to read your letters by this light," she added politely to Mr. Conyers. The fact was, that Mrs. Powell, afflicted by that diseased curiosity of which I have spoken, wanted to know what kind of correspondents these were whose letters the trainer was so anxious to receive, and sent for the lamp in order that she might get the full benefit of any scraps of information to be got at by rapid glances and dexterously stolen peeps. The servant brought a brilliant camphine-lamp, and Mr. Conyers, not at all abashed by Mrs. Powell's condescension, drew his chair close to the table, and after tossing off a glass of sherry, settled himself to the perusal of his letters. The ensign's widow, with some needlework in her hand, sat directly opposite to him at the small round table, with nothing but the pedestal of the lamp between them. James Conyers took up the first letter, examined the superscription and seal, tore open the envelope, read the brief communication upon half a sheet of note-paper, and thrust it into his waistcoat-pocket. Mrs. Powell, using her eyes to the utmost, saw nothing but a few lines in a scratchy plebeian handwriting, and a signature which, seen at a disadvantage upside-down, didn't look unlike "Johnson." The second envelope contained only a tissue-paper betting-list; the third held a dirty scrap of paper with a few words scrawled in pencil; but at sight of the uppermost envelope of the remaining three Mr. James Conyers started as if he had been shot. Mrs. Powell looked from the face of the trainer to the superscription of the letter, and was scarcely less surprised than Mr. Conyers. The superscription was in the handwriting of Aurora Mellish. It was a peculiar hand; a hand about which there could be no mistake; not an elegant Italian hand, sloping, slender, and feminine, but large and bold, with ponderous up-strokes and down-strokes, easy to recognize at a greater distance than that which separated Mrs. Powell from the trainer. There was no room for any doubt. Mrs. Mellish had written to her husband's servant, and the man was evidently familiar with her hand, yet surprised at receiving her letter. He tore open the envelope, and read the contents eagerly twice over, frowning darkly as he read. Mrs. Powell suddenly remembered that she had left part of her needlework upon a cheffonier behind the young man's chair, and rose quietly to fetch it. He was so much engrossed by the letter in his hand that he was not aware of the pale face which peered for one brief moment over his shoulder, as the faded, hungry eyes stole a glance at the writing on the page. The letter was written on the first side of a sheet of note-paper, with only a few words carried over to the second page. It was this second page which Mrs. Powell saw. The words written at the top of the leaf were these:--"Above all, _express no surprise_.--A." There was no ordinary conclusion to the letter; no other signature than this big capital A. CHAPTER IV. THE TRAINER'S MESSENGER. Mr. James Conyers made himself very much at home at Mellish Park. Poor Langley, the invalid trainer, who was a Yorkshireman, felt himself almost bewildered by the easy insolence of his town-bred successor. Mr. Conyers looked so much too handsome and dashing for his office, that the grooms and stable-boys bowed down to him, and paid court to him as they had never done to simple Langley, who had been very often obliged to enforce his commands with a horsewhip or a serviceable leather strap. James Conyers's handsome face was a capital with which that gentleman knew very well how to trade, and he took the full amount of interest that was to be got for it without compunction. I am sorry to be obliged to confess that this man, who had sat in the artists' studios and the life academies for Apollo and Antinous, was selfish to the backbone; and so long as he was well fed and clothed and housed and provided for, cared very little whence the food and clothing came, or who kept the house that sheltered him, or filled the purse which he jingled in his trousers-pocket. Heaven forbid that I should be called upon for his biography. I only know that he sprang from the mire of the streets, like some male Aphrodite rising from the mud; that he was a blackleg in the gutter at four years of age, and a "welsher" in the matter of marbles and hardbake before his fifth birthday. Even then he was for ever reaping the advantage of a handsome face; for tender-hearted matrons, who would have been deaf to the cries of a snub-nosed urchin, petted and compassionated the pretty boy. In his earliest childhood he learned therefore to trade upon his beauty, and to get the most that he could for that merchandise; and he grew up utterly unprincipled, and carried his handsome face out into the world to help him on to fortune. He was extravagant, lazy, luxurious, and selfish; but he had that easy indifferent grace of manner which passes with shallow observers for good-nature. He would not have gone three paces out of his way to serve his best friend; but he smiled and showed his handsome white teeth with equal liberality to all his acquaintance; and took credit for being a frank, generous-hearted fellow on the strength of that smile. He was skilled in the uses of that gilt gingerbread of generosity which so often passes current for sterling gold. He was dexterous in the handling of those cogged dice which have all the rattle of the honest ivories. A slap on the back, a hearty shake of the hand, often went as far from him as the loan of a sovereign from another man, and Jim Conyers was firmly believed in by the doubtful gentlemen with whom he associated, as a good-natured fellow who was nobody's enemy but his own. He had that superficial Cockney cleverness which is generally called knowledge of the world; knowledge of the worst side of the world, and utter ignorance of all that is noble upon earth, it might perhaps be more justly called. He had matriculated in the streets of London, and graduated on the race-course; he had never read any higher literature than the Sunday papers and the 'Racing Calendar,' but he contrived to make a very little learning go a long way, and was generally spoken of by his employers as a superior young man, considerably above his station. Mr. Conyers expressed himself very well contented with the rustic lodge which had been chosen for his dwelling-house. He condescendingly looked on while the stable-lads carried the furniture, selected for him by the housekeeper from the spare servants' rooms, from the house to the lodge, and assisted in the arrangement of the tiny rustic chambers, limping about in his shirt-sleeves, and showing himself wonderfully handy with a hammer and a pocketful of nails. He sat upon a table and drank beer with such charming affability, that the stable-lads were as grateful to him as if he had treated them to that beverage. Indeed, seeing the frank cordiality with which James Conyers smote the lads upon the back, and prayed them to be active with the can, it was almost difficult to remember that he was not the giver of the feast, and that it was Mr. John Mellish who would have to pay the brewer's bill. What, amongst all the virtues, which adorn this earth, can be more charming than the generosity of upper servants? With what hearty hospitality they pass the bottle! how liberally they throw the seven-shilling gunpowder into the teapot! how unsparingly they spread the twenty-penny fresh butter on the toast! and what a glorious welcome they give to the droppers-in of the servants' hall! It is scarcely wonderful that the recipients of their bounty forget that it is the master of the household who will be called upon for the expenses of the banquet, and who will look ruefully at the total of the quarter's housekeeping. It was not to be supposed that so dashing a fellow as Mr. James Conyers could, in the lodging-house-keepers' _patois_, "do for" himself. He required a humble drudge to black his boots, make his bed, boil his kettle, cook his dinner, and keep the two little chambers at the lodge in decent order. Casting about in a reflective mood for a fitting person for this office, his recreant fancy hit upon Steeve Hargraves the "Softy." He was sitting upon the sill of an open window in the little parlour of the lodge, smoking a cigar and drinking out of a can of beer, when this idea came into his head. He was so tickled by the notion, that he took his cigar from his mouth in order to laugh at his ease. "The man's a character," he said, still laughing, "and I'll have him to wait upon me. He's been forbid the place, has he? Turned out neck and crop because my Lady Highropes horsewhipped him. Never mind that; _I'll_ give him leave to come back, if it's only for the fun of the thing." He limped out upon the high-road half an hour after this, and went into the village to find Steeve Hargraves. He had little difficulty in doing this, as everybody knew the "Softy," and a chorus of boys volunteered to fetch him from the house of the doctor, in whose service he did odd jobs, and brought him to Mr. Conyers five minutes afterwards, looking very hot and dirty, but as pale of complexion as usual. Stephen Hargraves agreed very readily to abandon his present occupation and to wait upon the trainer, in consideration of five shillings a week and his board and lodging; but his countenance fell when he discovered that Mr. Conyers was in the service of John Mellish, and lived on the outskirts of the park. "You're afraid of setting foot upon his estate, are you?" said the trainer, laughing. "Never mind, Steeve, _I_ give you leave to come, and I should like to see the man or woman in that house who'll interfere with any whim of mine. _I_ give you leave. You understand." The "Softy" touched his cap and tried to look as if he understood; but it was very evident that he did not understand, and it was some time before Mr. Conyers could persuade him that his life would be safe within the gates of Mellish Park. But he was ultimately induced to trust himself at the north lodge, and promised to present himself there in the course of the evening. Now Mr. James Conyers had exerted himself as much in order to overcome the cowardly objections of this rustic clown as he could have done if Steeve Hargraves had been the most accomplished body servant in the three Ridings. Perhaps there was some deeper motive than any regard for the man himself in this special preference for the "Softy;" some lurking malice, some petty spite, the key to which was hidden in his own breast. If, while standing smoking in the village street, _chaffing_ the "Softy" for the edification of the lookers-on, and taking so much trouble to secure such an ignorant and brutish esquire,--if one shadow of the future, so very near at hand, could have fallen across his path, surely he would have instinctively recoiled from the striking of that ill-omened bargain. But James Conyers had no superstition; indeed, he was so pleasantly free from that weakness as to be a disbeliever in all things in heaven and on earth, except himself and his own merits; so he hired the "Softy," for the fun of the thing, as he called it, and walked slowly back to the park gates to watch for the return of Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, who were expected that afternoon. The woman at the lodge brought him out a chair, and begged him to rest himself under the portico. He thanked her with a pleasant smile, and sitting down amongst the roses and honeysuckles, lighted another cigar. "You'll find the north lodge dull, I'm thinking, sir," the woman said, from the open window, where she had reseated herself with her needlework. "Well, it isn't very lively, ma'am, certainly," answered Mr. Conyers, "but it serves my purpose well enough. The place is lonely enough for a man to be murdered there and nobody be any the wiser; but as I have nothing to lose, it will answer well enough for me." He might perhaps have said a good deal more about the place, but at this moment the sound of wheels upon the high-road announced the return of the travellers, and two or three minutes afterwards the carriage dashed through the gate, and past Mr. James Conyers. Whatever power this man might have over Aurora, whatever knowledge of a compromising secret he might have obtained and traded upon, the fearlessness of her nature showed itself now as always, and she never flinched at the sight of him. If he had placed himself in her way on purpose to watch the effect of his presence, he must surely have been disappointed; for except that a cold shadow of disdain passed over her face as the carriage drove by him, he might have imagined himself unseen. She looked pale and care-worn, and her eyes seemed to have grown larger, since her illness; but she held her head as erect as ever, and had still the air of imperial grandeur which constituted one of her chief charms. "So that is Mr. Mellish," said Conyers, as the carriage disappeared. "He seems very fond of his wife." "Ay, sure; and he is too. Fond of her! Why, they say there isn't another such couple in all Yorkshire. And she's fond of him, too, bless her handsome face! But who wouldn't be fond of Master John?" Mr. Conyers shrugged his shoulders; these patriarchal habits and domestic virtues had no particular charm for him. "She had plenty of money, hadn't she?" he asked, by way of bringing the conversation into a more rational channel. "Plenty of money! I should think so. They say her pa gave her fifty thousand pounds down on her wedding-day; not that our master wants money; he's got enough and to spare." "Ah, to be sure," answered Mr. Conyers; "that's always the way of it. The banker gave her fifty thousand, did he? If Miss Floyd had married a poor devil, now, I don't suppose her father would have given her fifty sixpences." "Well, no; if she'd gone against his wishes, I don't suppose he would. He was here in the spring,--a nice, white-haired old gentleman; but failing fast." "Failing fast. And Mrs. Mellish will come into a quarter of a million at his death, I suppose. Good afternoon, ma'am. It's a queer world." Mr. Conyers took up his stick, and limped away under the trees, repeating this ejaculation as he went. It was a habit with this gentleman to attribute the good fortune of other people to some eccentricity in the machinery of life, by which he, the only really deserving person in the world, had been deprived of his natural rights. He went through the wood into a meadow where some of the horses under his charge were at grass, and spent upwards of an hour lounging about the hedgerows, sitting on gates, smoking his pipe, and staring at the animals, which seemed about the hardest work he had to do in his capacity of trainer. "It isn't a very hard life, when all's said and done," he thought, as he looked at a group of mares and foals, who, in their eccentric diversions, were performing a species of Sir Roger de Coverley up and down the meadow. "It isn't a very hard life; for as long as a fellow swears hard and fast at the lads, and gets rid of plenty of oats, he's right enough. These country gentlemen always judge a man's merits by the quantity of corn they have to pay for. Feed their horses as fat as pigs, and never enter 'em except among such a set of screws as an active pig could beat; and they'll swear by you. They'd think more of having a horse win the Margate Plate, or the Hampstead Heath Sweepstakes, than if he ran a good fourth in the Derby. Bless their innocent hearts! I should think fellows with plenty of money and no brains must have been invented for the good of fellows with plenty of brains and no money; and that's how we contrive to keep our equilibrium in the universal see-saw." Mr. James Conyers, puffing lazy clouds of transparent blue smoke from his lips, and pondering thus, looked as sentimental as if he had been ruminating upon the last three pages of the 'Bride of Abydos,' or the death of Paul Dombey. He had that romantic style of beauty peculiar to dark-blue eyes and long black lashes; and he could not wonder what he should have for dinner without a dreamy pensiveness in the purple shadows of those deep-blue orbs. He had found the sentimentality of his beauty almost of greater use to him than the beauty itself. It was this sentimentality which always put him at an advantage with his employers. He looked like an exiled prince doing menial service in bitterness of spirit and a turned-down collar. He looked like Lara returned to his own domains to train the horses of a usurper. He looked, in short, like anything but what he was,--a selfish, good-for-nothing, lazy scoundrel, who was well up in the useful art of doing the minimum of work, and getting the maximum of wages. He strolled slowly back to his rustic habitation, where he found the "Softy" waiting for him; the kettle boiling upon a handful of bright fire, and some tea-things laid out upon the little round table. Mr. Conyers looked rather contemptuously at the humble preparations. "I've mashed the tea for 'ee," said the "Softy;" "I thought you'd like a coop." The trainer shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say I'm particular attached to the cat-lap," he said, laughing; "I've had rather too much of it when I've been in training,--half-and-half, warm tea and cold-drawn castor-oil. I'll send you into Doncaster for some spirits to-morrow, my man: or to-night, perhaps," he added reflectively, resting his elbow upon the table and his chin in the hollow of his hand. He sat for some time in this thoughtful attitude, his retainer Steeve Hargraves watching him intently all the while, with that half-wondering, half-admiring stare with which a very ugly creature--a creature so ugly as to know it is ugly--looks at a very handsome one. At the close of his reverie, Mr. Conyers took out a clumsy silver watch, and sat for a few minutes staring vacantly at the dial. "Close upon six," he muttered at last. "What time do they dine at the house, Steeve?" "Seven o'clock," answered the "Softy." "Seven o'clock. Then you'd have time to run there with a message, or a letter, and catch 'em just as they're going in to dinner." The "Softy" stared aghast at his new master. "A message or a letter," he repeated; "for Mr. Mellish?" "No; for Mrs. Mellish." "But I daren't," exclaimed Stephen Hargraves; "I daren't go nigh the house; least of all to speak to her. I don't forget the day she horsewhipped me. I've never seen her since, and I don't want to see her. You think I am a coward, don't 'ee?" he said, stopping suddenly, and looking at the trainer, whose handsome lips were curved into a contemptuous smile. "You think I'm a coward, don't 'ee, now?" he repeated. "Well, I don't think you are over-valiant," answered Mr. Conyers, "to be afraid of a woman, though she was the veriest devil that ever played fast and loose with a man." "Shall I tell you what it is I am afraid of?" said Steeve Hargraves, hissing the words through his closed teeth in that unpleasant whisper peculiar to him. "It isn't Mrs. Mellish. It's myself. It's _this_"--he grasped something in the loose pocket of his trousers as he spoke,--"it's _this_. I'm afraid to trust myself a-nigh her, for fear I should spring upon her, and cut her thro-at from ear to ear. I've seen her in my dreams sometimes, with her beautiful white thro-at laid open, and streaming oceans of blood; but, for all that, she's always had the broken whip in her hand, and she's always laughed at me. I've had many a dream about her; but I've never seen her dead or quiet; and I've never seen her without the whip." The contemptuous smile died away from the trainer's lips as Steeve Hargraves made this revelation of his sentiments, and gave place to a darkly thoughtful expression, which overshadowed the whole of his face. "I've no such wonderful love for Mrs. Mellish myself," he said; "but she might live to be as old as Methuselah, for aught I care, if she'd----" He muttered something between his teeth, and walked up the little staircase to his bedroom, whistling a popular tune as he went. He came down again with a dirty-looking leather desk in his hand; which he flung carelessly on to the table. It was stuffed with crumpled untidy-looking letters and papers, from among which he had considerable difficulty in selecting a tolerably clean sheet of note-paper. "You'll take a letter to Mrs. Mellish, my friend," he said to Stephen, stooping over the table and writing as he spoke; "and you'll please to deliver it safe into her own hands. The windows will all be open this sultry weather, and you can watch till you see her in the drawing-room; and when you do, contrive to beckon her out, and give her this." He had folded the sheet of paper by this time, and had sealed it carefully in an adhesive envelope. "There's no need of any address," he said, as he handed the letter to Steeve Hargraves; "you know who it's for, and you won't give it to anybody else. There, get along with you. She'll say nothing to _you_, man, when she sees who the letter comes from." The "Softy" looked darkly at his new employer; but Mr. James Conyers rather piqued himself upon a quality which he called determination, but which his traducers designated obstinacy, and he made up his mind that no one but Steeve Hargraves should carry the letter. "Come," he said, "no nonsense, Mr. Stephen! Remember this: if I choose to employ you, and if I choose to send you on any errand whatsoever, there's no one in that house will dare to question my right to do it. Get along with you!" He pointed, as he spoke, with the stem of his pipe, to the Gothic roof and ivied chimneys of the old house gleaming amongst a mass of foliage. "Get along with you, Mr. Stephen, and bring me an answer to that letter," he added, lighting his pipe and seating himself in his favourite attitude upon the window-sill,--an attitude which, like everything about him, was a half-careless, half-defiant protest of his superiority to his position. "You needn't wait for a written answer. Yes or No will be quite enough, you may tell Mrs. Mellish." The "Softy" whispered something, half inaudible, between his teeth; but he took the letter, and pulling his shabby rabbit-skin cap over his eyes, walked slowly off in the direction to which Mr. Conyers had pointed, with a half-contemptuous action, a few moments before. "A queer fish," muttered the trainer, lazily watching the awkward figure of his attendant; "a queer fish; but it's rather hard if I can't manage _him_. I've twisted his betters round my little finger before to-day." Mr. Conyers forgot that there are some natures which, although inferior in everything else, are strong by reason of their stubbornness, and not to be twisted out of their natural crookedness by any trick of management or skilfulness of handling. The evening was sunless but sultry; there was a lowering darkness in the leaden sky, and an unnatural stillness in the atmosphere that prophesied the coming of a storm. The elements were taking breath for the struggle, and lying silently in wait against the breaking of their fury. It would come by-and-by, the signal for the outburst, in a long, crackling peal of thunder that would shake the distant hills and flutter every leaf in the wood. The trainer looked with an indifferent eye at the ominous aspect of the heavens. "I must go down to the stables, and send some of the boys to get the horses under cover," he said; "there'll be a storm before long." He took his stick and limped out of the cottage, still smoking; indeed, there were very few hours in the day, and not many during the night, in which Mr. Conyers was unprovided with his pipe or cigar. Steeve Hargraves walked very slowly along the narrow pathway which led across the park to the flower-garden and lawn before the house. This north side of the park was wilder and less well kept than the rest; but the thick undergrowth swarmed with game, and the young hares flew backwards and forwards across the pathway, startled by the "Softy's" shambling tread, while every now and then the partridges rose in pairs from the tangled grass, and skimmed away under the low roof of foliage. "If I was to meet Mr. Mellish's keeper here, he'd look at me black enough, I dare say," muttered the "Softy," "though I aint after the game. Lookin' at a pheasant's high treason in his mind, curse him!" He put his hands low down in his pockets, as if scarcely able to resist the temptation to wring the neck of a splendid cock-pheasant that was strutting through the high grass, with a proud serenity of manner that implied a knowledge of the game-laws. The trees on the north side of the Park formed a species of leafy wall which screened the lawn, so that, coming from this northern side, the "Softy" emerged at once from the shelter into the smooth grass bordering this lawn, which was separated from the Park by an invisible fence. As Steeve Hargraves, still sheltered from observation by the trees, approached the place, he saw that his errand was shortened, for Mrs. Mellish was leaning upon a low iron gate, with the dog Bow-wow, the dog that he had beaten, at her side. He had left the narrow pathway and struck in amongst the undergrowth, in order to make a shorter cut to the flower-garden, and as he came from under the shelter of the low branches which made a leafy cave about him, he left a long track of parted grass behind him, like the track of the footstep of a tiger, or the trail of a slow, ponderous serpent creeping towards its prey. Aurora looked up at the sound of the shambling footstep, and, for the second time since she had beaten him, she encountered the gaze of the "Softy." She was very pale, almost as pale as her white dress, which was unenlivened by any scrap of colour, and which hung about her in loose folds that gave a statuesque grace to her figure. She was dressed with such evident carelessness that every fold of muslin seemed to tell how far away her thoughts had been when that hasty toilette was made. Her black brows contracted as she looked at the "Softy." "I thought Mr. Mellish had dismissed you," she said, "and that you had been forbidden to come here?" "Yes, ma'am, Muster Mellish did turn me out of the house I'd lived in, man and boy, nigh upon forty year; but I've got a new pleace now, and my new master sent me to you with a letter." Watching the effect of his words, the "Softy" saw a leaden change come over the pale face of his listener. "What new master?" she asked. Steeve Hargraves lifted his hand and pointed across his shoulder. She watched the slow motion of that clumsy hand, and her eyes seemed to grow larger as she saw the direction to which it pointed. "Your new master is the trainer, James Conyers,--the man who lives at the north lodge?" she said. "Yes, ma'am." "What does he want with you?" she asked. "I keep his place in order for him, ma'am, and run errands for him; and I've brought a letter." "A letter? Ah, yes, give it me." The "Softy" handed her the envelope. She took it slowly, without removing her eyes from his face, but watching him with a fixed and earnest look that seemed as if it would have fathomed something beneath the dull red eyes which met hers. A look that betrayed some doubtful terror hidden in her own breast, and a vague desire to penetrate the secrets of his. She did not look at the letter, but held it half crushed in the hand hanging by her side. "You can go," she said. "I was to wait for an answer." The black brows contracted again, and this time a bright gleam of fury kindled in the great black eyes. "There is no answer," she said, thrusting the letter into the bosom of her dress, and turning to leave the gate; "there is no answer, and there shall be none till I choose. Tell your master that." "It wasn't to be a written answer," persisted the "Softy;" "it was to be Yes or No, that's all; but I was to be sure and wait for it." The half-witted creature saw some feeling of hate and fury in her face beyond her contemptuous hatred of himself, and took a savage pleasure in tormenting her. She struck her foot impatiently upon the grass, and plucking the letter from her breast, tore open the envelope, and read the few lines it contained. Few as they were, she stood for nearly five minutes with the open letter in her hand, separated from the "Softy" by the iron fence, and lost in thought. The silence was only broken during this pause by an occasional growl from the mastiff, who lifted his heavy lip, and showed his feeble teeth for the edification of his old enemy. She tore the letter into a hundred morsels, and flung it from her before she spoke. "Yes," she said at last; "tell your master that." Steeve Hargraves touched his cap and went back through the grassy trail he had left, to carry this message to the trainer. "She hates me bad enough," he muttered, as he stopped once to look back at the quiet white figure on the lawn, "but she hates t'oother chap worse." CHAPTER V. OUT IN THE RAIN. The second dinner-bell rang five minutes after the "Softy" had left Aurora, and Mr. John Mellish came out upon the lawn to look for his wife. He came whistling across the grass, and whisking the roses with his pocket-handkerchief in very gaiety of heart. He had quite forgotten the anguish of that miserable morning after the receipt of Mr. Pastern's letter. He had forgotten all but that his Aurora was the loveliest and dearest of women, and that he trusted her with the boundless faith of his big, honest heart. "Why should I doubt such a noble, impetuous creature?" he thought; "doesn't every feeling and every sentiment write itself upon her lovely, expressive face in characters the veriest fool could read? If I please her, what bright smiles light up in her black eyes! If I vex her,--as I do, poor awkward idiot that I am, a hundred times a day,--how the two black arches contract over her pretty impertinent nose, while the red lips pout defiance and disdain! Shall I doubt her because she keeps one secret from me, and freely tells me I must for ever remain ignorant of it; when an artful woman would try to set my mind at rest with some shallow fiction invented to deceive me? Heaven bless her! no doubt of her shall ever darken my life again, come what may." It was easy for Mr. Mellish to make this mental vow, believing fully that the storm was past, and that lasting fair weather had set in. "Lolly darling," he said, winding his great arm round his wife's waist, "I thought I had lost you." She looked up at him with a sad smile. "Would it grieve you much, John," she said in a low voice, "if you were really to lose me?" He started as if he had been struck, and looked anxiously at her pale face. "Would it grieve me, Lolly!" he repeated; "not for long; for the people who came to your funeral would come to mine. But, my darling, my darling, what can have made you ask this question? Are you ill, dearest? You have been looking pale and tired for the last few days, and I have thought nothing of it. What a careless wretch I am!" "No, no, John," she said; "I don't mean that. I know you would grieve, dear, if I were to die. But suppose something were to happen which would separate us for ever,--something which would compel me to leave this place never to return to it,--what then?" "What then, Lolly?" answered her husband, gravely. "I would rather see your coffin laid in the empty niche beside my mother's in the vault yonder,"--he pointed in the direction of the parish church, which was close to the gates of the park,--"than I would part with you thus. I would rather know you to be dead and happy than I would endure any doubt about your fate. Oh, my darling, why do you speak of these things? I couldn't part with you--I couldn't! I would rather take you in my arms and plunge with you into the pond in the wood; I would rather send a bullet into your heart, and see you lying murdered at my feet." "John, John, my dearest and truest!" she said, her face lighting up with a new brightness, like the sudden breaking of the sun through a leaden cloud, "not another word, dear: we will never part. Why should we? There is very little upon this wide earth that money cannot buy; and it shall help to buy our happiness. We will never part, darling; never." She broke into a joyous laugh as she watched his anxious, half-wondering face. "Why, you foolish John, how frightened you look!" she said. "Haven't you discovered yet that I like to torment you now and then with such questions as these, just to see your big blue eyes open to their widest extent? Come, dear; Mrs. Powell will look white thunder at us when we go in, and make some meek conventional reply to our apologies for this delay, to the effect that she doesn't care in the least how long she waits for dinner, and that on the whole she would rather never have any dinner at all. Isn't it strange, John, how that woman hates me?" "Hates _you_, dear, when you're so kind to her!" "But she hates me for being kind to her, John. If I were to give her my diamond-necklace, she'd hate me for having it to give. She hates us because we're rich and young and handsome," said Aurora, laughing; "and the very opposite of her namby-pamby, pale-faced self." It was strange that from this moment Aurora seemed to regain her natural gaiety of spirits, and to be what she had been before the receipt of Mr. Pastern's letter. Whatever dark cloud had hovered over her head, since the day upon which that simple epistle had caused such a terrible effect, seemed to have been suddenly removed. Mrs. Walter Powell was not slow to perceive this change. The eyes of love, clear-sighted though they may be, are dull indeed beside the eyes of hate. _Those_ are never deceived. Aurora had wandered out of the drawing-room, listless and dispirited, to stroll wearily upon the lawn;--Mrs. Powell, seated in one of the windows, had watched her every movement, and had seen her in the distance speaking to some one (she had been unable to distinguish the "Softy" from her post of observation);--and this same Aurora returned to the house almost another creature. There was a look of determination about the beautiful mouth (which female critics called too wide), a look not usual to the rosy lips, and a resolute brightness in the eyes, which had some significance surely, Mrs. Powell thought, if she could only have found the key to that hidden meaning. Ever since Aurora's brief illness, the poor woman had been groping for this key--groping in mazy darknesses which baffled her utmost powers of penetration. Who and what was this groom, that Aurora should write to him, as she most decidedly had written? Why was he to express no surprise, and what cause could there be for his expressing any surprise in the simple economy of Mellish Park? The mazy darknesses were more impenetrable than the blackest night, and Mrs. Powell well-nigh gave up all hope of ever finding any clue to the mystery. And now behold a new complication had arisen in Aurora's altered spirits. John Mellish was delighted with this alteration. He talked and laughed until the glasses near him vibrated with his noisy mirth. He drank so much sparkling Moselle that his butler Jarvis (who had grown gray in the service of the old squire, and had poured out Master John's first glass of champagne) refused at last to furnish him with any more of that beverage; offering him in its stead some very expensive hock, the name of which was in fourteen unpronounceable syllables, and which John tried to like, but didn't. "We'll fill the house with visitors for the shooting season, Lolly, darling," said Mr. Mellish. "If they come on the 1st of September, they'll all be comfortably settled for the Leger. The dear old Dad will come of course, and trot about on his white pony like the best of men and bankers in Christendom. Captain and Mrs. Bulstrode will come too; and we shall see how our little Lucy looks, and whether solemn Talbot beats her in the silence of the matrimonial chamber. Then there's Hunter, and a host of fellows; and you must write me a list of any nice people you'd like to ask down here; and we'll have a glorious autumn; won't we, Lolly?" "I hope so, dear," said Mrs. Mellish, after a little pause, and a repetition of John's eager question. She had not been listening very attentively to John's plans for the future, and she startled him rather by asking him a question very wide from the subject upon which he had been speaking. "How long do the fastest vessels take going to Australia, John?" she asked quietly. Mr. Mellish stopped with his glass in his hand to stare at his wife as she asked this question. "How long do the fastest vessels take to go to Australia?" he repeated. "Good gracious me, Lolly, how should I know? Three weeks or a month--no, I mean three months; but, in mercy's name, Aurora, why do you want to know?" "The average length of the voyage is, I believe, about three months; but some fast-sailing packets do it in seventy, or even in sixty-eight days," interposed Mrs. Powell, looking sharply at Aurora's abstracted face from under cover of her white eyelashes. "But why, in goodness name, do you want to know, Lolly?" repeated John Mellish. "You don't want to go to Australia, and you don't know anybody who's going to Australia." "Perhaps Mrs. Mellish is interested in the Female Emigration movement," suggested Mrs. Powell: "it is a most delightful work." Aurora replied neither to the direct nor the indirect question. The cloth had been removed (for no modern customs had ever disturbed the conservative economy of Mellish Park), and Mrs. Mellish sat, with a cluster of pale cherries in her hand, looking at the reflection of her own face in the depths of the shining mahogany. "Lolly!" exclaimed John Mellish, after watching his wife for some minutes, "you are as grave as a judge. What can you be thinking of?" She looked up at him with a bright smile, and rose to leave the dining-room. "I'll tell you one of these days, John," she said. "Are you coming with us, or are you going out upon the lawn to smoke?" "If you'll come with me, dear," he answered, returning her smile with the frank glance of unchangeable affection which always beamed in his eyes when they rested on his wife. "I'll go out and smoke a cigar, if you'll come with me, Lolly." "You foolish old Yorkshireman," said Mrs. Mellish, laughing, "I verily believe you'd like me to smoke one of your choice cigars, by way of keeping you company." "No, darling, I'd never wish to see you do anything that didn't square--that wasn't compatible," interposed Mr. Mellish, gravely, "with the manners of the noblest lady, and the duties of the truest wife in England. If I love to see you ride across country with a red feather in your hat, it is because I think that the good old sport of English gentlemen was meant to be shared by their wives, rather than by people whom I would not like to name; and because there is a fair chance that the sight of your Spanish hat and scarlet plume at the meet may go some way towards keeping Miss Wilhelmina de Lancy (who was born plain Scroggins, and christened Sarah) out of the field. I think our British wives and mothers might have the battle in their own hands, and win the victory for themselves and their daughters, if they were a little braver in standing to their ground; if they were not quite so tenderly indulgent to the sins of eligible young noblemen, and, in their estimate of a man's qualifications for the marriage state, were not so entirely guided by the figures in his banker's book. It's a sad world, Lolly; but John Mellish, of Mellish Park, was never meant to set it right." Mr, Mellish stood on the threshold of a glass-door which opened on to a flight of steps leading to the lawn, as he delivered himself of this homily, the gravity of which was quite at variance with the usual tenour of his discourse. He had a cigar in his hand, and was going to light it, when Aurora stopped him. "John, dear," she said, "my most unbusiness-like of darlings, have you forgotten that poor Langley is so anxious to see you, that he may give you up the old accounts before the new trainer takes the stable business into his hands? He was here half an hour before dinner, and begged that you would see him to-night." Mr. Mellish shrugged his shoulders. "Langley's as honest a fellow as ever breathed," he said. "I don't want to look into his accounts. I know what the stable costs me yearly on an average, and that's enough." "But for his satisfaction, dear." "Well, well, Lolly, to-morrow morning, then." "No, dear, I want you to ride out with me to-morrow." "To-morrow evening." "You 'meet the Captains at the Citadel,'" said Aurora, laughing; "that is to say, you dine at Holmbush with Colonel Pevensey. Come, darling, I insist on your being business-like for once in a way; come to your sanctum sanctorum, and we'll send for Langley, and look into the accounts." The pretty tyrant linked her arm in his, and led him to the other end of the house, and into that very room in which she had swooned away at the hearing of Mr. Pastern's letter. She looked thoughtfully out at the dull evening sky as she closed the windows. The storm had not yet come, but the ominous clouds still brooded low over the earth, and the sultry atmosphere was heavy and airless. Mrs. Mellish made a wonderful show of her business habits, and appeared to be very much interested in the mass of cornchandlers', veterinary surgeons', saddlers', and harness-makers' accounts with which the old trainer respectfully bewildered his master. But about ten minutes after John had settled himself to his weary labour, Aurora threw down the pencil with which she had been working a calculation (by a process of so wildly original a nature, as to utterly revolutionize Cocker, and annihilate the hackneyed notion that twice two are four), and floated lightly out of the room, with some vague promise of coming back presently, leaving Mr. Mellish to arithmetic and despair. Mrs. Walter Powell was seated in the drawing-room reading, when Aurora entered that apartment with a large black-lace shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders. Mrs. Mellish had evidently expected to find the room empty; for she started and drew back at the sight of the pale-faced widow, who was seated in a distant window, making the most of the last faint rays of summer twilight. Aurora paused for a moment a few paces within the door, and then walked deliberately across the room towards the farthest window from that at which Mrs. Powell was seated. "Are you going out in the garden this dull evening, Mrs. Mellish?" asked the ensign's widow. Aurora stopped half-way between the window and the door to answer her. "Yes," she said coldly. "Allow me to advise you not to go far. We are going to have a storm." "I don't think so." "What, my dear Mrs. Mellish, not with that thunder-cloud yonder?" "I will take my chance of being caught in it then. The weather has been threatening all the afternoon. The house is insupportable to-night." "But you will surely not go far?" Mrs. Mellish did not appear to hear this last remonstrance. She hurried through the open window, and out upon the lawn, striking northwards towards that little iron gate across which she had talked to the "Softy." The arch of the leaden sky seemed to contract above the tree-tops in the park, shutting in the earth as if with a roof of hot iron, after the fashion of those cunningly-contrived metal torture-chambers which we read of; but the rain had not yet come. "What can take her into the garden on such an evening as this?" thought Mrs. Powell, as she watched the white dress receding in the dusky twilight. "It will be dark in ten minutes, and she is not usually so fond of going out alone." The ensign's widow laid down the book in which she had appeared so deeply interested, and went to her own room, where she selected a comfortable gray cloak from a heap of primly folded garments in her capacious wardrobe. She muffled herself in this cloak, hurried downstairs with a soft but rapid step, and went out into the garden through a little lobby near John Mellish's room. The blinds in the squire's sanctum were not drawn down, and Mrs. Powell could see the master of the house bending over his paper under the light of a reading lamp, with the rheumatic trainer seated by his side. It was by this time quite dark, but Aurora's white dress was faintly visible upon the other side of the lawn. Mrs. Mellish was standing beside the little iron gate when the ensign's widow emerged from the house. The white dress was motionless for some time, and the pale watcher, lurking under the shade of a long verandah, began to think that her trouble was wasted, and that perhaps, after all, Aurora had no special purpose in this evening ramble. Mrs. Walter Powell felt cruelly disappointed. Always on the watch for some clue to the secret whose existence she had discovered, she had fondly hoped that even this unseasonable ramble might be some link in the mysterious chain she was so anxious to fit together. But it appeared that she was mistaken. The unseasonable ramble was very likely nothing more than one of Aurora's caprices--a womanly foolishness signifying nothing. No! The white dress was no longer motionless, and in the unnatural stillness of the hot night Mrs. Powell heard the distant scrooping noise of a hinge revolving slowly, as if guided by a cautious hand. Mrs. Mellish had opened the iron gate, and had passed to the other side of the invisible barrier which separated the gardens from the Park. In another moment she had disappeared under the shadow of the trees which made a belt about the lawn. Mrs. Powell paused, almost terrified by her unlooked-for discovery. What, in the name of all that was darkly mysterious, could Mrs. Mellish have to do between nine and ten o'clock on the north side of the Park--the wildly kept, deserted north side, in which, from year's end to year's end, no one but the keepers ever walked? The blood rushed hotly up to Mrs. Powell's pale face, as she suddenly remembered that the disused, dilapidated lodge upon this north side had been given to the new trainer as a residence. Remembering this was nothing, but remembering this in connection with that mysterious letter signed "A." was enough to send a thrill of savage, horrible joy through the dull veins of the dependent. What should she do? Follow Mrs. Mellish, and discover where she was going? How far would this be a safe thing to attempt? She turned back and looked once more through the window of John's room. He was still bending over the papers, still in as apparently hopeless confusion of mind. There seemed little chance of his business being finished very quickly. The starless night and her dark dress alike sheltered the spy from observation. "If I were close behind her, she would never see me," she thought. She struck across the lawn to the iron gate and passed into the Park. The brambles and the tangled undergrowth caught at her dress as she paused for a moment looking about her in the summer night. There was no trace of Aurora's white figure among the leafy alleys stretching in wild disorder before her. "I'll not attempt to find the path she took," thought Mrs. Powell; "I know where to find her." She groped her way into the narrow footpath leading to the lodge. She was not sufficiently familiar with the place to take the short cut which the "Softy" had made for himself through the grass that afternoon, and she was some time walking from the iron gate to the lodge. The front windows of this rustic lodge faced a road that led to the stables; the back of the building looked towards the path down which Mrs. Powell went, and the two small windows in this back wall were both dark. The ensign's widow crept softly round to the front, looked about her cautiously, and listened. There was no sound but the occasional rustle of a leaf, tremulous even in the still atmosphere, as if by some internal prescience of the coming storm. With a slow, careful footstep, she stole towards the little rustic window and looked into the room within. She had not been mistaken when she had said that she knew where to find Aurora. Mrs. Mellish was standing with her back to the window. Exactly opposite to her sat James Conyers the trainer, in an easy attitude, and with his pipe in his mouth. The little table was between them, and the one candle which lighted the room was drawn close to Mr. Conyers's elbow, and had evidently been used by him for the lighting of his pipe. Aurora was speaking. The eager listener could hear her voice, but not her words; and she could see by the trainer's face that he was listening intently. He was listening intently, but a dark frown contracted his handsome eyebrows, and it was very evident that he was not too well satisfied with the bent of the conversation. He looked up when Aurora ceased speaking, shrugged his shoulders, and took his pipe out of his mouth. Mrs. Powell, with her pale face close against the window-pane, watched him intently. He pointed with a careless gesture to an empty chair near Aurora, but she shook her head contemptuously, and suddenly turned towards the window; so suddenly, that Mrs. Powell had scarcely time to recoil into the darkness before Aurora had unfastened the iron latch and flung the narrow casement open. "I cannot endure this intolerable heat," she exclaimed, impatiently; "I have said all I have to say, and need only wait for your answer." "You don't give me much time for consideration," he said, with an insolent coolness which was in strange contrast to the restless vehemence of her manner. "What sort of answer do you want?" "Yes or No." "Nothing more?" "No, nothing more. You know my conditions; they are all written here," she added, putting her hand upon an open paper which lay upon the table; "they are all written clearly enough for a child to understand. Will you accept them? Yes or No?" "That depends upon circumstances," he answered, filling his pipe, and looking admiringly at the nail of his little finger, as he pressed the tobacco into the bowl. "Upon what circumstances?" "Upon the inducement which you offer, my dear Mrs. Mellish." "You mean the price?" "That's a low expression," he said, laughing; "but I suppose we both mean the same thing. The inducement must be a strong one which will make me do all that,"--he pointed to the written paper,--"and it must take the form of solid cash. How much is it to be?" "That is for you to say. Remember what I have told you. Decline to-night and I telegraph to my father to-morrow morning, telling him to alter his will." "Suppose the old gentleman should be carried off in the interim, and leave that pleasant sheet of parchment standing as it is. I hear that he's old and feeble; it might be worth while calculating the odds upon such an event. I've risked my money on a worse chance before to-night." She turned upon him with so dark a frown as he said this, that the insolently heartless words died upon his lips and left him looking at her gravely. "Egad," he said, "you're as great a devil as ever you were. I doubt if that isn't a good offer after all. Give me two thousand down, and I'll take it." "Two thousand pounds!" "I ought to have said twenty, but I've always stood in my own light." Mrs. Powell, crouching down beneath the open casement, had heard every word of this brief dialogue; but at this juncture, half-forgetful of all danger in her eagerness to listen, she raised her head until it was nearly on a level with the window-sill. As she did so, she recoiled with a sudden thrill of terror. She felt a puff of hot breath upon her cheek, and the garments of a man rustling against her own. She was not the only listener. The second spy was Stephen Hargraves the "Softy." "Hush!" he whispered, grasping Mrs. Powell by the wrist, and pinning her in her crouching attitude by the muscular force of his horny hand; "it's only me; Steeve the 'Softy,' you know; the stable-helper that _she_" (he hissed out the personal pronoun with such a furious impetus that it seemed to whistle sharply through the stillness),--"the fondy that she horsewhipped. I know you, and I know you're here to listen. He sent me into Doncaster to fetch this" (he pointed to a bottle under his arm); "he thought it would take me four or five hours to go and get back; but I ran all the way, for I knew there was soommat oop." He wiped his streaming face with the ends of his coarse neckerchief as he finished speaking. His breath came in panting gasps, and Mrs. Powell could hear the laborious beating of his heart in the stillness. "I won't tell o' you," he said, "and you won't tell o' me. I've got the stripes upon my shoulder where she cut me with the whip to this day. I look at 'em sometimes, and they help to keep me in mind. She's a fine madam, aint she, and a great lady too? Ay, sure she is; but she comes to meet her husband's servant on the sly, after dark, for all that. Maybe the day isn't far off when _she'll_ be turned from these gates, and warned off this ground; and the merciful Lord send that I live to see it. Hush!" With her wrist still pinioned in his strong grasp, he motioned her to be silent, and bent his pale face forward; every feature rigid, in the listening expectancy of his hungry gaze. "Listen," he whispered; "listen! Every fresh word damns her deeper than the last." The trainer was the first to speak after this pause in the dialogue within the cottage. He had quietly smoked out his pipe, and had emptied the ashes of his tobacco upon the table before he took up the thread of the conversation at the point at which he had dropped it. "Two thousand pounds," he said, "that is the offer, and I think it ought to be taken freely. Two thousand down, in Bank-of-England notes (fives and tens, higher figures might be awkward), or sterling coin of the realm. You understand; two thousand down. That's _my_ alternative; or I leave this place to-morrow morning--with all belonging to me." "By which course you would get nothing," said Mrs. John Mellish, quietly. "Shouldn't I? What does the chap in the play get for his trouble when the blackamoor smothers his wife? I should get nothing--but my revenge upon a tiger-cat, whose claws have left a mark upon me that I shall carry to my grave." He lifted his hair with a careless gesture of his hand, and pointed to a scar upon his forehead, a white mark, barely visible in the dim light of the tallow-candle. "I'm a good-natured, easy-going fellow, Mrs. John Mellish, but I don't forget. Is it to be the two thousand pounds, or war to the knife?" Mrs. Powell waited eagerly for Aurora's answer; but before it came, a round heavy rain-drop pattered upon the light hair of the ensign's widow. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, leaving her head uncovered. This one large drop was the warning of the coming storm. The signal peal of thunder rumbled slowly and hoarsely in the distance, and a pale flash of lightning trembled on the white faces of the two listeners. "Let me go," whispered Mrs. Powell, "let me go; I must get back to the house before the rain begins." The "Softy" slowly relaxed his iron grip upon her wrist. He had held it unconsciously, in his utter abstraction to all things except the two speakers in the cottage. Mrs. Powell rose from her knees, and crept noiselessly away from the lodge. She remembered the vital necessity of getting back to the house before Aurora, and of avoiding the shower. Her wet garments would betray her if she did not succeed in escaping the coming storm. She was of a spare, wizen figure, encumbered with no superfluous flesh, and she ran rapidly along the narrow sheltered pathway leading to the iron gate through which she had followed Aurora. The heavy rain-drops fell at long intervals upon the leaves. A second and a third peal of thunder rattled along the earth, like the horrible roar of some hungry animal creeping nearer and nearer to its prey. Blue flashes of faint lightning lit up the tangled intricacies of the wood, but the fullest fury of the storm had not yet burst forth. The rain-drops came at shorter intervals as Mrs. Powell passed out of the wood, through the little iron gate; faster still as she hurried across the lawn; faster yet as she reached the lobby-door, which she had left ajar an hour before, and sat down panting upon a little bench within, to recover her breath before she went any further. She was still sitting on this bench, when the fourth peal of thunder shook the low roof above her head, and the rain dropped from the starless sky with such a rushing impetus, that it seemed as if a huge trap-door had been opened in the heavens, and a celestial ocean let down to flood the earth. "I think my lady will be nicely caught," muttered Mrs. Walter Powell. She threw her cloak aside upon the lobby bench, and went through a passage leading to the hall. One of the servants was shutting the hall-door. "Have you shut the drawing-room windows, Wilson?" she asked. "No, ma'am; I am afraid Mrs. Mellish is out in the rain. Jarvis is getting ready to go and look for her, with a lantern and the gig-umbrella." "Then Jarvis can stop where he is; Mrs. Mellish came in half an hour ago. You may shut all the windows, and close the house for the night." "Yes, ma'am." "By-the-by, what o'clock is it, Wilson? My watch is slow." "A quarter past ten, ma'am, by the dining-room clock." The man locked the hall-door, put up an immense iron bar, which worked with some rather complicated machinery, and had a bell hanging at one end of it, for the frustration of all burglarious and designing ruffians. From the hall the man went to the drawing-room, where he carefully fastened the long range of windows; from the drawing-room to the lobby; and from the lobby to the dining-room, where he locked the half-glass door opening into the garden. This being done, all communication between the house and the garden was securely shut off. "He shall know of her goings-on, at any rate," thought Mrs. Powell, as she dogged the footsteps of the servant to see that he did his work. The Mellish household did not take very kindly to this deputy mistress; and when the footman went back to the servants' hall, he informed his colleagues that SHE was pryin' and pokin' about sharper than hever, and watchin' of a feller like a old 'ouse-cat. Mr. Wilson was a cockney, and had been newly-imported into the establishment. When the ensign's widow had seen the last bolt driven home to its socket, and the last key turned in its lock, she went back to the drawing-room and seated herself at the lamp-lit table, with some delicate morsel of old-maidish fancy-work, which seemed to be the converse of Penelope's embroidery, as it appeared to advance at night, and retrograde by day. She had hastily smoothed her hair and rearranged her dress, and she looked as uncomfortably neat as when she came down to breakfast in the fresh primness of her matutinal toilette. She had been sitting at her work for about ten minutes when John Mellish entered the room, emerging weary but triumphant from his struggle with the simple rules of multiplication and subtraction. Mr. Mellish had evidently suffered severely in the contest. His thick brown hair was tumbled into a rough mass that stood nearly upright upon his head, his cravat was untied, and his shirt-collar thrown open for the relief of his capacious throat; and these and many other marks of the struggle he bore upon him when he entered the drawing-room. "I've broken loose from school at last, Mrs. Powell," he said, flinging his big frame upon one of the sofas, to the imminent peril of the German-spring cushions; "I've broken away before the flag dropped, for Langley would have liked to keep me there till midnight. He followed me to the door of this room with fourteen bushels of oats that was down in the cornchandler's account and was not down in the book he keeps to check the cornchandler. Why the deuce don't he put it down in his book and make it right, then, I ask, instead of bothering me? What's the good of his keeping an account to check the cornchandler if he don't make his account the same as the cornchandler's? But it's all over!" he added, with a great sigh of relief, "it's all over! and all I can say is, I hope the new trainer isn't honest." "Do you know much of the new trainer, Mr. Mellish?" asked Mrs. Powell, blandly; rather as if she wished to amuse her employer by the exertion of her conversational powers than for the gratification of any mundane curiosity. "Deuced little," returned John, indifferently. "I haven't even seen the fellow yet; but John Pastern recommended him, and he's sure to be all right; besides, Aurora knows the man: he was in her father's service once." "Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Powell, giving the two insignificant words a significant little jerk; "oh, indeed! Mrs. Mellish knows him, does she? Then of course he's a trustworthy person. He's a remarkably handsome young man." "Remarkably handsome, is he?" said Mr. Mellish, with a careless laugh. "Then I suppose all the maids will be falling in love with him, and neglecting their work to look out of the windows that open on to the stable-yard, hey? That's the sort of thing when a man has a handsome groom, aint it? Susan and Sarah, and all the rest of 'em, take to cleaning the windows, and wearing new ribbons in their caps?" "I really don't know anything about that, Mr. Mellish," answered the ensign's widow, simpering over her work as if the question they were discussing was so very far away that it was impossible for her to be serious about it; "but my experience has thrown me into a very large number of families." (She said this with perfect truth, as she had occupied so many situations that her enemies had come to declare she was unable to remain in any one household above a twelvemonth, by reason of her employers' discovery of her real nature.) "I have occupied positions of trust and confidence," continued Mrs. Powell, "and I regret to say that I have seen much domestic misery arise from the employment of handsome servants, whose appearance and manners are superior to their station. Mr. Conyers is not at all the sort of person I should like to see in a household in which I had the charge of young ladies." A sick, half-shuddering faintness crept through John's herculean frame as Mrs. Powell expressed herself thus; so vague a feeling that he scarcely knew whether it was mental or physical, any better than he knew what it was that he disliked in this speech of the ensign's widow. The feeling was as transient as it was vague. John's honest blue eyes looked, wonderingly round the room. "Where's Aurora?" he said; "gone to bed?" "I believe Mrs. Mellish has retired to rest," Mrs. Powell answered. "Then I shall go too. The place is as dull as a dungeon without her," said Mr. Mellish, with agreeable candour. "Perhaps you'll be good enough to make me a glass of brandy-and-water before I go, Mrs. Powell, for I've got the cold shivers after those accounts." He rose to ring the bell; but before he had gone three paces from the sofa, an impatient knocking at the closed outer shutters of one of the windows arrested his footsteps. "Who, in mercy's name, is that?" he exclaimed, staring at the direction from which the noise came, but not attempting to respond to the summons. Mrs. Powell looked up to listen, with a face expressive of nothing but innocent wonder. The knocking was repeated more loudly and impatiently than before. "It must be one of the servants," muttered John; "but why doesn't he go round to the back of the house? I can't keep the poor devil out upon such a night as this, though," he added good-naturedly, unfastening the window as he spoke. The sashes opened inwards, the Venetian shutters outwards. He pushed these shutters open, and looked out into the darkness and the rain. Aurora, shivering in her drenched garments, stood a few paces from him, with the rain beating down straight and heavily upon her head. Even in that obscurity her husband recognized her. "My darling," he cried, "is it you? You out at such a time, and on such a night! Come in, for mercy's sake; you must be drenched to the skin." She came into the room; the wet hanging in her muslin dress streamed out upon the carpet on which she trod, and the folds of her lace shawl clung tightly about her figure. "Why did you let them shut the windows?" she said, turning to Mrs. Powell, who had risen, and was looking the picture of ladylike uneasiness and sympathy. "You knew that I was in the garden." "Yes, but I thought you had returned, my dear Mrs. Mellish," said the ensign's widow, busying herself with Aurora's wet shawl, which she attempted to remove, but which Mrs. Mellish plucked impatiently away from her. "I saw you go out, certainly; and I saw you leave the lawn in the direction of the north lodge; but I thought you had returned some time since." The colour faded out of John Mellish's face. "The north lodge!" he said. "Have you been to the north lodge?" "I have been in the _direction of the north lodge_," Aurora answered, with a sneering emphasis upon the words. "Your information is perfectly correct, Mrs. Powell, though I did not know you had done me the honour of watching my actions." Mr. Mellish did not appear to hear this. He looked from his wife to his wife's companion with a half-bewildered expression--an expression of newly-awakened doubt, of dim, struggling perplexity--that was very painful to see. "The north lodge!" he repeated; "what were you doing at the north lodge, Aurora?" "Do you wish me to stand here in my wet clothes while I tell you?" asked Mrs. Mellish, her great black eyes blazing up with indignant pride. "If you want an explanation for Mrs. Powell's satisfaction, I can give it here; if only for your own, it will do as well upstairs." She swept towards the door, trailing her wet shawl after her, but not less queenly, even in her dripping garments; Semiramide and Cleopatra may have been out in wet weather. On the threshold of the door she paused and looked back at her husband. "I shall want you to take me to London to-morrow, Mr. Mellish," she said. Then with one haughty toss of her beautiful head, and one bright flash of her glorious eyes, which seemed to say, "Slave, obey and tremble!" she disappeared, leaving Mr. Mellish to follow her, meekly, wonderingly, fearfully; with terrible doubts and anxieties creeping, like venomous living creatures, stealthily into his heart. CHAPTER VI. MONEY MATTERS. Archibald Floyd was very lonely at Felden Woods without his daughter. He took no pleasure in the long drawing-room, or the billiard-room and library, or the pleasant galleries, in which there were all manner of easy corners, with abutting bay-windows, damask-cushioned oaken benches, china vases as high as tables, all enlivened by the alternately sternly masculine and simperingly feminine faces of those ancestors whose painted representations the banker had bought in Wardour Street. (Indeed, I fear those Scottish warriors, those bewigged worthies of the Northern Circuit, those taper-waisted ladies with pointed stomachers, tucked-up petticoats, pannier-hoops, and blue-ribbon bedizened crooks, had been painted to order, and that there were such items in the account of the Wardour Street _rococo_ merchant as, "To one knight banneret, killed at Bosworth 25_l._ 5_s._") The old banker, I say, grew sadly weary of his gorgeous mansion, which was of little avail to him without Aurora. People are not so very much happier for living in handsome houses, though it is generally considered such a delightful thing to occupy a mansion which would be large enough for a hospital, and take your simple meal at the end of a table long enough to accommodate a board of railway directors. Archibald Floyd could not sit beside both the fireplaces in his long drawing-room, and he felt strangely lonely looking from the easy-chair on one hearth-rug, through a vista of velvet-pile and satin-damask, walnut-wood, buhl, malachite, china, parian, crystal, and ormolu, at that solitary second hearth-rug and those empty easy-chairs. He shivered in his dreary grandeur. His five-and-forty by thirty feet of velvet-pile might have been a patch of yellow sand in the Great Sahara for any pleasure he derived from its occupation. The billiard-room, perhaps, was worse; for the cues and balls were every one made precious by Aurora's touch; and there was a great fine-drawn seam upon the green cloth, which marked the spot where Miss Floyd had ripped it open that time she made her first juvenile essay at a cannon. The banker locked the doors of both these splendid apartments, and gave the keys to his housekeeper. "Keep the rooms in order, Mrs. Richardson," he said, "and keep them thoroughly aired; but I shall only use them when Mr. and Mrs. Mellish come to me." And having shut up these haunted chambers, Mr. Floyd retired to that snug little study in which he kept his few relics of the sorrowful past. It may be said that the Scottish banker was a very stupid old man, and that he might have invited the county families to his gorgeous mansion; that he might have summoned his nephews and their wives, with all grand nephews and nieces appertaining, and might thus have made the place merry with the sound of fresh young voices, and the long corridors noisy with the patter of restless little feet. He might have lured literary and artistic celebrities to his lonely hearth-rug, and paraded the lions of the London season upon his velvet-pile. He might have entered the political arena, and have had himself nominated for Beckenham, Croydon, or West Wickham. He might have done almost anything; for he had very nearly as much money as Aladdin, and could have carried dishes of uncut diamonds to the father of any princess whom he might take it into his head to marry. He might have done almost anything, this ridiculous old banker; yet he did nothing but sit brooding over his lonely hearth--for he was old and feeble, and he sat by the fire even in the bright summer weather--thinking of the daughter who was far away. He thanked God for her happy home, for her devoted husband, for her secure and honourable position; and he would have given the last drop of his blood to obtain for her these advantages; but he was, after all, only mortal, and he would rather have had her by his side. Why did he not surround himself with society, as brisk Mrs. Alexander urged, when she found him looking pale and care-worn? Why? Because society was not Aurora. Because all the brightest _bon-mots_ of all the literary celebrities who have ever walked this earth seemed dull to him when compared with his daughter's idlest babble. Literary lions! Political notabilities! Out upon them! When Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton and Mr. Charles Dickens should call in Mr. Makepeace Thackeray and Mr. Wilkie Collins, to assist them in writing a work, in fifteen volumes or so, about Aurora, the banker would be ready to offer them a handsome sum for the copyright. Until then, he cared very little for the best book in Mr. Mudie's collection. When the members of the legislature should bring their political knowledge to bear upon Aurora, Mr. Archibald Floyd would be happy to listen to them. In the interim, he would have yawned in Lord Palmerston's face or turned his back upon Earl Russell. The banker had been a kind uncle, a good master, a warm friend, and a generous patron; but he had never loved any creature except his wife Eliza and the daughter she had left to his care. Life is not long enough to hold many such attachments as these; and the people who love very intensely are apt to concentrate the full force of their affection upon one object. For twenty years this black-eyed girl had been the idol before which the old man had knelt; and now that the divinity is taken away from him, he falls prostrate and desolate before the empty shrine. Heaven knows how bitterly this beloved child had made him suffer, how deeply she had plunged the reckless dagger to the very core of his loving heart, and how freely, gladly, tearfully, and hopefully he had forgiven her. But she had never atoned for the past. It is poor consolation which Lady Macbeth gives to her remorseful husband when she tells him that "what's done cannot be undone;" but it is painfully and terribly true. Aurora could not restore the year which she had taken out of her father's life, and which his anguish and despair had multiplied by ten. She could not restore the equal balance of the mind which had once experienced a shock so dreadful as to shatter its serenity, as we shatter the mechanism of a watch when we let it fall violently to the ground. The watchmaker patches up the damage, and gives us a new wheel here, and a spring there, and sets the hands going again; but they never go so smoothly as when the watch was fresh from the hands of the maker, and they are apt to stop suddenly with no shadow of warning. Aurora could not atone. Whatever the nature of that girlish error which made the mystery of her life, it was not to be undone. She could more easily have baled the ocean dry with a soup-ladle,--and I dare say she would gladly have gone to work to spoon out the salt water, if by so doing she could have undone that bygone mischief. But she could not; she could not! Her tears, her penitence, her affection, her respect, her devotion, could do much; but they could not do this. The old banker invited Talbot Bulstrode and his young wife to make themselves at home at Felden, and drive down to the Woods as freely as if the place had been some country mansion of their own. They came sometimes, and Talbot entertained his great uncle-in-law with the troubles of the Cornish miners, while Lucy sat listening to her husband's talk with unmitigated reverence and delight. Archibald Floyd made his guests very welcome upon these occasions, and gave orders that the oldest and costliest wines in the cellar should be brought out for the captain's entertainment, but sometimes in the very middle of Talbot's discourses upon political economy the old man would sigh wearily, and look with a dimly yearning gaze far away over the tree-tops in a northward direction, towards that distant Yorkshire household in which his daughter was the queen. Perhaps Mr. Floyd had never quite forgiven Talbot Bulstrode for the breaking off of the match between him and Aurora. The banker had certainly of the two suitors preferred John Mellish; but he would have considered it only correct if Captain Bulstrode had retired from the world upon the occasion of Aurora's marriage, and broken his heart in foreign exile, rather than advertising his indifference by a union with poor little Lucy. Archibald looked wonderingly at his fair-haired niece, as she sat before him in the deep bay-window, with the sunshine upon her amber tresses and the crisp folds of her peach-coloured dress, looking for all the world like one of the painted heroines so dear to the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, and marvelled how it was that Talbot could have come to admire her. She was very pretty, certainly, with pink cheeks, a white nose, and rose-coloured nostrils, and a species of beauty which consists in very careful finishing off and picking out of the features; but, oh, how tame, how cold, how weak, beside that Egyptian goddess, that Assyrian queen with the flashing eyes and the serpentine coils of purple-black hair! Talbot Bulstrode was very calm, very quiet, but apparently sufficiently happy. I use that word "sufficiently" advisedly. It is a dangerous thing to be too happy. Your high-pressure happiness, your sixty-miles-an-hour enjoyment, is apt to burst up and come to a bad end. Better the quietest parliamentary train, which starts very early in the morning and carries its passengers safe into the terminus when the shades of night come down, than that rabid, rushing express, which does the journey in a quarter of the time, but occasionally topples over a bank, or rides pickaback upon a luggage train, in its fiery impetuosity. Talbot Bulstrode was substantially happier with Lucy than he ever could have been with Aurora. His fair young wife's undemonstrative worship of him soothed and flattered him. Her gentle obedience, her entire concurrence in his every thought and whim, set his pride at rest. She was not eccentric, she was not impetuous. If he left her alone all day in the snug little house in Halfmoon Street which he had furnished before his marriage, he had no fear of her calling for her horse and scampering away into Rotten Row, with not so much as a groom to attend upon her. She was not strong-minded. She could be happy without the society of Newfoundlands and Skye terriers. She did not prefer Landseer's dog-pictures above all other examples of modern art. She might have walked down Regent Street a hundred times without being once tempted to loiter upon the curb-stone and bargain with suspicious-looking merchants for a "noice leetle dawg." She was altogether gentle and womanly, and Talbot had no fear to trust her to her own sweet will, and no need to impress upon her the necessity of lending her feeble little hands to the mighty task of sustaining the dignity of the Raleigh Bulstrodes. She would cling to him sometimes half lovingly, half timidly, and, looking up with a pretty deprecating smile into his coldly handsome face, ask him, falteringly, if he was _really_, REALLY happy. "Yes, my darling girl," the Cornish captain would answer, being very well accustomed to the question, "decidedly, very happy." His calm business-like tone would rather disappoint poor Lucy, and she would vaguely wish that her husband had been a little more like the heroes in the High-Church novels, and a little less devoted to Adam Smith, McCulloch, and the Cornish mines. "But you don't love me as you loved Aurora, Talbot?" (There were profane people who corrupted the captain's Christian name into "Tal;" but Mrs. Bulstrode was not more likely to avail herself of that disrespectful abbreviation than she was to address her gracious Sovereign as "Vic.") "But you don't love me as you loved Aurora, Talbot dear?" the pleading voice would urge, so tenderly anxious to be contradicted. "Not _as_ I loved Aurora, perhaps, darling." "Not as much?" "As much and better, my pet; with a more enduring and a wiser love." If this was a little bit of a fib when the captain first said it, is he to be utterly condemned for the falsehood? How could he resist the loving blue eyes so ready to fill with tears if he had answered coldly; the softly pensive voice, tremulous with emotion; the earnest face; the caressing hand laid so lightly upon his coat-collar? He must have been more than mortal had he given any but loving answers to those loving questions. The day soon came when his answers were no longer tinged with so much as the shadow of falsehood. His little wife crept stealthily, almost imperceptibly, into his heart; and if he remembered the fever-dream of the past, it was only to rejoice in the tranquil security of the present. Talbot Bulstrode and his wife were staying at Felden Woods for a few days during the burning July weather, and sat down to dinner with Mr. Floyd upon the day succeeding the night of the storm. They were disturbed in the very midst of that dinner by the unexpected arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, who rattled up to the door in a hired vehicle just as the second course was being placed upon the table. Archibald Floyd recognized the first murmur of his daughter's voice, and ran out into the hall to welcome her. She showed no eagerness to throw herself into her father's arms, but stood looking at John Mellish with a weary, absent expression, while the stalwart Yorkshireman allowed himself to be gradually disencumbered of a chaotic load of travelling-bags, sun-umbrellas, shawls, magazines, newspapers, and over-coats. "My darling, my darling!" exclaimed the banker, "what a happy surprise, what an unexpected pleasure!" She did not answer him, but, with her arms about his neck, looked mournfully into his face. "She would come," said John Mellish, addressing himself generally; "she would come. The deuce knows why! But she said she must come, and what could I do but bring her? If she asked me to take her to the moon, what could I do but take her? But she wouldn't bring any luggage to speak of, because we're going back to-morrow." "Going back to-morrow!" repeated Mr. Floyd; "impossible!" "Bless your heart!" cried John, "what's impossible to Lolly? If she wanted to go to the moon, she'd go, don't I tell you? She'd have a special engine, or a special balloon, or a special something or other, and she'd go. When we were in Paris she wanted to see the big fountains play; and she told me to write to the Emperor and ask him to have them set going for her. She did, by Jove!" Lucy Bulstrode came forward to bid her cousin welcome; but I fear that a sharp jealous pang thrilled through that innocent heart at the thought that those fatal black eyes were again brought to bear upon Talbot's life. Mrs. Mellish put her arms about her cousin as tenderly as if she had been embracing a child. "You here, dearest Lucy!" she said. "I am so very glad!" "He loves me," whispered little Mrs. Bulstrode, "and I never, never can tell you how good he is." "Of course not, my darling," answered Aurora, drawing her cousin aside while Mr. Mellish shook hands with his father-in-law and Talbot Bulstrode. "He is the most glorious of princes, the most perfect of saints, is he not? and you worship him all day; you sing silent hymns in his praise, and perform high mass in his honour, and go about telling his virtues upon an imaginary rosary. Ah, Lucy, how many kinds of love there are! and who shall say which is the best or highest? I see plain, blundering John Mellish yonder, with unprejudiced eyes; I know his every fault, I laugh at his every awkwardness. Yes, I laugh now, for he is dropping those things faster than the servants can pick them up." She stopped to point to poor John's chaotic burden. "I see all this as plainly as I see the deficiencies of the servant who stands behind my chair; and yet I love him with all my heart and soul, and I would not have one fault corrected, or one virtue exaggerated, for fear it should make him different to what he is." Lucy Bulstrode gave a little half-resigned sigh. "What a blessing that my poor cousin is happy!" she thought; "and yet how can she be otherwise than miserable with that absurd John Mellish?" What Lucy meant, perhaps, was this:--How could Aurora be otherwise than wretched in the companionship of a gentleman who had neither a straight nose nor dark hair? Some women never outlive that school-girl infatuation for straight noses and dark hair. Some girls would have rejected Napoleon the Great because he wasn't "tall," or would have turned up their noses at the author of 'Childe Harold' if they had happened to see him in a stand-up collar. If Lord Byron had never turned down his collars, would his poetry have been as popular as it was? If Mr. Alfred Tennyson were to cut his hair, would that operation modify our opinion of 'The Queen of the May'? Where does that marvellous power of association begin and end? Perhaps there may have been a reason for Aurora's contentment with her commonplace, prosaic husband. Perhaps she had learned at a very early period of her life that there are qualities even more valuable than exquisitely-modelled features or clustering locks. Perhaps, having begun to be foolish very early, she had outstripped her contemporaries in the race, and had earlier learned to be wise. Archibald Floyd led his daughter and her husband into the dining-room, and the dinner-party sat down again with the two unexpected guests, and the luke-warm salmon brought in again for Mr. and Mrs. Mellish. Aurora sat in her old place on her father's right hand. In the old girlish days Miss Floyd had never occupied the bottom of the table, but had loved best to sit close to that foolishly-doting parent, pouring out his wine for him in defiance of the servants, and doing other loving offices which were deliciously inconvenient to the old man. To-day Aurora seemed especially affectionate. That fondly-clinging manner had all its ancient charm to the banker. He put down his glass with a tremulous hand to gaze at his darling child, and was dazzled with her beauty, and drunken with the happiness of having her near him. "But, my darling," he said, by-and-by, "what do you mean by talking about going back to Yorkshire to-morrow?" "Nothing, papa, except that I _must_ go," answered Mrs. Mellish, determinedly. "But why come, dear, if you could only stop one night?" "Because I wanted to see you, dearest father, and talk to you about--about money matters." "That's it," exclaimed John Mellish, with his mouth half full of salmon and lobster-sauce. "That's it! Money matters! That's all I can get out of her. She goes out late last night, and roams about the garden, and comes in wet through and through, and says she must come to London about money matters. What should she want with money matters? If she wants money, she can have as much as she wants. She shall write the figures, and I'll sign the cheque; or she shall have a dozen blank cheques to fill in just as she pleases. What is there upon this earth that I'd refuse her? If she dipped a little too deep, and put more money than she could afford upon the bay filly, why doesn't she come to me instead of bothering you about money matters? You know I said so in the train, Aurora, ever so many times. Why bother your poor papa about it?" The poor papa looked wonderingly from his daughter to his daughter's husband. What did it all mean? Trouble, vexation, weariness of spirit, humiliation, disgrace? Ah, Heaven help that enfeebled mind whose strength has been shattered by one great shock! Archibald Floyd dreaded the token of a coming storm in every chance cloud on the summer's sky. "Perhaps I may prefer to spend my _own_ money, Mr. John Mellish," answered Aurora, "and pay any foolish bets I have chosen to make out of my _own_ purse, without being under an obligation to any one." Mr. Mellish returned to his salmon in silence. "There is no occasion for a great mystery, papa," resumed Aurora; "I want some money for a particular purpose, and I have come to consult with you about my affairs. There is nothing very extraordinary in that, I suppose?" Mrs. John Mellish tossed her head, and flung this sentence at the assembly, as if it had been a challenge. Her manner was so defiant, that even Talbot and Lucy felt called upon to respond with a gentle dissenting murmur. "No, no, of course not; nothing more natural," muttered the captain; but he was thinking all the time,--"Thank God I married the other one." After dinner the little party strolled out of the drawing-room windows on to the lawn, and away towards that iron bridge upon which Aurora had stood, with her dog by her side, less than two years ago, on the occasion of Talbot Bulstrode's second visit to Felden Woods. Lingering upon that bridge on this tranquil summer's evening, what could the captain do but think of that September day, barely two years agone? Barely two years! not two years! And how much had been done and thought and suffered since! How contemptible was the narrow space of time! yet what terrible eternities of anguish, what centuries of heart-break, had been compressed into that pitiful sum of days and weeks! When the fraudulent partner in some house of business puts the money which is not his own upon a Derby favourite, and goes home at night a loser, it is strangely difficult for that wretched defaulter to believe that it is not twelve hours since he travelled the road to Epsom confident of success, and calculating how he should invest his winnings. Talbot Bulstrode was very silent, thinking of the influence which this family of Felden Woods had had upon his destiny. His little Lucy saw that silence and thoughtfulness, and, stealing softly to her husband, linked her arm in his. She had a right to do it now. Yes, to pass her little soft white hand under his coat-sleeve, and even look up, almost boldly, in his face. "Do you remember when you first came to Felden, and we stood upon this very bridge?" she asked: for she too had been thinking of that faraway time in the bright September of '57. "Do you remember, Talbot dear?" She had drawn him away from the banker and his children, in order to ask this all-important question. "Yes, perfectly, darling. As well as I remember your graceful figure seated at the piano in the long drawing-room, with the sunshine on your hair." "You remember that!--you remember _me!_" exclaimed Lucy, rapturously. "Very well, indeed." "But I thought--that is, I know--that you were in love with Aurora then." "I think not." "You only think not?" "How can I tell!" cried Talbot. "I freely confess that my first recollection connected with this place is of a gorgeous black-eyed creature, with scarlet in her hair; and I can no more disassociate her image from Felden Woods than I can, with my bare right hand, pluck up the trees which give the place its name. But if you entertain one distrustful thought of that pale shadow of the past, you do yourself and me a grievous wrong. I made a mistake, Lucy; but, thank Heaven! I saw it in time." It is to be observed that Captain Bulstrode was always peculiarly demonstrative in his gratitude to Providence for his escape from the bonds which were to have united him to Aurora. He also made a great point of the benign compassion in which he held John Mellish. But in despite of this, he was apt to be rather captious and quarrelsomely disposed towards the Yorkshireman; and I doubt if John's little stupidities and weaknesses were, on the whole, very displeasing to him. There are some wounds which never quite heal. The jagged flesh may reunite; cooling medicines may subdue the inflammation; even the scar left by the dagger-thrust may wear away, until it disappears in that gradual transformation which every atom of us is supposed by physiologists to undergo; but the wound _has been_, and to the last hour of our lives there are unfavourable winds which can make us wince with the old pain. Aurora treated her cousin's husband with the calm cordiality which she might have felt for a brother. She bore no grudge against him for the old desertion; for she was happy with her husband. She was happy with the man who loved and believed in her, with a strength of confidence which had survived every trial of his simple faith. Mrs. Mellish and Lucy wandered away among the flower-beds by the water-side, leaving the gentlemen on the bridge. "So you are very, very happy, my Lucy?" said Aurora. "Oh, yes, yes, dear. How could I be otherwise? Talbot is so good to me. I know, of course, that he loved you first, and that he doesn't love me quite--in the same way, you know--perhaps, in fact--not as much." Lucy Bulstrode was never tired of harping on this unfortunate minor string. "But I am very happy. You must come and see us, Aurora dear. Our house is so pretty!" Mrs. Bulstrode hereupon entered into a detailed description of the furniture and decorations in Halfmoon Street, which is perhaps scarcely worthy of record. Aurora listened rather absently to the long catalogue of upholstery, and yawned several times before her cousin had finished. "It's a very pretty house, I dare say, Lucy," she said at last, "and John and I will be very glad to come and see you some day. I wonder, Lucy, if I were to come in any trouble or disgrace to your door, whether you would turn me away?" "Trouble! disgrace!" repeated Lucy looking frightened. "You wouldn't turn me away, Lucy, would you? No; I know you better than that. You'd let me in secretly, and hide me away in one of the servants' bedrooms, and bring me food by stealth, for fear the captain should discover the forbidden guest beneath his roof. You'd serve two masters, Lucy, in fear and trembling." Before Mrs. Bulstrode could make any answer to this extraordinary speech the approach of the gentlemen interrupted the feminine conference. It was scarcely a lively evening, this July sunset at Felden Woods. Archibald Floyd's gladness in his daughter's presence was something damped by the peculiarity of her visit; John Mellish had some shadowy remnants of the previous night's disquietude hanging about him; Talbot Bulstrode was thoughtful and moody; and poor little Lucy was tortured by vague fears of her brilliant cousin's influence. I don't suppose that any member of that "attenuated" assembly felt very much regret when the great clock in the stable-yard struck eleven, and the jingling bedroom candlesticks were brought into the room. Talbot and his wife were the first to say good-night. Aurora lingered at her father's side, and John Mellish looked doubtfully at his dashing white sergeant, waiting to receive the word of command. "You may go, John," she said; "I want to speak to papa." "But I can wait, Lolly." "On no account," answered Mrs. Mellish sharply. "I am going into papa's study to have a quiet confabulation with him. What end would be gained by your waiting? You've been yawning in our faces all the evening. You're tired to death, I know, John; so go at once, my precious pet, and leave papa and me to discuss our money matters." She pouted her rosy lips, and stood upon tiptoe, while the big Yorkshireman kissed her. "How you do henpeck me, Lolly!" he said rather sheepishly. "Good-night, sir. God bless you! Take care of my darling." He shook hands with Mr. Floyd, parting from him with that half-affectionate, half-reverent manner which he always displayed to Aurora's father. Mrs. Mellish stood for some moments silent and motionless, looking after her husband; while her father, watching her looks, tried to read their meaning. How quiet are the tragedies of real life! That dreadful scene between the Moor and his Ancient takes place in the open street of Cyprus, according to modern usage. I can scarcely fancy Othello and Iago debating about poor Desdemona's honesty in St. Paul's Churchyard, or even in the market-place of a country town; but perhaps the Cyprus street was a dull one, a _cul-de-sac_, it may be, or at least a deserted thoroughfare, something like that in which Monsieur Melnotte falls upon the shoulder of General Damas and sobs out his lamentations. But our modern tragedies seem to occur indoors, and in places where we should least look for scenes of horror. Who can forget that tempestuous scene of jealous fury and mad violence which took place in a second floor in Northumberland Street, while the broad daylight was streaming in through the dusty windows, and the common London cries ascending from the pavement below? Any chance traveller driving from Beckenham to West Wickham would have looked, perhaps enviously, at the Felden mansion, and sighed to be lord of that fair expanse of park and garden; yet I doubt if in the county of Kent there was any creature more disturbed in mind than Archibald Floyd the banker. Those few moments during which Aurora stood in thoughtful silence were as so many hours to his anxious mind. At last she spoke. "Will you come to the study, papa?" she said; "this room is so big, and so dimly lighted. I always fancy there are listeners in the corners." She did not wait for an answer; but led the way to a room upon the other side of the hall,--the room in which she and her father had been so long closeted together upon the night before her departure for Paris. The crayon portrait of Eliza Floyd looked down upon Archibald and his daughter. The face wore so bright and genial a smile that it was difficult to believe that it was the face of the dead. The banker was the first to speak. "My darling girl," he said, "what is it you want with me?" "Money, papa. Two thousand pounds." She checked his gesture of surprise, and resumed before he could interrupt her. "The money you settled upon me on my marriage with John Mellish is invested in our own bank, I know. I know, too, that I can draw upon my account when and how I please; but I thought that if I wrote a cheque for two thousand pounds the unusual amount might attract attention,--and it might possibly fall into your hands. Had this occurred you would perhaps have been alarmed, at any rate astonished. I thought it best, therefore, to come to you myself and ask you for the money, especially as I must have it in notes." Archibald Floyd grew very pale. He had been standing while Aurora spoke; but as she finished he dropped into a chair near his little office table, and resting his elbow upon an open desk leaned his head on his hand. "What do you want money for, my dear?" he asked gravely. "Never mind that, papa. It is my money, is it not; and I may spend it as I please?" "Certainly, my dear, certainly," he answered, with some slight hesitation. "You shall spend whatever you please. I am rich enough to indulge any whim of yours, however foolish, however extravagant. But your marriage settlement was rather intended for the benefit of your children--than--than for--anything of this kind; and I scarcely know if you are justified in touching it without your husband's permission; especially as your pin-money is really large enough to enable you to gratify any reasonable wish." The old man pushed his gray hair away from his forehead with a weary action and a tremulous hand. Heaven knows that even in that desperate moment Aurora took notice of the feeble hand and the whitening hair. "_Give_ me the money, then, papa," she said. "Give it me from your own purse. You are rich enough to do that." "Rich enough! Yes, if it were twenty times the sum," answered the banker slowly. Then, with a sudden burst of passion, he exclaimed, "O Aurora, Aurora! why do you treat me so badly? Have I been so cruel a father that you can't confide in me? Aurora, why do you want this money?" She clasped her hands tightly together, and stood looking at him for a few moments irresolutely. "I cannot tell you," she said, with grave determination. "If I were to tell you--what--what I think of doing, you might thwart me in my purpose. Father! father!" she cried, with a sudden change in her voice and manner, "I am hemmed in on every side by difficulty and danger; and there is only one way of escape--except death. Unless I take that one way, I must die. I am very young,--too young and happy, perhaps, to die willingly. Give me the means of escape." "You mean this sum of money?" "Yes." "You have been pestered by some connection--some old associate of--his?" "No!" "What then?" "I cannot tell you." They were silent for some moments. Archibald Floyd looked imploringly at his child, but she did not answer that earnest gaze. She stood before him with a proudly downcast look: the eyelids drooping over the dark eyes, not in shame, not in humiliation; only in the stern determination to avoid being subdued by the sight of her father's distress. "Aurora," he said at last, "why not take the wisest and the safest step? Why not tell John Mellish the truth? The danger would disappear; the difficulty would be overcome. If you are persecuted by this low rabble, who so fit as he to act for you? Tell him, Aurora--tell him all!" "No, no, no!" She lifted her hands and clasped them upon her pale face. "No, no; not for all this wide world!" she cried. "Aurora," said Archibald Floyd, with a gathering sternness upon his face, which overspread the old man's benevolent countenance like some dark cloud,--"Aurora,--God forgive me for saying such words to my own child,--but I must insist upon your telling me that this is no new infatuation, no new madness, which leads you to----" He was unable to finish his sentence. Mrs. Mellish dropped her hands from before her face, and looked at him with her eyes flashing fire, and her cheeks in a crimson blaze. "Father," she cried, "how dare you ask me such a question? New infatuation! New madness! Have I suffered so little, do you think, from the folly of my youth? Have I paid so small a price for the mistake of my girlhood, that you should have cause to say these words to me to-night? Do I come of so bad a race," she said, pointing indignantly to her mother's portrait, "that you should think so vilely of me? Do I----" Her tragical appeal was rising to its climax, when she dropped suddenly at her father's feet, and burst into a tempest of sobs. "Papa, papa, pity me!" she cried; "pity me!" He raised her in his arms, and drew her to him, and comforted her, as he had comforted her for the loss of a Scotch terrier-pup twelve years before, when she was small enough to sit on his knee, and nestle her head in his waistcoat. "Pity you, my dear!" he said. "What is there I would not do for you to save you one moment's sorrow? If my worthless life could help you; if----" "You will give me the money, papa?" she asked, looking up at him half coaxingly through her tears. "Yes, my darling; to-morrow morning." "In bank-notes?" "In any manner you please. But, Aurora, why see these people? Why listen to their disgraceful demands? Why not tell the truth?" "Ah, why, indeed!" she said thoughtfully. "Ask me no questions, dear papa; but let me have the money to-morrow, and I promise you that this shall be the very last you hear of my old troubles." She made this promise with such perfect confidence that her father was inspired with a faint ray of hope. "Come, darling papa," she said; "your room is near mine; let us go up-stairs together." She entwined her arm in his, and led him up the broad staircase; only parting from him at the door of his room. Mr. Floyd summoned his daughter into the study early the next morning, while Talbot Bulstrode was opening his letters, and Lucy strolling up and down the terrace with John Mellish. "I have telegraphed for the money, my darling," the banker said. "One of the clerks will be here with it by the time we have finished breakfast." Mr. Floyd was right. A card inscribed with the name of a Mr. George Martin was brought to him during breakfast. "Mr. Martin will be good enough to wait in my study," he said. Aurora and her father found the clerk seated at the open window, looking admiringly through festoons of foliage, which clustered round the frame of the lattice, into the richly-cultivated garden. Felden Woods was a sacred spot in the eyes of the junior clerks in Lombard Street, and a drive to Beckenham in a Hansom cab on a fine summer's morning, to say nothing of such chance refreshment as pound-cake and old Madeira, or cold fowl and Scotch ale, was considered no small treat. Mr. George Martin, who was labouring under the temporary affliction of being only nineteen years of age, rose in a confused flutter of respect and surprise, and blushed very violently at sight of Mrs. Mellish. Aurora responded to his reverential salute with such a pleasant nod as she might have bestowed upon the younger dogs in the stable-yard, and seated herself opposite to him at the little table by the window. It was such an excruciatingly narrow table that the crisp ribbons about Aurora's muslin dress rustled against the drab trousers of the junior clerk as Mrs. Mellish sat down. The young man unlocked a little morocco pouch which he wore suspended from a strap across his shoulder, and produced a roll of crisp notes; so crisp, so white and new, that, in their unsullied freshness, they looked more like notes on the Bank of Elegance than the circulating medium of this busy, money-making nation. "I have brought the cash for which you telegraphed, sir," said the clerk. "Very good, Mr. Martin," answered the banker. "Here is my cheque ready written for you. The notes are----?" "Twenty fifties, twenty-five twenties, fifty tens," the clerk said glibly. Mr. Floyd took the little bundle of tissue-paper, and counted the notes with the professional rapidity which he still retained. "Quite correct," he said, ringing the bell, which was speedily answered by a simpering footman. "Give this gentleman some lunch. You will find the Madeira very good," he added kindly, turning to the blushing junior; "it's a wine that is dying out; and by the time you're my age, Mr. Martin, you won't be able to get such a glass as I can offer you to-day. Good morning." Mr. George Martin clutched his hat nervously from the empty chair on which he had placed it, knocked down a heap of papers with his elbow, bowed, blushed, and stumbled out of the room, under convoy of the simpering footman, who nourished a profound contempt for the young men from the "hoffice." "Now, my darling," said Mr. Floyd, "here is the money. Though, mind, I protest against----" "No, no, papa, not a word," she interrupted; "I thought that was all settled last night." He sighed with the same weary sigh as on the night before, and seating himself at his desk, dipped a pen into the ink. "What are you going to do, papa?" "I'm only going to take the numbers of the notes." "There is no occasion." "There is always occasion to be business-like," said the old man firmly, as he checked the numbers of the notes one by one upon a sheet of paper with rapid precision. Aurora paced up and down the room impatiently while this operation was going forward. "How difficult it has been to me to get this money!" she exclaimed. "If I had been the wife and daughter of two of the poorest men in Christendom, I could scarcely have had more trouble about this two thousand pounds. And now you keep me here while you number the notes, not one of which is likely to be exchanged in this country." "I learnt to be business-like when I was very young, Aurora," answered Mr. Floyd, "and I have never been able to forget my old habits." He completed his task in defiance of his daughter's impatience, and handed her the packet of notes when he had done. "I will keep the list of numbers, my dear," he said. "If I were to give it to you, you would most likely lose it." He folded the sheet of paper and put it in a drawer of his desk. "Twenty years hence, Aurora," he said, "should I live so long, I should be able to produce this paper, if it were wanted." "Which it never will be, you dear methodical papa," answered Aurora. "My troubles are ended now. Yes," she added, in a graver tone, "I pray God that my troubles may be ended now." She encircled her arms about her father's neck, and kissed him tenderly. "I must leave you, dearest, to-day," she said; "you must not ask me why,--you must ask me nothing! You must only love and trust me,--as my poor John trusts me,--faithfully, hopefully, through everything." CHAPTER VII. CAPTAIN PRODDER. While the Doncaster express was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Mellish northwards, another express journeyed from Liverpool to London with its load of passengers. Amongst these passengers there was a certain broad-shouldered and rather bull-necked individual, who attracted considerable attention during the journey, and was an object of some interest to his fellow-travellers and the railway officials at the two or three stations where the train stopped. He was a man of about fifty years of age, but his years were worn very lightly, and only recorded by some wandering streaks and patches of gray amongst his thick blue-black stubble of hair. His complexion, naturally dark, had become of such a bronzed and coppery tint by perpetual exposure to meridian suns, tropical hot winds, the fiery breath of the simoom, and the many other trifling inconveniences attendant upon an out-door life, as to cause him to be frequently mistaken for the inhabitant of some one of those countries in which the complexion of the natives fluctuates between burnt sienna, Indian red, and Vandyke brown. But it was rarely long before he took an opportunity to rectify this mistake, and to express that hearty contempt and aversion for all _furriners_ which is natural to the unspoiled and unsophisticated Briton. Upon this particular occasion he had not been half an hour in the society of his fellow-passengers before he had informed them that he was a native of Liverpool, and the captain of a merchant vessel trading, in a manner of speaking, he said, everywhere; that he had run away from his father and his home at a very early period of his life; and had shifted for himself in different parts of the globe ever since: that his Christian name was Samuel and his surname Prodder, and that his father had been, like himself, a captain in the merchant's service. He chewed so much tobacco and drank so much fiery Jamaica rum from a pocket-pistol in the intervals of his conversation, that the first-class compartment in which he sat was odorous with the compound perfume. But he was such a hearty, loud-spoken fellow, and there was such a pleasant twinkle in his black eyes, that the passengers (with the exception of one crusty old lady) treated him with great good-humour, and listened very patiently to his talk. "Chewin' aint smokin', you know, is it?" he said, with a great guffaw, as he cut himself a terrible block of Cavendish; "and railway companies aint got any laws against that. They can put a fellow's pipe out, but he can chew his quid in their faces; though I won't say which is wust for their carpets, neither." I am sorry to be compelled to confess that this brown-visaged merchant-captain, who said _wust_, and chewed Cavendish tobacco, was uncle to Mrs. John Mellish of Mellish Park; and that the motive for this very journey was neither more nor less than his desire to become acquainted with his niece. He imparted this fact--as well as much other information relating to himself, his tastes, habits, adventures, opinions, and sentiments--to his travelling companions in the course of the journey. "Do you know for why I'm going to London by this identical train?" he asked generally, as the passengers settled themselves into their places after taking refreshment at Rugby. The gentlemen looked over their newspapers at the talkative sailor, and a young lady looked up from her book; but nobody volunteered to speculate an opinion upon the mainspring of Mr. Prodder's actions. "I'll tell you for why," resumed the merchant captain, addressing the assembly, as if in answer to their eager questioning. "I'm going to see my niece, which I have never seen before. When I ran away from father's ship, the _Ventur'some_, nigh upon forty year ago, and went aboard the craft of a captain by the name of Mobley, which was a good master to me for many a day, I had a little sister as I had left behind at Liverpool, which was dearer to me than my life." He paused to refresh himself with rather a demonstrative sip from the pocket-pistol. "But if _you_," he continued generally, "if _you_ had a father that'd fetch you a clout of the head as soon as look at you, _you'd_ run away perhaps; and so did I. I took the opportunity to be missin' one night as father was settin' sail from Yarmouth Harbour; and not settin' that wonderful store by me which some folks do by their only sons, he shipped his anchor without stoppin' to ask many questions, and left me hidin' in one of the little alleys which cut the Town of Yarmouth through and across, like they cut the cakes they make there. There was many in Yarmouth that knew me, and there wasn't one that didn't say, 'Sarve him right,' when they heard how I'd given father the slip; and the next day Cap'en Mobley gave me a berth as cabin-boy aboard the _Mariar Anne_." Mr. Prodder again paused to partake of refreshment from his portable spirit-store, and this time politely handed the pocket-pistol to the company. "Now perhaps you'll not believe me," he resumed, after his friendly offer had been refused, and the wicker-covered vessel replaced in his capacious pocket,--"you won't perhaps believe me when I tell you, as I tell you candid, that up to last Saturday week I never could find the time nor the opportunity to go back to Liverpool, and ask after the little sister that I'd left no higher than the kitchen table, and that had cried fit to break her poor little heart when I went away. But whether you believe it or whether you don't, it's as true as gospel," cried the sailor, thumping his ponderous fist upon the padded elbow of the compartment in which he sat; "it's as true as gospel. I've coasted America, North and South; I've carried West-Indian goods to the East Indies, and East-Indian goods to the West Indies; I've traded in Norwegian goods between Norway and Hull; I've carried Sheffield goods from Hull to South America; I've traded between all manner of countries and all manner of docks; but somehow or other I've never had the time to spare to go on shore at Liverpool, and find out the narrow little street in which I left my sister Eliza, no higher than the table, more than forty years ago, until last Saturday was a week. Last Saturday was a week I touched at Liverpool with a cargo of furs and poll-parrots,--what you may call fancy goods; and I said to my mate, I said, 'I'll tell you what I'll do, Jack; I'll go ashore, and see my little sister Eliza.'" He paused once more, and a softening change came over the brightness of his black eyes. This time he did not apply himself to the pocket-pistol. This time he brushed the back of his brown hand across his eye-lashes, and brought it away with a drop or two of moisture glittering upon the bronzed skin. Even his voice was changed when he continued, and had mellowed to a richer and more mournful depth, until it very much resembled the melodious utterance which twenty-one years before had assisted to render Miss Eliza Percival the popular tragedian of the Preston and Bradford circuit. "God forgive me," continued the sailor, in that altered voice; "but throughout my voyages I'd never thought of my sister Eliza but in two ways; sometimes one, sometimes t'other. One way of thinking of her, and expecting to see her, was as the little sister that I'd left, not altered by so much as one lock of her hair being changed from the identical curl into which it was twisted the morning she cried and clung about me on board the _Ventur'some_, having come aboard to wish father and me good-bye. Perhaps I oftenest thought of her in this way. Anyhow, it was in this way, and no other, that I always saw her in my dreams. The other way of thinking of her, and expectin' to see her, was as a handsome, full-grown, buxom, married woman, with a troop of saucy children hanging on to her apron-string, and every one of 'em askin' what Uncle Samuel had brought 'em from foreign parts. Of course this fancy was the most rational of the two; but the other fancy, of the little child with the long black curly hair, would come to me very often, especially at night when all was quiet aboard, and when I took the wheel in a spell while the helmsman turned in. Lord bless you, ladies and gentlemen! many a time of a starlight night, when we've been in them latitudes where the stars are brighter than common, I've seen the floating mists upon the water take the very shape of that light figure of a little girl in a white pinafore, and come skipping towards me across the waves. I don't mean that I've seen a ghost, you know; but I mean that I could have seen one if I'd had the mind, and that I've seen as much of a one as folks ever do see upon this earth: the ghosts of their own memories and their own sorrows, mixed up with the mists of the sea or the shadows of the trees wavin' back'ards and for'ards in the moonlight, or a white curtain agen a window, or something of that sort. Well, I was such a precious old fool with these fancies and fantigs,"--Mr. Samuel Prodder seemed rather to pride himself upon the latter word, as something out of the common,--"that when I went ashore at Liverpool, last Saturday was a week, I couldn't keep my eyes off the little girls in white pinafores as passed me by in the streets, thinkin' to see my Eliza skippin' along, with her black curls flyin' in the wind, and a bit of chalk, to play hop-scotch with, in her hand; so I was obliged to say to myself, quite serious, 'Now, Samuel Prodder, the little girl you're a lookin' for must be fifty years of age, if she's a day, and it's more than likely that she's left off playin' hop-scotch and wearin' white pinafores by this time.' If I hadn't kept repeatin' this, internally like, all the way I went, I should have stopped half the little girls in Liverpool to ask 'em if their name was Eliza, and if they'd ever had a brother, as ran away and was lost. I had only one thought of how to set about findin' her, and that was to walk straight to the back street in which I remembered leavin' her forty years before. I'd no thought that those forty years could make any more change than to change her from a girl to a woman, and it seemed almost strange to me that they could make as much change as that. There was one thing I never thought of; and if my heart beat loud and quick when I knocked at the little front-door of the very identical house in which we'd lodged, it was with nothing but hope and joy. The forty years that had sent railways spinning all over England hadn't made much difference in the old house; it was forty years dirtier, perhaps, and forty years shabbier, and it stood in the very heart of the town instead of on the edge of the open country; but, exceptin' that, it was pretty much the same; and I expected to see the same landlady come to open the door, with the same dirty artificial flowers in her cap, and the same old slippers down at heel scrapin' after her along the bit of oilcloth. It gave me a kind of a turn when I didn't see this identical landlady, though she'd have been turned a hundred years old if she'd been alive; and I might have prepared myself for the disappointment if I'd thought of that, but I hadn't; and when the door was opened by a young woman with sandy hair, brushed backwards as if she'd been a Chinese, and no eyebrows to speak of, I did feel disappointed. The young woman had a baby in her arms, a black-eyed baby, with its eyes opened so wide that it seemed as if it had been very much surprised with the look of things on first comin' into the world, and hadn't quite recovered itself yet; so I thought to myself, as soon as I clapped eyes on the little one, why, as sure as a gun, that's my sister Eliza's baby; and my sister Eliza's married, and lives here still. But the young woman had never heard the name of Prodder, and didn't think there was anybody in the neighbourhood as ever had. I felt my heart, which had been beatin' louder and quicker every minute, stop all of a sudden when she said this, and seemed to drop down like a dead weight; but I thanked her for her civil answers to my questions, and went on to the next house to inquire there. I might have saved myself the trouble, for I made the same inquiries at every house on each side of the street, going straight from door to door, till the people thought I was a sea-farin' tax-gatherer; but nobody had never heard the name of Prodder, and the oldest inhabitant in the street hadn't lived there ten years. I was quite disheartened when I left the neighbourhood, which had once been so familiar, and which seemed so strange and small and mean and shabby now. I'd had so little thought of failing to find Eliza in the very house in which I'd left her, that I'd made no plans beyond. So I was brought to a dead stop; and I went back to the tavern where I'd left my carpet-bag, and I had a chop brought me for my dinner, and I sat with my knife and fork before me thinkin' what I was to do next. When Eliza and I had parted forty years before, I remembered father leavin' her in charge of a sister of my mother's (my poor mother had been dead a year), and I thought to myself, the only chance there is left for me now is to find Aunt Sarah." By the time Mr. Prodder arrived at this stage of his narrative his listeners had dropped off gradually, the gentlemen returning to their newspapers, and the young lady to her book, until the merchant-captain found himself reduced to communicate his adventures to one goodnatured-looking young fellow, who seemed interested in the brown-faced sailor, and encouraged him every now and then with an assenting nod or a friendly "Ay, ay, to be sure." "'The only chance I can see,' ses I," continued Mr. Prodder, "'is to find aunt Sarah.' I found aunt Sarah. She'd been keepin' a shop in the general line when I went away forty year ago, and she was keepin' the same shop in the general line when I came back last Saturday week; and there was the same flyblown handbills of ships that was to sail immediate, and that had sailed two year ago, accordin' to the date upon the bills; and the same wooden sugar-loaves wrapped up in white paper; and the same lattice-work gate, with a bell that rang as loud as if it was meant to give the alarm to all Liverpool as well as to my aunt Sarah in the parlour behind the shop. The poor old soul was standing behind the counter, serving two ounces of tea to a customer, when I went in. Forty years had made so much change in her, that I shouldn't have known her if I hadn't known the shop. She wore black curls upon her forehead, and a brooch like a brass butterfly in the middle of the curls, where the parting ought to have been, and she wore a beard; and the curls were false, but the beard wasn't; and her voice was very deep, and rather manly, and she seemed to me to have grown manly altogether in the forty years that I'd been away. She tied up the two ounces of tea, and then asked me what I pleased to want. I told her that I was little Sam, and that I wanted my sister Eliza." The merchant-captain paused, and looked out of the window for upwards of five minutes before he resumed his story. When he did resume it, he spoke in a very low voice, and in short detached sentences, as if he couldn't trust himself with long ones for fear he should break down in the middle of them. "Eliza had been dead one-and-twenty years. Aunt Sarah told me all about it. She'd tried the artificial flower-makin'; and she hadn't liked it. And she'd turned play-actress. And when she was nine-and-twenty, she'd married; she'd married a gentleman that had no end of money; and she'd gone to live at a fine place somewheres in Kent. I've got the name of it wrote down in my memorandum-book. But she'd been a good and generous friend to aunt Sarah; and aunt Sarah was to have gone to Kent to see her, and to stop all the summer with her. But while aunt was getting ready to go for that very visit, my sister Eliza died, leaving a daughter behind her, which is the niece that I'm goin' to see. I sat down upon the three-legged wooden stool against the counter, and hid my face in my hands; and I thought of the little girl that I'd seen playin' at hop-scotch forty years before, until I thought my heart would burst; but I didn't shed a tear. Aunt Sarah took a big brooch out of her collar, and showed me a ring of black hair behind a bit of glass, with a gold frame round it. 'Mr. Floyd had this brooch made a purpose for me,' she said; 'he has always been a liberal gentleman to me, and he comes down to Liverpool once in two or three years, and takes tea with me in yon back parlour; and I've no call to keep a shop, for he allows me a handsome income; but I should die of the mopes if it wasn't for the business.' There was Eliza's name and the date of her death engraved upon the back of the brooch. I tried to remember where I'd been and what I'd been doing that year. But I couldn't, sir. All the life that I looked back upon seemed muddled and mixed up, like a dream; and I could only think of the little sister I'd said good-bye to, aboard the _Ventur'some_ forty years before. I got round by little and little, and I was able half an hour afterwards to listen to aunt Sarah's talk. She was nigh upon seventy, poor old soul, and she'd always been a good one to talk. She asked me if it wasn't a great thing for the family that Eliza had made such a match; and if I wasn't proud to think that my niece was a young heiress, that spoke all manner of languages, and rode in her own carriage? and if that oughtn't to be a consolation to me? But I told her that I'd rather have found my sister married to the poorest man in Liverpool, and alive and well, to bid me welcome back to my native town. Aunt Sarah said if those were my religious opinions, she didn't know what to say to me. And she showed me a picture of Eliza's tomb in Beckenham churchyard, that had been painted expressly for her by Mr. Floyd's orders. Floyd was the name of Eliza's husband. And then she showed me a picture of Miss Floyd, the heiress, at the age of ten, which was the image of Eliza all but the pinafore; and it's that very Miss Floyd that I'm going to see." "And I dare say," said the kind listener, "that Miss Floyd will be very much pleased to see her sailor uncle." "Well, sir, I think she will," answered the captain. "I don't say it from any pride I take in myself, Lord knows; for I know I'm a rough and ready sort of a chap, that 'u'd be no great ornament in a young lady's drawing-room; but if Eliza's daughter's anything like Eliza, I know what she'll say and what she'll do, as well as if I see her saying and doing it. She'll clap her pretty little hands together, and she'll clasp her arms round my neck, and she'll say, 'Lor, uncle, I am _so_ glad to see you!' And when I tell her that I was her mother's only brother, and that me and her mother was very fond of one another, she'll burst out a cryin', and she'll hide her pretty face upon my shoulder, and she'll sob as if her dear little heart was going to break for love of the mother that she never saw. That's what she'll do," said Captain Prodder, "and I don't think the truest born lady that ever was could do any better." The goodnatured traveller heard a great deal more from the captain of his plans for going to Beckenham to claim his niece's affections, in spite of all the fathers in the world. "Mr. Floyd's a good man, I dare say, sir," he said; "but he's kept his daughter apart from her aunt Sarah, and it is but likely he'll try to keep her from me. But if he does he'll find he's got a toughish customer to deal with in Captain Samuel Prodder." The merchant-captain reached Beckenham as the evening shadows were deepening amongst the Felden oaks and beeches, and the long rays of red sunshine fading slowly out in the low sky. He drove up to the old red-brick mansion in a hired fly, and presented himself at the hall-door just as Mr. Floyd was leaving the dining-room, to finish the evening in his lonely study. The banker paused, to glance with some slight surprise at the loosely-clad, weather-beaten looking figure of the sailor, and mechanically put his hand amongst the gold and silver in his pocket. He thought the seafaring man had come to present some petition for himself and his comrades. A life-boat was wanted somewhere on the Kentish coast, perhaps: and this pleasant-looking, bronze-coloured man had come to collect funds for the charitable work. He was thinking this, when, in reply to the town-bred footman's question, the sailor uttered the name of Prodder; and in the one moment of its utterance his thoughts flew back over one-and-twenty years, and he was madly in love with a beautiful actress, who owned blushingly to that plebeian cognomen. The banker's voice was faint and husky as he turned to the captain, and bade him welcome to Felden Woods. "Step this way, Mr. Prodder," he said, pointing to the open door of the study. "I am very glad to see you. I--I--have often heard of you. You are my dead wife's runaway brother." Even amidst his sorrowful recollection of that brief happiness of the past, some natural alloy of pride had its part, and he closed the study-door carefully before he said this. "God bless you, sir," he said, holding out his hand to the sailor. "I see I am right. Your eyes are like Eliza's. You and yours will always be welcome beneath my roof. Yes, Samuel Prodder,--you see I know your Christian name;--and when I die you will find you have not been forgotten." The captain thanked his brother-in-law heartily, and told him that he neither asked or wished for anything except permission to see his niece, Aurora Floyd. As he made this request, he looked towards the door of the little room, evidently expecting that the heiress might enter at any moment. He looked terribly disappointed when the banker told him that Aurora was married, and lived near Doncaster; but that if he had happened to come ten hours earlier he would have found her at Felden Woods. Ah! who has not heard those common words? Who has not been told that, if they had come sooner, or gone earlier, or hurried their pace, or slackened it, or done something that they have not done, the whole course of life would have been otherwise? Who has not looked back regretfully at the past, which, differently fashioned, would have made the present other than it is? We think it hard that we cannot take the fabric of our life to pieces, as a mantua-maker unpicks her work, and make up the stuff another way. How much waste we might save in the cloth, how much better a shape we might make the garment, if we only had the right to use our scissors and needle again, and re-fashion the past by the experience of the present! "To think, now, that I should have been comin' yesterday!" exclaimed the captain; "but put off my journey because it was a Friday! If I'd only knowed!" Of course, Captain Prodder, if you had only known what it was not given you to know, you would no doubt have acted more prudently; and so would many other people. If Mr. William Palmer had known that detection was to dog the footsteps of crime, and the gallows to follow at the heels of detection, he would most likely have hesitated long before he mixed the strychnine-pills for the friend whom, with cordial voice, he was entreating to be of good cheer. We spend the best part of our lives in making mistakes, and the poor remainder in reflecting how very easily we might have avoided them. Mr. Floyd explained, rather lamely, perhaps, how it was that the Liverpool spinster had never been informed of her grand-niece's marriage with Mr. John Mellish; and the merchant-captain announced his intention of starting for Doncaster early the next morning. "Don't think that I want to intrude upon your daughter, sir," he said, as if perfectly acquainted with the banker's nervous dread of such a visit. "I know her station's high above me, though she's my own sister's only child; and I make no doubt that those about her would be ready enough to turn up their noses at a poor old salt that has been tossed and tumbled about in every variety of weather for this forty year. I only want to see her once in a way, and to hear her say, perhaps, 'Lor, uncle, what a rum old chap you are!' There!" exclaimed Samuel Prodder, suddenly, "I think if I could only once hear her call me uncle, I could go back to sea, and die happy, though I never came ashore again." CHAPTER VIII. "HE ONLY SAID, I AM A-WEARY." Mr. James Conyers found the long summer's days hang rather heavily upon his hands at Mellish Park, in the society of the rheumatic ex-trainer, the stable-boys, and Steeve Hargraves the "Softy," and with no literary resources except the last Saturday's 'Bell's Life,' and sundry flimsy sheets of shiny, slippery tissue-paper, forwarded him by post from King Charles's Croft, in the busy town of Leeds. He might have found plenty of work to do in the stables, perhaps, if he had had a mind to do it; but after the night of the storm there was a perceptible change in his manner; and the showy pretence of being very busy, which he had made on his first arrival at the Park, was now exchanged for a listless and undisguised dawdling and an unconcerned indifference, which caused the old trainer to shake his gray head, and mutter to his hangers-on that the new chap warn't up to mooch, and was evidently too grand for his business. Mr. James cared very little for the opinion of these simple Yorkshiremen; and he yawned in their faces, and stifled them with his cigar smoke, with a dashing indifference that harmonized well with the gorgeous tints of his complexion and the lustrous splendour of his lazy eyes. He had taken the trouble to make himself very agreeable on the day succeeding his arrival, and had distributed his hearty slaps on the shoulder and friendly digs in the ribs, right and left, until he slapped and dug himself into considerable popularity amongst the friendly rustics, who were ready to be bewitched by his handsome face and flashy manner. But after his interview with Mrs. Mellish in the cottage by the north gates, he seemed to abandon all desire to please, and to grow suddenly restless and discontented: so restless and so discontented that he felt inclined even to quarrel with the unhappy "Softy," and led his red-haired retainer a sufficiently uncomfortable life with his whims and vagaries. Stephen Hargraves bore this change in his new master's manner with wonderful patience. Rather too patiently, perhaps; with that slow, dogged, uncomplaining patience of those who keep something in reserve as a set-off against present forbearance, and who invite rather than avoid injury, rejoicing in anything which swells the great account, to be squared in future storm and fury. The "Softy" was a man who could hoard his hatred and vengeance, hiding the bad passions away in the dark corners of his poor shattered mind, and bringing them out in the dead of the night to "kiss and talk to," as the Moor's wife kissed and conversed with the strawberry-embroidered cambric. There must surely have been very little "society" at Cyprus, or Mrs. Othello could scarcely have been reduced to such insipid company. However it might be, Steeve bore Mr. Conyers's careless insolence so very meekly that the trainer laughed at his attendant for a poor-spirited hound, whom a pair of flashing black eyes and a lady's toy riding-whip could frighten out of the poor remnant of wit left in his muddled brain. He said something to this effect when Steeve displeased him once, in the course of the long, temper-trying summer's day; and the "Softy" turned away with something very like a chuckle of savage pleasure in acknowledgment of the compliment. He was more obsequious than ever after it, and was humbly thankful for the ends of cigars which the trainer liberally bestowed upon him, and went into Doncaster for more spirits and more cigars in the course of the day, and fetched and carried as submissively as that craven-spirited hound to which his employer had politely compared him. Mr. Conyers did not even make a pretence of going to look at the horses on this blazing 5th of July, but lolled on the window-sill, with his lame leg upon a chair, and his back against the framework of the little casement, smoking, drinking, and reading his price-lists all through the sunny day. The cold brandy-and-water which he poured, without half an hour's intermission, down his handsome throat, seemed to have far less influence upon him than the same amount of liquid would have had upon a horse. It would have put the horse out of condition, perhaps; but it had no effect whatever upon the trainer. Mrs. Powell, walking for the benefit of her health in the north shrubberies, and incurring imminent danger of a sun-stroke for the same praiseworthy reason, contrived to pass the lodge, and to see Mr. Conyers lounging, dark and splendid, on the window-sill, exhibiting a kit-cat of his handsome person framed in the clustering foliage which hung about the cottage walls. She was rather embarrassed by the presence of the "Softy," who was sweeping the door-step, and who gave her a glance of recognition as she passed,--a glance which might perhaps have said, "We know his secrets, you and I, handsome and insolent as he is; we know the paltry price at which he can be bought and sold. But we keep our counsel; we keep our counsel till time ripens the bitter fruit upon the tree, though our fingers itch to pluck it while it is still green." Mrs. Powell stopped to give the trainer good day, expressing as much surprise at seeing him at the north lodge as if she had been given to understand that he was travelling in Kamschatka; but Mr. Conyers cut her civilities short with a yawn, and told her with easy familiarity that she would be conferring a favour upon him by sending him that morning's 'Times' as soon as the daily papers arrived at the Park. The ensign's widow was too much under the influence of the graceful impertinence of his manner to resist it as she might have done, and returned to the house, bewildered and wondering, to comply with his request. So through the oppressive heat of the summer's day the trainer smoked, drank, and took his ease, while his dependent and follower watched him with a puzzled face, revolving vaguely and confusedly in his dull, muddled brain the events of the previous night. But Mr. James Conyers grew weary at last even of his own ease; and that inherent restlessness which caused Rasselas to tire of his happy valley, and sicken for the free breezes on the hill-tops and the clamour of the distant cities, arose in the bosom of the trainer, and grew so strong that he began to chafe at the rural quiet of the north lodge, and to shuffle his poor lame leg wearily from one position to another in sheer discontent of mind, which, by one of those many subtle links between spirit and matter that tell us we are mortal, communicated itself to his body, and gave him that chronic disorder which is popularly called "the fidgets." An unquiet fever, generated amidst the fibres of the brain, and finding its way by that physiological telegraph, the spinal marrow, to the remotest stations on the human railway. Mr. James suffered from this common complaint to such a degree, that as the solemn strokes of the church-clock vibrated in sonorous music above the tree-tops of Mellish Park in the sunny evening atmosphere, he threw down his pipe with an impatient shrug of the shoulders, and called to the "Softy" to bring him his hat and walking-stick. "Seven o'clock," he muttered, "only seven o'clock. I think there must have been twenty-four hours in this blessed summer's day." He stood looking from the little casement-window with a discontented frown contracting his handsome eyebrows, and a peevish expression distorting his full, classically-moulded lips, as he said this. He glanced through the little casement, made smaller by its clustering frame of roses and clematis, jessamine and myrtle, and looking like the port-hole of a ship that sailed upon a sea of summer verdure. He glanced through the circular opening left by that scented framework of leaves and blossoms, into the long glades, where the low sunlight was flickering upon waving fringes of fern. He followed with his listless glance the wandering intricacies of the underwood, until they led his weary eyes away to distant patches of blue water, slowly changing to opal and rose-colour in the declining light. He saw all these things with a lazy apathy, which had no power to recognize their beauty, or to inspire one latent thrill of gratitude to Him who had made them. He had better have been blind; surely he had better have been blind. He turned his back upon the evening sunshine, and looked at the white face of Steeve Hargraves, the "Softy," with every whit as much pleasure as he had felt in looking at nature in her loveliest aspect. "A long day," he said,--"an infernally tedious, wearisome day. Thank God, it's over." Strange that, as he uttered this impious thanksgiving, no subtle influence of the future crept through his veins to chill the slackening pulses of his heart, and freeze the idle words upon his lips. If he had known what was so soon to come; if he had known, as he thanked God for the death of one beautiful summer's day, never to be born again, with its twelve hours of opportunity for good or evil,--surely he would have grovelled on the earth, stricken with a sudden terror, and wept aloud for the shameful history of the life which lay behind him. He had never shed tears but once since his childhood, and then those tears were scalding drops of baffled rage and vengeful fury at the utter defeat of the greatest scheme of his life. "I shall go into Doncaster to-night, Steeve," he said to the "Softy," who stood deferentially awaiting his master's pleasure, and watching him, as he had watched him all day, furtively but incessantly; "I shall spend the evening in Doncaster, and--and--see if I can pick up a few wrinkles about the September meeting; not that there's anything worth entering amongst this set of screws, Lord knows," he added, with undisguised contempt for poor John's beloved stable. "Is there a dog-cart, or a trap of any kind, I can drive over in?" he asked of the "Softy." Mr. Hargraves said that there was a Newport Pagnell, which was sacred to Mr. John Mellish, and a gig that was at the disposal of any of the upper servants when they had occasion to go into Doncaster, as well as a covered van, which some of the lads drove into the town every day for the groceries and other matters required at the house. "Very good," said Mr. Conyers; "you may run down to the stables, and tell one of the boys to put the fastest pony of the lot into the Newport Pagnell, and to bring it up here, and to look sharp." "But nobody but Muster Mellish rides in the Newport Pagnell," suggested the "Softy," with an accent of alarm. "What of that, you cowardly hound?" cried the trainer contemptuously. "I'm going to drive it to-night, don't you hear? D--n his Yorkshire insolence! Am I to be put down by _him?_ It's his handsome wife that he takes such pride in, is it? Lord help him! Whose money bought the dog-cart, I wonder? Aurora Floyd's, perhaps. And I'm not to ride in it, I suppose, because it's my lord's pleasure to drive his black-eyed lady in the sacred vehicle. Look you here, you brainless idiot, and understand me, if you can!" cried Mr. James Conyers in a sudden rage, which crimsoned his handsome face, and lit up his lazy eyes with a new fire,--"look you here, Stephen Hargraves! if it wasn't that I'm tied hand and foot, and have been plotted against and thwarted by a woman's cunning, at every turn, I could smoke my pipe in yonder house, or in a better house, this day." He pointed with his finger to the pinnacled roof, and the reddened windows glittering in the evening sun, visible far away amongst the trees. "Mr. John Mellish!" he said. "If his wife wasn't such a she-devil as to be too many guns for the cleverest man in Christendom, I'd soon make _him_ sing small. Fetch the Newport Pagnell!" he cried suddenly, with an abrupt change of tone; "fetch it, and be quick! I'm not safe to myself when I talk of this. I'm not safe when I think how near I was to half a million of money," he muttered under his breath. He limped out into the open air, fanning himself with the wide brim of his felt hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Be quick!" he cried impatiently to his deliberate attendant, who had listened eagerly to every word of his master's passionate talk, and who now stood watching him even more intently than before, "be quick, man, can't you? I don't pay you five shillings a week to stare at me. Fetch the trap! I've worked myself into a fever, and nothing but a rattling drive will set me right again." The "Softy" shuffled off as rapidly as it was within the range of his ability to walk. He had never been seen to run in his life; but had a slow, side-long gait, which had some faint resemblance to that of the lower reptiles, but very little in common with the motions of his fellow-men. Mr. James Conyers limped up and down the little grassy lawn in front of the north lodge. The excitement which had crimsoned his face gradually subsided, as he vented his disquietude in occasional impatient exclamations. "Two thousand pounds!" he muttered; "a pitiful, paltry two thousand! Not a twelvemonth's interest on the money I ought to have had--the money I should have had, if----" He stopped abruptly, and growled something like an oath between his set teeth, as he struck his stick with angry violence into the soft grass. It is especially hard when we are reviling our bad fortune, and quarrelling with our fate, to find at last, on wandering backwards to the source of our ill-luck, that the primary cause of all has been our own evil-doing. It was this that made Mr. Conyers stop abruptly in his reflections upon his misfortunes, and break off with a smothered oath, and listen impatiently for the wheels of the Newport Pagnell. The "Softy" appeared presently, leading the horse by the bridle. He had not presumed to seat himself in the sacred vehicle, and he stared wonderingly at James Conyers as the trainer tumbled about the chocolate-cloth cushions, arranging them afresh for his own ease and comfort. Neither the bright varnish of the dark-brown panels, nor the crimson crest, nor the glittering steel ornaments on the neat harness, nor any of the exquisitely-finished appointments of the light vehicle, provoked one word of criticism from Mr. Conyers. He mounted as easily as his lame leg would allow him, and taking the reins from the "Softy," lighted his cigar preparatory to starting. "You needn't sit up for me to-night," he said, as he drove into the dusty high road: "I shall be late." Mr. Hargraves shut the iron gates with a loud clanking noise upon his new master. "But I shall, though," he muttered, looking askant through the bars at the fast disappearing Newport Pagnell, which was now little more than a black spot in a white cloud of dust; "but I shall sit up, though. You'll come home drunk, I lay." (Yorkshire is so pre-eminently a horse-racing and betting county, that even simple country folk who have never wagered a sixpence in the quiet course of their lives say "I lay" where a Londoner would say "I dare say.") "You'll come home drunk, I lay; folks generally do from Doncaster; and I shall hear some more of your wild talk. Yes, yes," he said in a slow, reflective tone; "it's very wild talk, and I can't make top nor tail of it yet--not yet; but it seems to me somehow as if I knew what it all meant, only I can't put it together--I can't put it together. There's something missin', and the want of that something hinders me putting it together." He rubbed his stubble of coarse red hair with his two strong, awkward hands, as if he would fain have rubbed some wanting intelligence into his head. "Two thousand pound!" he said, walking slowly back to the cottage. "Two thousand pound! It's a power of money! Why it's two thousand pound that the winner gets by the great race at Newmarket, and there's all the gentlefolks ready to give their ears for it. There's great lords fighting and struggling against each other for it; so it's no wonder a poor fond chap like me thinks summat about it." He sat down upon the step of the lodge-door to smoke the cigar-ends which his benefactor had thrown him in the course of the day; but he still ruminated upon this subject, and he still stopped sometimes, between the extinction of one cheroot-stump and the illuminating of another, to mutter, "Two thousand pound! Twenty hundred pound! Forty times fifty pound!" with an unctuous chuckle after the enunciation of each figure, as if it was some privilege even to be able to talk of such vast sums of money. So might some doating lover, in the absence of his idol, murmur the beloved name to the summer breeze. The last crimson lights upon the patches of blue water died out beneath the gathering darkness; but the "Softy" sat, still smoking, and still ruminating, till the stars were high in the purple vault above his head. A little after ten o'clock he heard the rattling of wheels and the tramp of horses' hoofs upon the high road, and going to the gate he looked out through the iron bars. As the vehicle dashed by the north gates he saw that it was one of the Mellish-Park carriages which had been sent to the station to meet John and his wife. "A short visit to Loon'on," he muttered. "I lay she's been to fetch t' brass." The greedy eyes of the half-witted groom peered through the iron bars at the passing carriage, as if he would have fain looked through its opaque panels in search of that which he had denominated "the brass." He had a vague idea that two thousand pounds would be a great bulk of money, and that Aurora would carry it in a chest or a bundle that might be perceptible through the carriage-window. "I'll lay she's been to fetch t' brass," he repeated, as he crept back to the lodge-door. He resumed his seat upon the door-step, his cigar-ends, and his reverie, rubbing his head very often, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with both, but always as if he were trying to rub some wanting sense or power of perception into his wretched brains. Sometimes he gave a short restless sigh, as if he had been trying all this time to guess some difficult enigma, and was on the point of giving it up. It was long after midnight when Mr. James Conyers returned, very much the worse for brandy-and-water and dust. He tumbled over the "Softy," still sitting on the step of the open door, and then cursed Mr. Hargraves for being in the way. "B't s'nc' y' h'v' ch's'n t' s't 'p," said the trainer, speaking a language entirely composed of consonants, "y' m'y dr'v' tr'p b'ck t' st'bl's." By which rather obscure speech he gave the "Softy" to understand that he was to take the dog-cart back to Mr. Mellish's stable-yard. Steeve Hargraves did his drunken master's bidding, and leading the horse homewards through the quiet night, found a cross boy with a lantern in his hand waiting at the gate of the stable-yard, and by no means disposed for conversation, except, indeed, to the extent of the one remark that he, the cross boy, hoped the new trainer wasn't going to be up to this game every night, and hoped the mare, which had been bred for a racer, hadn't been ill used. All John Mellish's horses seemed to have been bred for racers, and to have dropped gradually from prospective winners of the Derby, Oaks, Chester Cup, Great Ebor, Yorkshire Stakes, Leger, and Doncaster Cup,--to say nothing of minor victories in the way of Northumberland Plates, Liverpool Autumn Cups, and Curragh Handicaps, through every variety of failure and defeat,--into the every-day ignominy of harness. Even the van which carried groceries was drawn by a slim-legged, narrow-chested, high-shouldered animal called the "Yorkshire Childers," and bought, in its sunny colt-hood, at a great price by poor John. Mr. Conyers was snoring aloud in his little bedroom when Steeve Hargraves returned to the lodge. The "Softy" stared wonderingly at the handsome face brutalized by drink, and the classical head flung back upon the crumpled pillow in one of those wretched positions which intoxication always chooses for its repose. Steeve Hargraves rubbed his head harder even than before, as he looked at the perfect profile, the red, half-parted lips, the dark fringe of lashes on the faintly crimson-tinted cheeks. "Perhaps I might have been good for summat if I had been like _you_," he said, with a half-savage melancholy. "I shouldn't have been ashamed of myself then. I shouldn't have crept into dark corners to hide myself, and think why I wasn't like other people, and what a bitter, cruel shame it was that I wasn't like 'em. _You've_ no call to hide yourself from other folks; nobody tells you to get out of the way for an ugly hound, as you told me this morning, hang you! The world's smooth enough for you." So may Caliban have looked at Prospero with envy and hate in his heart before going to his obnoxious tasks of dish-washing and trencher-scraping. He shook his fist at the unconscious sleeper as he finished speaking, and then stooped to pick up the trainer's dusty clothes, which were scattered upon the floor. "I suppose I'm to brush these before I go to bed," he muttered, "that my lord may have 'em ready when he wakes in th' morning." He took the clothes on his arm and the light in his hand, and went down to the lower room, where he found a brush and set to work sturdily, enveloping himself in a cloud of dust, like some ugly Arabian genii who was going to transform himself into a handsome prince. He stopped suddenly in his brushing, by-and-by, and crumpled the waistcoat in his hand. "There's some paper!" he exclaimed. "A paper sewed up between stuff and linin'." He omitted the definite article before each of the substantives, as is a common habit with his countrymen when at all excited. "A bit o' paper," he repeated, "between stuff and linin'! I'll rip t' waistcoat open and see what 'tis." He took his clasp-knife from his pocket, carefully unripped a part of one of the seams in the waistcoat, and extracted a piece of paper folded double,--a decent-sized square of rather thick paper, partly printed, partly written. He leaned over the light with his elbows on the table and read the contents of this paper, slowly and laboriously, following every word with his thick forefinger, sometimes stopping a long time upon one syllable, sometimes trying back half a line or so, but always plodding patiently with his ugly forefinger. When he came to the last word, he burst suddenly into a loud chuckle, as if he had just succeeded in guessing that difficult enigma which had puzzled him all the evening. "I know it all now," he said. "I can put it all together now. His words; and hers; and the money. I can put it all together, and make out the meaning of it. She's going to give him the two thousand pound to go away from here and say nothing about this." He refolded the paper, replaced it carefully in its hiding-place between the stuff and lining of the waistcoat, then searched in his capacious pocket for a fat leathern book, in which, amongst all sorts of odds and ends, there were some needles and a tangled skein of black thread. Then, stooping over the light, he slowly sewed up the seam which he had ripped open,--dexterously and neatly enough, in spite of the clumsiness of his big fingers. CHAPTER IX. STILL CONSTANT. Mr. James Conyers took his breakfast in his own apartment upon the morning after his visit to Doncaster, and Stephen Hargraves waited upon him; carrying him a basin of muddy coffee, and enduring his ill-humour with the long-suffering which seemed peculiar to this hump-backed, low-voiced stable-helper. The trainer rejected the coffee, and called for a pipe, and lay smoking half the summer morning, with the scent of the roses and honeysuckle floating into his close chamber, and the July sunshine glorifying the sham roses and blue lilies that twisted themselves in floricultural monstrosity about the cheap paper on the walls. The "Softy" cleaned his master's boots, set them in the sunshine to air, washed the breakfast-things, swept the door-step, and then seated himself upon it to ruminate, with his elbows on his knees and his hands twisted in his coarse red hair. The silence of the summer atmosphere was only broken by the drowsy hum of the insects in the wood, and the occasional dropping of some early-blighted leaf. Mr. Conyers's temper had been in no manner improved by his night's dissipation in the town of Doncaster. Heaven knows what entertainment he had found in those lonely streets, that grass-grown market-place and tenantless stalls, or that dreary and hermetically-sealed building, which looks like a prison on three sides and a chapel on the fourth, and which, during the September meeting, bursts suddenly into life and light with huge posters flaring against its gaunt walls, and a bright blue-ink announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews, or Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, for five nights only. Normal amusement in the town of Doncaster between these two oases in the year's dreary circle, the spring and autumn meetings, there is none. But of abnormal and special entertainment there may be much; only known to such men as Mr. James Conyers, to whom the most sinuous alley is a pleasant road, so long as it leads, directly or indirectly, to the betting-man's god--Money. However this might be, Mr. Conyers bore upon him all the symptoms of having, as the popular phrase has it, made a night of it. His eyes were dim and glassy; his tongue hot and furred, and uncomfortably large for his parched mouth; his hand so shaky that the operation which he performed with a razor before his looking-glass was a toss-up between suicide and shaving. His heavy head seemed to have been transformed into a leaden box full of buzzing noises; and after getting half through his toilet he gave it up for a bad job, and threw himself upon the bed he had just left, a victim to that biliary derangement which inevitably follows an injudicious admixture of alcoholic and malt liquors. "A tumbler of Hochheimer," he muttered, "or even the third-rate Chablis they give one at a _table-d'hôte_, would freshen me up a little; but there's nothing to be had in this abominable place except brandy-and-water." He called to the "Softy," and ordered him to mix a tumbler of the last-named beverage, cold and weak. Mr. Conyers drained the cool and lucid draught, and flung himself back upon the pillow with a sigh of relief. He knew that he would be thirsty again in five or ten minutes, and that the respite was a brief one; but still it was a respite. "Have they come home?" he asked. "Who?" "Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, you idiot!" answered the trainer fiercely. "Who else should I bother my head about? Did they come home last night while I was away?" The "Softy" told his master that he had seen one of the carriages drive past the north gates at a little after ten o'clock on the preceding night, and that he supposed it contained Mr. and Mrs. Mellish. "Then you'd better go up to the house and make sure," said Mr. Conyers; "I want to know." "Go up to th' house?" "Yes, coward!--yes, sneak! Do you suppose that Mrs. Mellish will eat you?" "I don't suppose nought o' t' sort," answered the "Softy" sulkily; "but I'd rather not go." "But I tell you I want to know," said Mr. Conyers; "I want to know if Mrs. Mellish is at home, and what she's up to, and whether there are any visitors at the house, and all about her. Do you understand?" "Yes, it's easy enough to understand, but it's rare and difficult to do," replied Steeve Hargraves. "How am I to find out? Who's to tell me?" "How do I know?" cried the trainer, impatiently; for Stephen Hargraves's slow, dogged stupidity was throwing the dashing James Conyers into a fever of vexation. "How do I know? Don't you see that I'm too ill to stir from this bed? I'd go myself if I wasn't. And can't you go and do what I tell you without standing arguing there until you drive me mad?" Steeve Hargraves muttered some sulky apology, and shuffled out of the room. Mr. Conyers's handsome eyes followed him with a dark frown. It is not a pleasant state of health which succeeds a drunken debauch; and the trainer was angry with himself for the weakness which had taken him to Doncaster upon the preceding evening, and thereby inclined to vent his anger upon other people. There is a great deal of vicarious penance done in this world. Lady's-maids are apt to suffer for the follies of their mistresses, and Lady Clara Vere de Vere's French Abigail is extremely likely to have to atone for young Laurence's death by patient endurance of my lady's ill-temper and much unpicking and remaking of bodices, which would have fitted her ladyship well enough in any other state of mind than the remorseful misery which is engendered of an evil conscience. The ugly gash across young Laurence's throat, to say nothing of the cruel slanders circulated after the inquest, may make life almost unendurable to the poor meek nursery-governess who educates Lady Clara's younger sisters; and the younger sisters themselves, and mamma and papa, and my lady's youthful confidantes, and even her haughtiest adorers, all have their share in the expiation of her ladyship's wickedness. For she will not--or she _cannot_--meekly own that she has been guilty, and shut herself away from the world, to make her own atonement and work her own redemption. So she thrusts the burden of her sins upon other people's shoulders, and travels the first stage to captious and disappointed old-maidism. The commercial gentlemen who make awkward mistakes in the City, the devotees of the turf whose misfortunes keep them away from Mr. Tattersall's premises on a settling-day, can make innocent women and children carry the weight of their sins, and suffer the penalties of their foolishness. Papa still smokes his Cabanas at fourpence-halfpenny apiece, or his mild Turkish at nine shillings a pound, and still dines at the Crown and Sceptre in the drowsy summer weather, when the bees are asleep in the flowers at Morden College, and the fragrant hay newly stacked in the meadows beyond Blackheath. But mamma must wear her faded silk, or have it dyed, as the case may be; and the children must forego the promised happiness, the wild delight, of sunny rambles on a shingly beach, bordered by yellow sands that stretch away to hug an ever changeful and yet ever constant ocean in their tawny arms. And not only mamma and the little ones, but other mothers and other little ones, must help in the heavy sum of penance for the defaulter's iniquities. The baker may have calculated upon receiving that long-standing account, and may have planned a new gown for his wife, and a summer treat for his little ones, to be paid for by the expected money; and the honest tradesman, soured by the disappointment of having to disappoint those he loves, is likely to be cross to them into the bargain; and even to grudge her Sunday out to the household drudge who waits at his little table. The influence of the strong man's evil deed slowly percolates through insidious channels of which he never knows or dreams. The deed of folly or of guilt does its fatal work when the sinner who committed it has forgotten his wickedness. Who shall say where or when the results of one man's evil doing shall cease? The seed of sin engenders no common root, shooting straight upwards through the earth, and bearing a given crop. It is the germ of a foul running weed, whose straggling suckers travel underground beyond the ken of mortal eye, beyond the power of mortal calculation. If Louis XV. had been a conscientious man, terror and murder, misery and confusion, might never have reigned upon the darkened face of beautiful France. If Eve had rejected the fatal fruit we might all have been in Eden to-day. Mr. James Conyers, then, after the manner of mankind, vented his spleen upon the only person who came in his way, and was glad to be able to despatch the "Softy" upon an unpleasant errand, and make his attendant as uncomfortable as he was himself. "My head rocks as if I was on board a steam-packet," he muttered, as he lay alone in his little bedroom, "and my hand shakes so that I can't hold my pipe steady while I fill it. I'm in a nice state to have to talk to _her_. As if it wasn't as much as I can do at the best of times to be a match for her." He flung aside his pipe half filled, and turned his head wearily upon the pillow. The hot sun and the buzz of the insects tormented him. There was a big bluebottle fly blundering and wheeling about amongst the folds of the dimity bed-curtains; a fly which seemed the very genius of delirium tremens; but the trainer was too ill to do more than swear at his purple-winged tormentor. He was awakened from a half-doze by the treble voice of a small stable-boy in the room below. He called out angrily for the lad to come up and state his business. His business was a message from Mr. John Mellish, who wished to see the trainer immediately. "_Mr._ Mellish," muttered James Conyers to himself. "Tell your master I'm too ill to stir, but that I'll wait upon him in the evening," he said to the boy. "You can see I'm ill, if you've got any eyes, and you can say that you found me in bed." The lad departed with these instructions, and Mr. Conyers returned to his own thoughts, which appeared to be by no means agreeable to him. To drink spirituous liquors and play all-fours in the sanded taproom of a sporting public is no doubt a very delicious occupation, and would be altogether Elysian and unobjectionable if one could always be drinking spirits and playing all-fours. But as the finest picture ever painted by Raphael or Rubens is but a dead blank of canvas upon the reverse, so there is generally a disagreeable _other_ side to all the pleasures of earth, and a certain reaction after card-playing and brandy-drinking which is more than equivalent in misery to the pleasures which have preceded it. Mr. Conyers, tossing his hot head from side to side upon a pillow which seemed even hotter, took a very different view of life to that which he had expounded to his boon companions only the night before in the tap-room of the Lion and Lamb, Doncaster. "I should liked to have stopped over the Leger," he muttered, "for I meant to make a hatful of money out of the Conjuror; for if what they say at Richmond is anything like truth, he's safe to win. But there's no going against my lady when her mind's made up. It's take it or leave it--yes or no--and be quick about it." Mr. Conyers garnished his speech with two or three expletives common enough amongst the men with whom he had lived, but not to be recorded here; and, closing his eyes, fell into a doze; a half-waking, half-sleeping torpidity; in which he felt as if his head had become a ton-weight of iron, and was dragging him backwards through the pillow into a bottomless abyss. While the trainer lay in this comfortless semi-slumber Stephen Hargraves walked slowly and sulkily through the wood on his way to the invisible fence, from which point he meant to reconnoitre the premises. The irregular façade of the old house fronted him across the smooth breadth of lawn, dotted and broken by particoloured flower-beds; by rustic clumps of gnarled oak supporting mighty clusters of vivid scarlet geraniums, all aflame in the sunshine; by trellised arches laden with trailing roses of every varying shade, from palest blush to deepest crimson; by groups of evergreens, whose every leaf was rich in beauty and luxuriance, whose every tangled garland would have made a worthy chaplet for a king. The "Softy," in the semi-darkness of his soul, had some glimmer of that light which was altogether wanting in Mr. James Conyers. He felt that these things were beautiful. The broken lines of the ivy-covered house-front, Gothic here, Elizabethan there, were in some manner pleasant to him. The scattered rose-leaves on the lawn; the flickering shadows of the evergreens upon the grass; the song of a skylark too lazy to soar, and content to warble among the bushes; the rippling sound of a tiny waterfall far away in the wood,--made a language of which he only understood a few straggling syllables here and there, but which was not altogether a meaningless jargon to him, as it was to the trainer; to whose mind Holborn Hill would have conveyed as much of the sublime as the untrodden pathways of the Jungfrau. The "Softy" dimly perceived that Mellish Park was beautiful, and he felt a fiercer hatred against the person whose influence had ejected him from his old home. The house fronted the south, and the Venetian shutters were all closed upon this hot summer's day. Stephen Hargraves looked for his old enemy Bow-wow, who was likely enough to be lying on the broad stone steps before the hall-door; but there was no sign of the dog's presence anywhere about. The hall-door was closed, and the Venetian shutters, under the rose and clematis shadowed verandah which sheltered John Mellish's room, were also closed. The "Softy" walked round by the fence which encircled the lawn to another iron gate which opened close to John's room, and which was so completely overshadowed by a clump of beeches as to form a safe point of observation. This gate had been left ajar by Mr. Mellish himself, most likely, for that gentleman had a happy knack of forgetting to shut the doors and gates which he opened; and the "Softy," taking courage from the stillness round and about the house, ventured into the garden, and crept stealthily towards the closed shutters before the windows of Mr. Mellish's apartment, with much of the manner which might distinguish some wretched mongrel cur who trusts himself within ear-shot of a mastiff's kennel. The mastiff was out of the way on this occasion, for one of the shutters was ajar; and when Stephen Hargraves peeped cautiously into the room, he was relieved to find it empty. John's elbow-chair was pushed a little way from the table, which was laden with open pistol-cases and breech-loading revolvers. These, with two or three silk handkerchiefs, a piece of chamois-leather, and a bottle of oil, bore witness that Mr. Mellish had been beguiling the morning in the pleasing occupation of inspecting and cleaning the fire-arms, which formed the chief ornament of his study. It was his habit to begin this operation with great preparation, and altogether upon a gigantic scale; to reject all assistance with scorn; to put himself in a violent perspiration at the end of half an hour, and to send one of the servants to finish the business, and restore the room to its old order. The "Softy" looked with a covetous eye at the noble array of guns and pistols. He had that innate love of these things which seems to be implanted in every masculine breast, whatever its owner's state or station. He had hoarded his money once to buy himself a gun; but when he had saved the five-and-thirty shillings demanded by a certain pawnbroker of Doncaster for an old-fashioned musket, which was almost as heavy as a small cannon, his courage failed him, and he could not bring himself to part with the precious coins, whose very touch could send a shrill of rapture through the slow current of his blood. No, he could not surrender such a sum of money to the Doncaster pawnbroker even for the possession of his heart's desire; and as the stern money-lender refused to take payment in weekly instalments of sixpences, Stephen was fain to go without the gun, and to hope that some day or other Mr. John Mellish would reward his services by the gift of some disused fowling-piece by Forsythe or Manton. But there was no hope of such happiness now. A new dynasty reigned at Mellish, and a black-eyed queen, who hated him, had forbidden him to sully her domain with the traces of his shambling foot. He felt that he was in momentary peril upon the threshold of that sacred chamber, which, during his long service at Mellish Park, he had always regarded as a very temple of the beautiful; but the sight of fire-arms upon the table had a magnetic attraction for him, and he drew the Venetian shutter a little way further ajar, and slid himself in through the open window. Then, flushed and trembling with excitement, he dropped into John's chair, and began to handle the precious implements of warfare upon pheasants and partridges, and to turn them about in his big, clumsy hands. Delicious as the guns were, and delightful though it was to draw one of the revolvers up to his shoulder, and take aim at an imaginary pheasant, the pistols were even still more attractive; for with them he could not refrain from taking imaginary aim at his enemies. Sometimes at James Conyers, who had snubbed and abused him, and had made the bread of dependence bitter to him; very often at Aurora; once or twice at poor John Mellish; but always with a darkness upon his pallid face which would have promised little mercy, had the pistol been loaded and the enemy near at hand. There was one pistol, a small one, and an odd one apparently, for he could not find its fellow, which took a peculiar hold upon his fancy. It was as pretty as a lady's toy, and small enough to be carried in a lady's pocket, but the hammer snapped upon the nipple, when the "Softy" pulled the trigger, with a sound that evidently meant mischief. "To think that such a little thing as this could kill a big man like you," muttered Mr. Hargraves, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the north lodge. He had this pistol still in his hand when the door was suddenly opened, and Aurora Mellish stood upon the threshold. She spoke as she opened the door, almost before she was in the room. "John, dear," she said, "Mrs. Powell wants to know whether Colonel Maddison dines here to-day with the Lofthouses." She drew back with a shudder that shook her from head to foot, as her eyes met the "Softy's" hated face instead of John's familiar glance. In spite of the fatigue and agitation which she had endured within the last few days, she was not looking ill. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and a feverish colour burned in her cheeks. Her manner, always impetuous, was restless and impatient to-day, as if her nature had been charged with a terrible amount of electricity, till she were likely at any moment to explode in some tempest of anger or woe. "_You_ here!" she exclaimed. The "Softy" in his embarrassment was at a loss for an excuse for his presence. He pulled his shabby hair-skin cap off, and twisted it round and round in his great hands; but he made no other recognition of his late master's wife. "Who sent you to this room?" asked Mrs. Mellish; "I thought you had been forbidden this place. The house at least," she added, her face crimsoning indignantly as she spoke, "although Mr. Conyers may choose to bring you to the north lodge. Who sent you here?" "Him," answered Mr. Hargraves, doggedly, with another jerk of his head towards the trainer's abode. "James Conyers?" "Yes." "What does he want here, then?" "He told me to come down t' th' house, and see if you and master'd come back." "Then you can go and tell him that we have come back," she said contemptuously; "and that if he'd waited a little longer he would have had no occasion to send his spies after me." The "Softy" crept towards the window, feeling that his dismissal was contained in these words, and looking rather suspiciously at the array of driving and hunting whips over the mantelpiece. Mrs. Mellish might have a fancy for laying one of these about his shoulders, if he happened to offend her. "Stop!" she said impetuously, as he had his hand upon the shutter to push it open; "since you are here, you can take a message, or a scrap of writing," she said contemptuously, as if she could not bring herself to call any communication between herself and Mr. Conyers a note, or a letter. "Yes; you can take a few lines to your master. Stop there while I write." She waved her hand with a gesture which expressed plainly, "Come no nearer; you are too obnoxious to be endured except at a distance," and seated herself at John's writing-table. She scratched two lines with a quill-pen upon a slip of paper, which she folded while the ink was still wet. She looked for an envelope amongst her husband's littered paraphernalia of account-books, bills, receipts, and price-lists, and finding one after some little trouble, put the folded paper into it, fastened the gummed flap with her lips, and handed the missive to Mr. Hargraves, who had watched her with hungry eyes, eager to fathom this new stage in the mystery. Was the two thousand pounds in that envelope? he thought. No; surely, such a sum of money must be a huge pile of gold and silver,--a mountain of glittering coin. He had seen cheques sometimes, and bank-notes, in the hands of Langley the trainer, and he had wondered how it was that money could be represented by those pitiful bits of paper. "I'd rayther hav't i' goold," he thought: "if 'twas mine, I'd have it all i' goold and silver." He was very glad when he found himself safely clear of the whips and Mrs. John Mellish, and as soon as he reached the shelter of the thick foliage upon the northern side of the Park, he set to work to examine the packet which had been intrusted to him. Mrs. Mellish had liberally moistened the adhesive flap of the envelope, as people are apt to do when they are in a hurry; the consequence of which carelessness was that the gum was still so wet that Stephen Hargraves found no difficulty in opening the envelope without tearing it. He looked cautiously about him, convinced himself that he was unobserved, and then drew out the slip of paper. It contained very little to reward him for his trouble, only these few words, scrawled in Aurora's most careless hand:-- "Be on the southern side of the wood, near the turnstile, between half-past eight and nine." The "Softy" grinned as he slowly made himself master of this communication. "It's oncommon hard wroitin', t' make out th' shapes o' th' letters," he said, as he finished his task. "Whoy can't gentlefolks wroit like Ned Tiller, oop at th' Red Lion,--printin' loike? It's easier to read, and a deal prettier to look at." He refastened the envelope, pressing it down with his dirty thumb to make it adhere once more, and not much improving its appearance thereby. "He's one of your rare careless chaps," he muttered as he surveyed the letter; "_he_ won't stop t' examine if it's been opened before. What's insoide were hardly worth th' trouble of openin' it; but perhaps it's as well to know it too." Immediately after Stephen Hargraves had disappeared through the open window Aurora turned to leave the room by the door, intending to go in search of her husband. She was arrested on the threshold by Mrs. Powell, who was standing at the door, with the submissive and deferential patience of paid companionship depicted in her insipid face. "_Does_ Colonel Maddison dine here, my dear Mrs. Mellish?" she asked meekly; yet with a pensive earnestness which suggested that her life, or at any rate her peace of mind, depended upon the answer. "I am _so_ anxious to know, for of course it will make a difference with the fish,--and perhaps we ought to have some mulligatawny; or at any rate a dish of curry amongst the _entrées;_ for these elderly East-Indian officers are so----" "I don't know," answered Aurora, curtly. "Were you standing at the door long before I came out, Mrs. Powell?" "Oh, no," answered the ensign's widow, "not long. Did you not hear me knock?" Mrs. Powell would not have allowed herself to be betrayed into anything so vulgar as an abbreviation by the torments of the rack; and would have neatly rounded her periods while the awful wheel was stretching every muscle of her agonized frame, and the executioner waiting to give the _coup de grâce_. "Did you not hear me knock?" she asked. "No," said Aurora; "you didn't knock! Did you?" Mrs. Mellish made an alarming pause between the two sentences. "Oh, yes, too-wice," answered Mrs. Powell, with as much emphasis as was consistent with gentility upon the elongated word; "I knocked too-wice; but you seemed so very much preoccupied that----" "I didn't hear you," interrupted Aurora; "you should knock rather louder when you _want_ people to hear, Mrs. Powell. I--I came here to look for John, and I shall stop and put away his guns. Careless fellow!--he always leaves them lying about." "Shall I assist you, dear Mrs. Mellish?" "Oh, no, thank you." "But pray allow me--guns are _so_ interesting. Indeed, there is very little either in art or nature which, properly considered, is not----" "You had better find Mr. Mellish, and ascertain if the colonel _does_ dine here, I think, Mrs. Powell," interrupted Aurora, shutting the lids of the pistol-cases, and replacing them upon their accustomed shelves. "Oh, if you wish to be alone, certainly," said the ensign's widow, looking furtively at Aurora's face bending over the breech-loading revolvers, and then walking genteelly and noiselessly out of the room. "Who was she talking to?" thought Mrs. Powell. "I could hear her voice, but not the other person's. I suppose it was Mr. Mellish; and yet he is not generally so quiet." She stopped to look out of a window in the corridor, and found the solution of her doubts in the shambling figure of the "Softy," making his way northwards, creeping stealthily under shadow of the plantation that bordered the lawn. Mrs. Powell's faculties were all cultivated to a state of unpleasant perfection, and she was able, actually as well as figuratively, to see a great deal farther than most people. John Mellish was not to be found in the house, and on making inquiries of some of the servants, Mrs. Powell learnt that he had strolled up to the north lodge to see the trainer, who was confined to his bed. "Indeed!" said the ensign's widow; "then I think, as we really ought to know about the colonel and the mulligatawny, I will walk to the north lodge myself, and see Mr. Mellish." She took a sun-umbrella from the stand in the hall, and crossed the lawn northwards at a smart pace, in spite of the heat of the July noontide. "If I can get there before Hargraves," she thought, "I may be able to find out why he came to the house." The ensign's widow did reach the lodge before Stephen Hargraves, who stopped, as we know, under shelter of the foliage in the loneliest pathway of the wood, to decipher Aurora's scrawl. She found John Mellish seated with the trainer, in the little parlour of the lodge, discussing the stable arrangement; the master talking with considerable animation, the servant listening with a listless _nonchalance_ which had a certain air of depreciation, not to say contempt, for poor John's racing stud. Mr. Conyers had risen from his bed at the sound of his employer's voice in the little room below, and had put on a dusty shooting-coat and a pair of shabby slippers, in order to come down and hear what Mr. Mellish had to say. "I'm sorry to hear you're ill, Conyers," John said heartily, with a freshness in his strong voice which seemed to carry health and strength in its very tone. "As you weren't well enough to look in at the house, I thought I'd come over here and talk to you about business. I want to know whether we ought to take Monte Christo out of his York engagement, and if you think it would be wise to let Northern Dutchman take his chance for the Great Ebor. Hey?" Mr. Mellish's query resounded through the small room, and made the languid trainer shudder. Mr. Conyers had all the peevish susceptibility to discomfort or inconvenience which go to make a man above his station. Is it a merit to be above one's station, I wonder, that people make such a boast of their unfitness for honest employments, and sturdy but progressive labour? The flowers in the fables, that want to be trees, always get the worst of it, I remember. Perhaps that is because they can do nothing but complain. There is no objection to their growing into trees, if they can, I suppose; but a great objection to their being noisy and disagreeable because they can't. With the son of the simple Corsican advocate who made himself Emperor of France the world had every sympathy; but with poor Louis Philippe, who ran away from a throne at the first shock that disturbed its equilibrium, I fear, very little. Is it quite right to be angry with the world because it worships success? for is not success, in some manner, the stamp of divinity? Self-assertion may deceive the ignorant for a time; but when the noise dies away, we cut open the drum, and find that it was emptiness that made the music. Mr. Conyers contented himself with declaring that he walked on a road which was unworthy of his footsteps; but as he never contrived to get an inch farther upon the great highway of life, there is some reason to suppose that he had his opinion entirely to himself. Mr. Mellish and his trainer were still discussing stable matters when Mrs. Powell reached the north lodge. She stopped for a few minutes in the rustic doorway, waiting for a pause in the conversation. She was too well bred to interrupt Mr. Mellish in his talk, and there was a chance that she might hear something by lingering. No contrast could be stronger than that presented by the two men. John, broad-shouldered and stalwart; his short crisp chestnut hair brushed away from his square forehead; his bright open blue eyes beaming honest sunshine upon all they looked at; his loose gray clothes neat and well made; his shirt in the first freshness of the morning's toilet; everything about him made beautiful by the easy grace which is the peculiar property of the man who has been born a gentleman, and which neither all the cheap finery which Mr. Moses can sell, nor all the expensive absurdities which Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse can buy, will ever bestow upon the _parvenu_ or the vulgarian. The trainer, handsomer than his master by as much as Antinous in Grecian marble is handsomer than the substantially-shod and loose-coated young squires in Mr. Millais' designs; as handsome as it is possible for this human clay to be, with every feature moulded to the highest type of positive beauty, and yet, every inch of him, a boor. His shirt soiled and crumpled, his hair rough and uncombed; his unshaven chin, dark with the blue bristles of his budding beard, and smeared with the traces of last night's liquor; his dingy hands, supporting this dingy chin, and his elbows bursting half out of the frayed sleeves of his shabby shooting-jacket, leaning on the table in an attitude of indifferent insolence. His countenance expressive of nothing but dissatisfaction with his own lot, and contempt for the opinions of other people. All the homilies that could be preached upon the time-worn theme of beauty and its worthlessness, could never argue so strongly as this mute evidence presented by Mr. Conyers himself in his slouching posture and his unkempt hair. Is beauty, then, so little, one asks, on looking at the trainer and his employer? Is it better to be clean, and well dressed, and gentlemanly, than to have a classical profile and a thrice-worn shirt? Finding very little to interest her in John's stable-talk, Mrs. Powell made her presence known, and once more asked the all-important question about Colonel Maddison. "Yes," John answered; "the old boy is sure to come. Let's have plenty of chutnee, and boiled rice, and preserved ginger, and all the rest of the unpleasant things that Indian officers live upon. Have you seen Lolly?" Mr. Mellish put on his hat, gave a last instruction to the trainer, and left the cottage. "Have you seen Lolly?" he asked again. "Ye-es," replied Mrs. Powell; "I have only lately left Mrs. Mellish in your room; she had been speaking to that half-witted person--Hargraves, I think he is called." "Speaking to _him?_" cried John; "speaking to him in my room? Why, the fellow is forbidden to cross the threshold of the house, and Mrs. Mellish abominates the sight of him. Don't you remember the day he flogged her dog, you know, and Lolly horse--had hysterics?" added Mr. Mellish, choking himself with one word and substituting another. "Oh, yes, I remember that little--ahem!--unfortunate occurrence perfectly," replied Mrs. Powell, in a tone which, in spite of its amiability, implied that Aurora's escapade was not a thing to be easily forgotten. "Then it's not likely, you know, that Lolly would talk to the man. You must be mistaken, Mrs. Powell." The ensign's widow simpered and lifted her eyebrows, gently shaking her head, with a gesture that seemed to say, "Did you ever find _me_ mistaken?" "No, no, my dear Mr. Mellish," she said, with a half-playful air of conviction, "there was no mistake on my part. Mrs. Mellish was talking to the half-witted person; but you know the person is a sort of servant to Mr. Conyers, and Mrs. Mellish may have had a message for Mr. Conyers." "A message for _him!_" roared John, stopping suddenly and planting his stick upon the ground in a movement of unconcealed passion; "what messages should she have for _him?_ Why should she want people fetching and carrying between her and him?" Mrs. Powell's pale eyes lit up with a faint yellow flame in their greenish pupils as John broke out thus. "It is coming--it is coming--it is coming!" her envious heart cried, and she felt that a faint flush of triumph was gathering in her sickly cheeks. But in another moment John Mellish recovered his self-command. He was angry with himself for that transient passion. "Am I going to doubt her again?" he thought. "Do I know so little of the nobility of her generous soul that I am ready to listen to every whisper, and terrify myself with every look?" They had walked about a hundred yards away from the lodge by this time. John turned irresolutely, as if half inclined to go back. "A message for Conyers," he said to Mrs. Powell;--"ay, ay, to be sure. It's likely enough she might want to send him a message, for she's cleverer at all the stable business than I am. It was she who told me not to enter Cherry-stone for the Chester Cup, and, egad! I was obstinate, and I was licked; as I deserved to be, for not listening to my dear girl." Mrs. Powell would fain have boxed John's ear, had she been tall enough to reach that organ. Infatuated fool! would he never open his dull eyes and see the ruin that was preparing for him? "You _are_ a good husband, Mr. Mellish," she said with a gentle melancholy. "Your wife _ought_ to be happy!" she added, with a sigh which plainly hinted that Mrs. Mellish was miserable. "A good husband!" cried John, "not half good enough for her. What can I do to prove that I love her? What can I do? Nothing, except to let her have her own way; and what a little that seems! Why, if she wanted to set that house on fire, for the pleasure of making a bonfire," he added, pointing to the rambling mansion in which his blue eyes had first seen the light, "I'd let her do it, and look on with her at the blaze." "Are you going back to the lodge?" Mrs. Powell asked quietly, not taking any notice of this outbreak of marital enthusiasm. They had retraced their steps, and were within a few paces of the little garden before the north lodge. "Going back?" said John; "no--yes." Between his utterance of the negative and the affirmative he had looked up, and seen Stephen Hargraves entering the little garden-gate. The "Softy" had come by the short cut through the wood. John Mellish quickened his pace, and followed Steeve Hargraves across the little garden to the threshold of the door. At the threshold he paused. The rustic porch was thickly screened by the spreading branches of the roses and honeysuckle, and John was unseen by those within. He did not himself deliberately listen; he only waited for a few moments, wondering what to do next. In those few moments of indecision he heard the trainer speak to his attendant. "Did you see her?" he asked. "Ay, sure, I see her." "And she gave you a message?" "No, she gave me this here." "A letter?" cried the trainer's eager voice; "give it me." John Mellish heard the tearing of the envelope and the crackling of the crisp paper; and knew that his wife had been writing to his servant. He clenched his strong right hand until the nails dug into the muscular palm; then turning to Mrs. Powell, who stood close behind him, simpering meekly, as she would have simpered at an earthquake, or a revolution, or any other national calamity not peculiarly affecting herself, he said quietly-- "Whatever directions Mrs. Mellish has given are sure to be right; I won't interfere with them." He walked away from the north lodge as he spoke, looking straight before him, homewards; as if the unchanging lode-star of his honest heart were beckoning to him across the dreary Slough of Despond, and bidding him take comfort. "Mrs. Powell," he said, turning rather sharply upon the ensign's widow, "I should be very sorry to say anything likely to offend you, in your character of--of a guest beneath my roof; but I shall take it as a favour to myself if you will be so good as to remember, that I require no information respecting my wife's movements from you, or from any one. Whatever Mrs. Mellish does, she does with my full consent, my perfect approbation. Cæsar's wife must not be suspected, and by Jove, ma'am!--you'll pardon the expression,--John Mellish's wife must not be watched." "Watched!--information!" exclaimed Mrs. Powell, lifting her pale eyebrows to the extreme limits allowed by nature. "My dear Mr. Mellish, when I really only casually remarked, in reply to a question of your own, that I believed Mrs. Mellish had----" "Oh, yes," answered John, "I understand. There are several ways by which you can go to Doncaster from this house. You can go across the fields, or round by Harper's Common, an out-of-the-way, roundabout route, but you get there all the same, you know, ma'am. _I_ generally prefer the high road. It mayn't be the shortest way, perhaps; but it's certainly the straightest." The corners of Mrs. Powell's thin lower lip dropped, perhaps the eighth of an inch, as John made these observations; but she very quickly recovered her habitually genteel simper, and told Mr. Mellish that he really had such a droll way of expressing himself as to make his meaning scarcely so clear as could be wished. But John had said all that he wanted to say, and walked steadily onwards; looking always towards that quarter in which the pole-star might be supposed to shine, guiding him back to his home. That home so soon to be desolate!--with such ruin brooding above it as in his darkest doubts, his wildest fears, he had never shadowed forth! CHAPTER X. ON THE THRESHOLD OF DARKER MISERIES. John went straight to his own apartment to look for his wife; but he found the guns put back in their usual places, and the room empty. Aurora's maid, a smartly dressed girl, came tripping out of the servants' hall, where the rattling of knives and forks announced that a very substantial dinner was being done substantial justice to, to answer John's eager inquiries. She told him that Mrs. Mellish had complained of a headache, and had gone to her room to lie down. John went up-stairs, and crept cautiously along the carpeted corridor, fearful of every footfall which might break the repose of his wife. The door of her dressing-room was ajar: he pushed it softly open, and went in. Aurora was lying upon the sofa, wrapped in a loose white dressing-gown, her masses of ebon hair uncoiled and falling about her shoulders in serpentine tresses, that looked like shining blue-black snakes released from poor Medusa's head to make their escape amid the folds of her garments. Heaven knows what a stranger sleep may have been for many a night to Mrs. Mellish's pillow; but she had fallen into a heavy slumber on this hot summer's day. Her cheeks were flushed with a feverish crimson, and one small hand lay under her head twisted in the tangled masses of her glorious hair. John bent over her with a tender smile. "Poor girl!" he thought; "thank God that she can sleep, in spite of the miserable secrets which have come between us. Talbot Bulstrode left her because he could not bear the agony that I am suffering now. What cause had he to doubt her? What cause compared to that which I have had a fortnight ago--the other night--this morning? And yet--and yet I trust her, and will trust her, please God, to the very end." He seated himself in a low easy-chair close beside the sofa upon which his sleeping wife lay, and resting his head upon his arm, watched her, thought of her, perhaps prayed for her; and after a little while fell asleep himself, snoring in bass harmony with Aurora's regular breathing. He slept and snored, this horrible man, in the hour of his trouble, and behaved himself altogether in a manner most unbecoming in a hero. But then he is not a hero. He is stout and strongly built, with a fine broad chest, and unromantically robust health. There is more chance of his dying of apoplexy than of fading gracefully in a decline, or breaking a blood-vessel in a moment of intense emotion. He sleeps calmly, with the warm July air floating in upon him from the open window, and comforting him with its balmy breath, and he fully enjoys that rest of body and mind. Yet even in his tranquil slumber there is a vague something, some lingering shadow of the bitter memories which sleep has put away from him, that fills his breast with a dull pain, an oppressive heaviness, which cannot be shaken off. He slept until half a dozen different clocks in the rambling old house had come to one conclusion, and declared it to be five in the afternoon; and he awoke with a start to find his wife watching him, Heaven knows how intently, with her black eyes filled with solemn thought, and a strange earnestness in her face. "My poor John!" she said, bending her beautiful head and resting her burning forehead upon his hand; "how tired you must have been, to sleep so soundly in the middle of the day! I have been awake for nearly an hour, watching you--" "Watching me, Lolly!--why?" "And thinking how good you are to me. Oh, John, John! what can I ever do--what can I ever do to atone to you for all----" "Be happy, Aurora," he said huskily, "be happy, and--and send that man away." "I will, John; he shall go soon, dear,--to-night!" "What!--then that letter was to dismiss him?" asked Mr. Mellish. "You know that I wrote to him?" "Yes, darling, it was to dismiss him,--say that it was so, Aurora. Pay him what money you like to keep the secret that he discovered, but send him away, Lolly, send him away. The sight of him is hateful to me. Dismiss him, Aurora, or I must do so myself." He rose in his passionate excitement, but Aurora laid her hand softly upon his arm. "Leave all to me," she said quietly. "Believe me that I will act for the best. For the best, at least, if you couldn't bear to lose me; and you couldn't bear that, could you, John?" "Lose you! My God, Aurora! why do you say such things to me? I _wouldn't_ lose you. Do you hear, Lolly? I _wouldn't_. I'd follow you to the farthest end of the universe, and Heaven take pity upon those that came between us!" His set teeth, the fierce light in his eyes, and the iron rigidity of his mouth, gave an emphasis to his words which my pen could never give if I used every epithet in the English language. Aurora rose from her sofa, and twisting her hair into a thickly-rolled mass at the back of her head, seated herself near the window, and pushed back the Venetian shutter. "These people dine here to-day, John?" she asked listlessly. "The Lofthouses and Colonel Maddison? Yes, my darling; and it's ever so much past five. Shall I ring for your afternoon cup of tea?" "Yes, dear; and take some with me, if you will." I'm afraid that in his inmost heart Mr. Mellish did not cherish any very great affection for the decoctions of bohea and gunpowder with which his wife dosed him; but he would have dined upon cod-liver oil had she served the banquet; and he strung his nerves to their extreme tension at her supreme pleasure, and affected to highly relish the post-meridian dishes of tea which his wife poured out for him in the sacred seclusion of her dressing-room. Mrs. Powell heard the comfortable sound of the chinking of the thin egg-shell china and the rattling of the spoons, as she passed the half-open door on her way to her own apartment, and was mutely furious as she thought that love and harmony reigned within the chamber where the husband and wife sat at tea. Aurora went down to the drawing-room an hour after this, gorgeous in maize-coloured silk and voluminous flouncings of black lace, with her hair plaited in a diadem upon her head, and fastened with three diamond stars which John had bought for her in the Rue de la Paix, and which were cunningly fixed upon wire springs, which caused them to vibrate with every chance movement of her beautiful head. You will say, perhaps, that she was arrayed too gaudily for the reception of an old Indian officer and a country clergyman and his wife; but if she loved handsome dresses better than simpler attire, it was from no taste for display, but rather from an innate love of splendour and expenditure, which was a part of her expansive nature. She had always been taught to think of herself as Miss Floyd, the banker's daughter, and she had been taught also to spend money as a duty which she owed to society. Mrs. Lofthouse was a pretty little woman, with a pale face and hazel eyes. She was the youngest daughter of Colonel Maddison, and was, "By birth, you know, my dear, far superior to poor Mrs. Mellish, who, in spite of her wealth, is only," &c. &c. &c., as Margaret Lofthouse remarked to her female acquaintance. She could not very easily forget that her father was the younger brother of a baronet, and had distinguished himself in some terrific manner by bloodthirsty demolition of Sikhs, far away in the untractable East; and she thought it rather hard that Aurora should possess such cruel advantages through some pettifogging commercial genius on the part of her Glasgow ancestors. But as it was impossible for honest people to know Aurora without loving her, Mrs. Lofthouse heartily forgave her her fifty thousand pounds, and declared her to be the dearest darling in the wide world; while Mrs. Mellish freely returned her friendliness, and caressed the little woman as she had caressed Lucy Bulstrode, with a superb yet affectionate condescension, such as Cleopatra may have had for her handmaidens. The dinner went off pleasantly enough. Colonel Maddison attacked the side-dishes specially provided for him, and praised the Mellish-Park cook. Mr. Lofthouse explained to Aurora the plan of a new schoolhouse which she intended to build for the improvement of John's native parish. She listened patiently to the rather wearisome details, in which a bakehouse and a washhouse and a Tudor chimney seemed the leading features. She had heard so much of this before; for there was scarcely a church, or a hospital, or a model lodging-house, or a refuge for any misery or destitution whatever, that had been lately elevated to adorn this earth, for which the banker's daughter had not helped to pay. But her heart was wide enough for them all, and she was always glad to hear of the bakehouse and washhouse and the Tudor chimney all over again. If she was a little less interested upon this occasion than usual, Mr. Lofthouse did not observe her inattention, for in the simple earnestness of his own mind, he thought it scarcely possible that the schoolhouse topic could fail to be interesting. Nothing is so difficult as to make people understand that you don't care for what they themselves especially affect. John Mellish could not believe that the entries for the Great Ebor were not interesting to Mr. Lofthouse, and the country clergyman was fully convinced that the details of his philanthropic schemes for the regeneration of his parish could not be otherwise than delightful to his host. But the master of Mellish Park was very silent, and sat with his glass in his hand, looking across the dinner-table and Mrs. Lofthouse's head, at the sunlit tree-tops between the lawn and the north lodge. Aurora, from her end of the table, saw that gloomy glance, and a resolute shadow darkened her face, expressive of the strengthening of some rooted purpose deep hidden in her heart. She sat so long at dessert, with her eyes fixed upon an apricot in her plate, and the shadow upon her face deepening every moment, that poor Mrs. Lofthouse was in utter despair of getting the significant look which was to release her from the bondage of hearing her father's stories of tiger-shooting and pig-sticking for the two or three hundredth time. Perhaps she never would have got that feminine signal, had not Mrs. Powell, with a significant "hem!" made some observation about the sinking sun. The ensign's widow was one of those people who declare that there is a perceptible difference in the length of the days upon the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of June, and who go on announcing the same fact until the long winter evenings come with the twenty-first of December, and it is time for them to declare the converse of their late proposition. It was some remark of this kind that aroused Mrs. Mellish from her reverie, and caused her to start up suddenly, quite forgetful of the conventional simpering beck to her guest. "Past eight!" she said; "no, it's surely not so late?" "Yes, it is, Lolly," John Mellish answered, looking at his watch; "a quarter past." "Indeed! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lofthouse; shall we go into the drawing-room?" "Yes, dear, do," said the clergyman's wife, "and let's have a nice chat. Papa will drink too much claret if he tells the pig-sticking stories," she added in a confidential whisper. "Ask your dear, kind husband not to let him have too much claret; because he's sure to suffer with his liver to-morrow, and say that Lofthouse ought to have restrained him. He always says that it's poor Reginald's fault for not restraining him." John looked anxiously after his wife, as he stood with the door in his hand, while the three ladies crossed the hall. He bit his lip as he noticed Mrs. Powell's unpleasantly-precise figure close to Aurora's shoulder. "I think I spoke pretty plainly, though, this morning," he thought, as he closed the door and returned to his friends. A quarter-past eight; twenty minutes past; five-and-twenty minutes past. Mrs. Lofthouse was rather a brilliant pianist, and was never happier than when interpreting Thalberg and Benedict upon her friends' Collard-and-Collards. There were old-fashioned people round Doncaster who believed in Collard and Collard, and were thankful for the melody to be got out of a good honest grand, in a solid rosewood case, unadorned with carved glorification, or ormolu fret-work. At seven-and-twenty minutes past eight Mrs. Lofthouse was seated at Aurora's piano, in the first agonies of a prelude in six flats; a prelude which demanded such extraordinary uses of the left hand across the right, and the right over the left, and such exercise of the thumbs in all sorts of positions,--in which, according to all orthodox theories of the pre-Thalberg-ite school, no pianist's thumbs should ever be used,--that Mrs. Mellish felt that her friend's attention was not very likely to wander from the keys. Within the long, low-roofed drawing-room at Mellish Park there was a snug little apartment, hung with innocent rosebud-sprinkled chintzes, and furnished with maple-wood chairs and tables. Mrs. Lofthouse had not been seated at the piano more than five minutes when Aurora strolled from the drawing-room to this inner chamber, leaving her guest with no audience but Mrs. Powell. She lingered for a moment on the threshold to look back at the ensign's widow, who sat near the piano in an attitude of rapt attention. "She is watching me," thought Aurora, "though her pink eyelids are drooping over her eyes, and she seems to be looking at the border of her pocket-handkerchief. She sees me with her chin or her nose, perhaps. How do I know? She is all eyes! Bah! am I going to be afraid of _her_, when I was never afraid of _him?_ What should I fear except"--(her head changed from its defiant attitude to a drooping posture, and a sad smile curved her crimson lips)--"except to make you unhappy, my dear, my _husband_. Yes," with a sudden lifting of her head, and re-assumption of its proud defiance, "my own true husband! the husband who has kept his marriage-vow as unpolluted as when first it issued from his lips!" I am writing what she thought, remember, not what she said; for she was not in the habit of thinking aloud, nor did I ever know anybody who was. Aurora took up a shawl that she had flung upon the sofa, and threw it lightly over her head, veiling herself with a cloud of black lace, through which the restless, shivering diamonds shone out like stars in a midnight sky. She looked like Hecate, as she stood on the threshold of the French window lingering for a moment with a deep-laid purpose in her heart, and a resolute light in her eyes. The clock in the steeple of the village church struck the three-quarters after eight while she lingered for those few moments. As the last chime died away in the summer air, she looked up darkly at the evening sky, and walked with a rapid footstep out upon the lawn towards the southern end of the wood that bordered the Park. CHAPTER XI. CAPTAIN PRODDER CARRIES BAD NEWS TO HISNIECE'S HOUSE. While Aurora stood upon the threshold of the open window, a man was lingering upon the broad stone steps before the door of the entrance hall, remonstrating with one of John Mellish's servants, who held supercilious parley with the intruder, and kept him at arm's length with the contemptuous indifference of a well-bred servant. This stranger was Captain Samuel Prodder, who had arrived at Doncaster late in the afternoon, had dined at the Reindeer, and had come over to Mellish Park in a gig driven by a hanger-on of that establishment. The gig and the hanger-on were both in waiting at the bottom of the steps; and if there had been anything wanting to turn the balance of the footman's contempt for Captain Prodder's blue coat, loose shirt-collar, and silver watch chain, the gig from the Reindeer would have done it. "Yes, Mrs. Mellish is at home," the gentleman in plush replied, after surveying the sea-captain with a leisurely and critical air, which was rather provoking to poor Samuel; "but she's engaged." "But perhaps she'll put off her engagements for a bit when she hears who it is as wants to see her," answered the captain, diving into his capacious pocket. "She'll tell a different story, I dare say, when you take her that bit of pasteboard." He handed the man a card, or rather let me say a stiff square of thick pasteboard, inscribed with his name, so disguised by the flourishing caprices of the engraver as to be not very easily deciphered by unaccustomed eyes. The card bore Captain Prodder's address as well as his name, and informed his acquaintances that he was part-owner of the _Nancy Jane_, and that all consignments of goods were to be made to him at &c. &c. The footman took the document between his thumb and finger, and examined it as minutely as if it had been some relic of the middle ages. A new light dawned upon him as he deciphered the information about the _Nancy Jane_, and he looked at the captain for the first time with some approach to human interest in his countenance. "Is it cigars you want to dispose hof?" he asked, "or bandannas? If it's cigars, you might come round to our 'all, and show us the harticle." "Cigars!" roared Samuel Prodder. "Do you take me for a smuggler, you----?" Here followed one of those hearty seafaring epithets with which polite Mr. Chucks was apt to finish his speeches. "I'm your missus's own uncle; leastways, I--I knew her mother when she was a little gal," he added, in considerable confusion; for he remembered how far away his sea-captainship thrust him from Mrs. Mellish and her well-born husband; "so just take her my card, and look sharp about it, will you?" "We've a dinner-party," the footman said, coldly, "and I don't know if the ladies have returned to the drawing-room; but if you're anyways related to missis--I'll go and see." The man strolled leisurely away, leaving poor Samuel biting his nails in mute vexation at having let slip that ugly fact of her relationship. "That swab in the same cut coat as Lord Nelson wore aboard the _Victory_, will look down upon her now he knows she's niece to a old sea-captain that carries dry goods on commission, and can't keep his tongue between his teeth," he thought. The footman came back while Samuel Prodder was upbraiding himself for his folly, and informed him that Mrs. Mellish was not to be found in the house. "Who's that playin' upon the pianer, then?" asked Mr. Prodder, with sceptical bluntness. "Oh, that's the clugyman's wife," answered the man, contemptuously; "a _ciddyvong_ guvness, I should think, for she plays too well for a real lady. Missus don't play--leastways only pawlkers, and that sort of think. Good night." He closed the two half-glass doors upon Captain Prodder without farther ceremony, and shut Samuel out of his niece's house. "To think that I played hopscotch and swopped marbles for hardbake with this gal's mother," thought the captain, "and that her servant turns up his nose at me and shuts the door in my face!" It was in sorrow rather than in anger that the disappointed sailor thought this. He had scarcely hoped for anything better. It was only natural that those about his niece should flout at and contemptuously treat him. Let him get to _her_--let him come only for a moment face to face with Eliza's child, and he did not fear the issue. "I'll walk through the Park," he said to the man who had driven him from Doncaster; "it's a nice evenin', and there's pleasant walks under the trees to win'ard. You can drive back into the high road, and wait for me agen that 'ere turnstile I took notice of as we come along." The driver nodded, smacked his whip, and drove his elderly gray pony towards the Park-gates. Captain Samuel Prodder went, slowly and deliberately enough,--the way that it was appointed for him to go. The Park was a strange territory to him; but while driving past the outer boundaries he had looked admiringly at chance openings in the wood, revealing grassy amphitheatres enriched by spreading oaks, whose branches made a shadowy tracery upon the sunlit turf. He had looked with a seaman's wonder at the inland beauties of the quiet domain, and had pondered whether it might not be a pleasant thing for an old sailor to end his days amid such monotonous woodland tranquillity, far away from the sound of wreck and tempest, and the mighty voices of the dreadful deep; and, in his disappointment at not seeing Aurora, it was some consolation to the captain to walk across the dewy grass in the evening shadows in the direction where, with a sailor's unerring topographical instinct, he knew the turnstile must be situated. Perhaps he had some hope of meeting his niece in the pathway across the Park. The man had told him that she was out. She could not be far away, as there was a dinner-party at the house; and she was scarcely likely to leave her guests. She was wandering about the Park, most likely, with some of them. The shadows of the trees grew darker upon the grass as Captain Prodder drew nearer to the wood; but it was that sweet summer-time in which there is scarcely one positively dark hour amongst the twenty-four; and though the village clock chimed the half-hour after nine as the sailor entered the wood, he was able to distinguish the outlines of two figures advancing towards him from the other end of the long arcade, that led in a slanting direction to the turnstile. The figures were those of a man and woman; the woman wearing some light-coloured dress, which shimmered in the dusk; the man leaning on a stick, and obviously very lame. "Is it my niece and one of her visitors?" thought the captain; "maybe it is. I'll lay by to port of 'em, and let 'em pass me." Samuel Prodder stepped aside under the shadow of the trees to the left of the grassy avenue through which the two figures were approaching, and waited patiently until they drew near enough for him to distinguish the woman's face. The woman was Mrs. Mellish, and she was walking on the left of the man, and was therefore nearest to the captain. Her head was turned away from her companion, as if in utter scorn and defiance of him, although she was talking to him at that moment. Her face, proud, pale, and disdainful, was visible to the seaman in the chill, shadowy light of the newly-risen moon. A low line of crimson behind the black trunks of a distant group of trees marked where the sun had left its last track, in a vivid streak that looked like blood. Captain Prodder gazed in loving wonder at the beautiful face turned towards him. He saw the dark eyes, with their sombre depth, dark in anger and scorn, and the luminous shimmer of the jewels that shone through the black veil upon her haughty head. He saw her, and his heart grew chill at the sight of her pale beauty in the mysterious moonlight. "It might be my sister's ghost," he thought, "coming upon me in this quiet place; it's a'most difficult to believe as it's flesh and blood." He would have advanced, perhaps, and addressed his niece, had he not been held back by the words which she was speaking as she passed him--words that jarred painfully upon his heart, telling, as they did, of anger and bitterness, discord and misery. "Yes, hate you!" she said in a clear voice, which seemed to vibrate sharply in the dusk,----"hate you! hate you! hate you!" She repeated the hard phrase, as if there were some pleasure and delight in uttering it, which in her ungovernable anger she could not deny herself. "What other words do you expect from me?" she cried, with a low mocking laugh, which had a tone of deeper misery, and more utter hopelessness than any outbreak of womanly weeping. "Would you have me love you? or respect you? or tolerate you?" Her voice rose with each rapid question, merging into an hysterical sob, but never melting into tears. "Would you have me tell you anything else than what I tell you to-night? I hate and abhor you! I look upon you as the primary cause of every sorrow I have ever known, of every tear I have ever shed, of every humiliation I have endured; every sleepless night, every weary day, every despairing hour, I have ever passed. More than this,--yes, a thousand, thousand times more,--I look upon _you_ as the first cause of my father's wretchedness. Yes, even before my own mad folly in believing in you, and thinking you--what?--Claude Melnotte, perhaps!--a curse upon the man who wrote the play, and the player who acted in it, if it helped to make me what I was when I met you! I say again, I hate you! your presence poisons my home, your abhorred shadow haunts my sleep--no, not my sleep, for how should I ever sleep knowing that you are near?" Mr. Conyers, being apparently weary of walking, leaned against the trunk of a tree to listen to the end of this outbreak, looking insolent defiance at the speaker. But Aurora's passion had reached that point in which all consciousness of external things passes away in the complete egoism of anger and hate. She did not see his superciliously indifferent look; her dilated eyes stared straight before her into the dark recess from which Captain Prodder watched his sister's only child. Her restless hands rent the fragile border of her shawl in the strong agony of her passion. Have you ever seen this kind of woman in a passion? Impulsive, nervous, sensitive, sanguine; with such a one passion is a madness--brief, thank Heaven! and expending itself in sharply cruel words, and convulsive rendings of lace and ribbon, or coroner's juries might have to sit even oftener than they do. It is fortunate for mankind that speaking daggers is often quite as great a satisfaction to us as using them, and that we can threaten very cruel things without meaning to carry them out. Like the little children who say, "Won't I just tell your mother!" and the terrible editors who write, "Won't I give you a castigation in the Market-Deeping 'Spirit of the Times,' or the 'Walton-on-the-Naze Athenæum!'" "If you are going to give us much more of this sort of thing," said Mr. Conyers, with aggravating stolidity, "perhaps you won't object to my lighting a cigar?" Aurora took no notice of his quiet insolence; but Captain Prodder, involuntarily clenching his fist, bounded a step forward in his retreat, and shook the leaves of the underwood about his legs. "What's that?" exclaimed the trainer. "My dog, perhaps," answered Aurora; "he's about here with me." "Curse the purblind cur!" muttered Mr. Conyers, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. He struck a lucifer-match against the back of a tree, and the vivid sulphurous light shone full upon his handsome face. "A rascal!" thought Captain Prodder;--"a good-looking, heartless scoundrel! What's this between my niece and him? He isn't her husband, surely, for he don't look like a gentleman. But if he aint her husband, who is he?" The sailor scratched his head in his bewilderment. His senses had been almost stupefied by Aurora's passionate talk, and he had only a confused feeling that there was trouble and wretchedness of some kind or other around and about his niece. "If I thought he'd done anything to injure her," he muttered, "I'd pound him into such a jelly that his friends would never know his handsome face again as long as there was life in his carcass." Mr. Conyers threw away the burning match, and puffed at his newly-lighted cigar. He did not trouble himself to take it from his lips as he addressed Aurora, but spoke between his teeth, and smoked in the pauses of his discourse. "Perhaps, if you've--calmed yourself down--a bit," he said, "you'll be so good as--to come to business. What do you want me to do?" "You know as well as I do," answered Aurora. "You want me to leave this place?" "Yes; for ever." "And to take what you give me--and be satisfied." "Yes." "What if I refuse?" She turned sharply upon him as he asked this question, and looked at him for a few moments in silence. "What if I refuse?" he repeated, still smoking. "Look to yourself!" she cried, between her set teeth; "that's all. Look to yourself!" "What! you'd kill me, I suppose?" "No," answered Aurora; "but I'd tell all; and get the release which I ought to have sought for two years ago." "Oh, ah, to be sure!" said Mr. Conyers; "a pleasant thing for Mr. Mellish, and our poor papa, and a nice bit of gossip for the newspapers! I've a good mind to put you to the test, and see if you've pluck enough to do it, my lady." She stamped her foot upon the turf, and tore the lace in her hands, throwing the fragments away from her; but she did not answer him. "You'd like to stab me, or shoot me, or strangle me, as I stand here; wouldn't you, now?" asked the trainer, mockingly. "Yes," cried Aurora, "I would!" She flung her head back with a gesture of disdain as she spoke. "Why do I waste my time in talking to you?" she said. "My worst words can inflict no wound upon such a nature as yours. My scorn is no more painful to you than it would be to any of the loathsome creatures that creep about the margin of yonder pool." The trainer took his cigar from his mouth, and struck the ashes away with his little finger. "No," he said with a contemptuous laugh; "I'm not very thin-skinned; and I'm pretty well used to this sort of thing, into the bargain. But suppose, as I remarked just now, we drop this style of conversation, and come to business. We don't seem to be getting on very fast this way." At this juncture, Captain Prodder, who, in his extreme desire to strangle his niece's companion, had advanced very close upon the two speakers, knocked off his hat against the lower branches of the tree which sheltered him. There was no mistake this time about the rustling of the leaves. The trainer started, and limped towards Captain Prodder's hiding-place. "There's some one listening to us," he said. "I'm sure of it this time;--that fellow Hargraves, perhaps. I fancy he's a sneak." Mr. Conyers supported himself against the very tree behind which the sailor stood, and beat amongst the undergrowth with his stick, but did not succeed in encountering the legs of the listener. "If that soft-headed fool _is_ playing the spy upon me," cried the trainer, savagely, "he'd better not let me catch him, for I'll make him remember it, if I do." "Don't I tell you that my dog followed me here?" exclaimed Aurora contemptuously. A low rustling of the grass on the other side of the avenue, and at some distance from the seaman's place of concealment, was heard as Mrs. Mellish spoke. "_That's_ your dog, if you like," said the trainer; "the other was a man. Come on a little way further, and let's make a finish of this business; it's past ten o'clock." Mr. Conyers was right. The church clock had struck ten five minutes before, but the solemn chimes had fallen unheeded upon Aurora's ear, lost amid the angry voices raging in her breast. She started as she looked around her at the summer darkness in the woods, and the flaming yellow moon, which brooded low upon the earth, and shed no light upon the mysterious pathways and the water-pools in the wood. The trainer limped away, Aurora walking by his side, yet holding herself as far aloof from him as the grassy pathway would allow. They were out of hearing, and almost out of sight, before the sea-captain could emerge from a state of utter stupefaction so far as to be able to look at the business in its right bearings. "I ought to ha' knocked him down," he muttered at last, "whether he's her husband or whether he isn't. I ought to have knocked him down, and I would have done it, too," added the captain resolutely, "if it hadn't been that my niece seemed to have a good fiery spirit of her own, and to be able to fire a jolly good broadside in the way of hard words. I'll find my skull-thatcher if I can," said Captain Prodder, groping for his hat amongst the brambles, and the long grass, "and then I'll just run up to the turnstile and tell my mate to lay at anchor a bit longer with the horse and shay. He'll be wonderin' what I'm up to; but I won't go back just yet, I'll keep in the way of my niece and that swab with the game leg." The captain found his hat, and walked down to the turnstile, where he found the young man from the Reindeer fast asleep, with the reins loose in his hands, and his head upon his knees. The horse, with his head in an empty nose-bag, seemed as fast asleep as the driver. The young man woke at the sound of the turnstile creaking upon its axis, and the step of the sailor in the road. "I aint going to get aboard just yet," said Captain Prodder; "I'll take another turn in the wood as the evenin's so pleasant. I come to tell you I wouldn't keep you much longer, for I thought you'd think I was dead." "I did a'most," answered the charioteer candidly. "My word!--aint you been a time!" "I met Mr. and Mrs. Mellish in the wood," said the captain, "and I stopped to have a look at 'em. She's a bit of a spitfire, aint she?" asked Samuel, with affected carelessness. The young man from the Reindeer shook his head dubiously. "I doan't know about that," he said; "she's a rare favourite hereabouts, with poor folks and gentry too. They do say as she horsewhipped a poor fond chap as they'd got in the stables, for ill-usin' her dog; and sarve him right too," added the young man decisively. "Them Softies is allus vicious." Captain Prodder pondered rather doubtfully upon this piece of information. He was not particularly elated by the image of his sister's child laying a horsewhip upon the shoulders of her half-witted servant. This trifling incident didn't exactly harmonize with his idea of the beautiful young heiress, playing upon all manner of instruments, and speaking half a dozen languages. "Yes," repeated the driver, "they _do_ say as she gave t' fondy a good whopping; and damme if I don't admire her for it." "Ay, ay!" answered Captain Prodder thoughtfully. "Mr. Mellish walks lame, don't he?" he asked, after a pause. "Lame!" cried the driver; "Lord bless your heart! not a bit of it. John Mellish is as fine a young man as you'll meet in this Riding. Ay, and finer too. I ought to know. I've seen him walk into our house often enough, in the race week." The captain's heart sank strangely at this information. The man with whom he had heard his niece quarrelling was not her husband, then. The squabble had seemed natural enough to the uninitiated sailor while he looked at it in a matrimonial light; but seen from another aspect it struck sudden terror to his sturdy heart, and blanched the ruddy hues in his brown face. "Who was he, then?" he thought; "who was it as my niece was talking to--after dark,--alone,--a mile off her own home--eh?" Before he could seek for a solution to the unuttered question which agitated and alarmed him, the report of a pistol rang sharply through the wood, and found an echo under a distant hill. The horse pricked up his ears, and jibbed a few paces; the driver gave a low whistle. "I thought so," he said. "Poachers! This side of the wood's chock full of game; and though Squire Mellish is allus threatenin' to prosecute 'em, folks know pretty well as he'll never do it." The broad-shouldered, strong-limbed sailor leaned against the turnstile, trembling in every limb. What was that which his niece said a quarter of an hour before, when the man had asked her whether she would like to shoot him? "Leave your horse," he said, in a gasping voice; "tie him to the stile, and come with me. If--if--it's poachers, we'll--we'll catch em." The young man looped the reins across the turnstile. He had no very great terror of any inclination for flight latent in the gray horse from the Reindeer. The two men ran in the wood; the captain running in the direction in which his sharp ears told him the shot had been fired. The moon was slowly rising in the tranquil heavens, but there was very little light yet in the wood. The captain stopped near a rustic summer-house falling into decay, and half buried amidst the tangled foliage that clustered about the mouldering thatch and the dilapidated woodwork. "It was hereabout the shot was fired," muttered the captain; "about a hundred yards due nor'ard of the stile. I could take my oath as it weren't far from this spot I'm standin' on." He looked about him in the dim light. He could see no one; but an army might have hidden amongst the trees that encircled the open patch of turf on which the summer-house had been built. He listened; with his hat off, and his big hand pressed tightly on his heart, as if to still its tumultuous beating. He listened, as eagerly as he had often listened, far out on a glassy sea, for the first faint breath of a rising wind; but he could hear nothing except the occasional croaking of the frogs in the pond near the summer-house. "I could have sworn it was about here the shot was fired," he repeated. "God grant as it _was_ poachers, after all! but it's given me a turn that's made me feel like some cockney lubber aboard a steamer betwixt Bristol and Cork. Lord, what a blessed old fool I am!" muttered the captain, after walking slowly round the summer-house to convince himself that there was no one hidden in it. "One 'ud think I'd never heerd the sound of a ha'p'orth of powder before to-night." He put on his hat, and walked a few paces forward, still looking about cautiously, and still listening; but much easier in his mind than when first he had re-entered the wood. He stopped suddenly, arrested by a sound which has of itself, without any reference to its power of association, a mysterious and chilling influence upon the human heart. This sound was the howling of a dog,--the prolonged, monotonous howling of a dog. A cold sweat broke out upon the sailor's forehead. That sound, always one of terror to his superstitious nature, was doubly terrible to-night. "It means death!" he muttered, with a groan. "No dog ever howled like that except for death." He turned back, and looked about him. The moonlight glimmered faintly upon the broad patch of stagnant water near the summer-house, and upon its brink the captain saw two figures, black against the summer atmosphere: a prostrate figure, lying close to the edge of the water; and a large dog, with his head uplifted to the sky, howling piteously. * * * * * It was the bounden duty of poor John Mellish, in his capacity of host, to sit at the head of his table, pass the claret-jug, and listen to Colonel Maddison's stories of the pig-sticking and the tiger-hunting, as long as the Indian officer chose to talk for the amusement of his friend and his son-in-law. It was perhaps lucky that patient Mr. Lofthouse was well up in all the stories, and knew exactly which departments of each narrative were to be laughed at, and which were to be listened to with silent and awe-stricken attention; for John Mellish made a very bad audience upon this occasion. He pushed the filberts towards the colonel at the very moment when "the tigress was crouching for a spring, upon the rising ground exactly above us, sir, and when, by Jove! Charley Maddison felt himself at pretty close quarters with the enemy, sir, and never thought to stretch his legs under this mahogany, or any other man's, sir;" and he spoiled the officer's best joke by asking him for the claret in the middle of it. The tigers and the pigs were confusion and weariness of spirit to Mr. Mellish. He was yearning for the moment when, with any show of decency, he might make for the drawing-room, and find out what Aurora was doing in the still summer twilight. When the door was opened and fresh wine brought in, he heard the rattling of the keys under Mrs. Lofthouse's manipulation, and rejoiced to think that his wife was seated quietly, perhaps, listening to those sonatas in C flat, which the rector's wife delighted to interpret. The lamps were brought in before Colonel Maddison's stories were finished; and when John's butler came to ask if the gentlemen would like coffee, the worthy Indian officer said, "Yes, by all means, and a cheroot with it. No smoking in the drawing-room, eh, Mellish? Petticoat government and window-curtains, I dare say. Clara doesn't like my smoke at the Rectory, and poor Lofthouse writes his sermons in the summer-house; for he can't write without a weed, you know, and a volume of Tillotson, or some of these fellows, to prig from--eh, George?" said the facetious gentleman, digging his son-in-law in the ribs with his fat old fingers, and knocking over two or three wine-glasses in his ponderous jocosity. How dreary it all seemed to John Mellish to-night! He wondered how people felt who had no social mystery brooding upon their hearth; no domestic skeleton cowering in their homely cupboard. He looked at the rector's placid face with a pang of envy. There was no secret kept from _him_. There was no perpetual struggle rending _his_ heart; no dreadful doubts and fears that would not be quite lulled to rest; no vague terror incessant and unreasoning; no mute argument for ever going forward, with plaintiff's counsel and defendant's counsel continually pleading the same cause, and arriving at the same result. Heaven take pity upon those who have to suffer such silent misery, such secret despair! We look at our neighbours' smiling faces, and say, in bitterness of spirit, that A is a lucky fellow, and that B can't be as much in debt as his friends say he is; that C and his pretty wife are the happiest couple we know; and to-morrow B is in the 'Gazette,' and C is weeping over a dishonoured home, and a group of motherless children, who wonder what mamma has done that papa should be so sorry. The battles are very quiet, but they are for ever being fought. We keep the fox hidden under our cloak, but the teeth of the animal are none the less sharp, nor the pain less terrible to bear; a little more terrible, perhaps, for being endured silently. John Mellish gave a long sigh of relief when the Indian officer finished his third cheroot, and pronounced himself ready to join the ladies. The lamps in the drawing-room were lighted, and the curtains drawn before the open windows, when the three gentlemen entered. Mrs. Lofthouse was asleep upon one of the sofas, with a Book of Beauty lying open at her feet, and Mrs. Powell, pale and sleepless,--sleepless as trouble and sorrow, as jealousy and hate, as anything that is ravenous and unappeasable,--sat at her embroidery, working laborious monstrosities upon delicate cambric muslin. The colonel dropped heavily into a luxurious easy-chair, and quietly abandoned himself to repose. Mr. Lofthouse awoke his wife, and consulted her about the propriety of ordering the carriage. John Mellish looked eagerly round the room. To him it was empty. The rector and his wife, the Indian officer, and the ensign's widow, were only so many "phosphorescent spectralities," "phantasm captains;" in short, they were not Aurora. "Where's Lolly?" he asked, looking from Mrs. Lofthouse to Mrs. Powell; "where's my wife?" "I really do not know," answered Mrs. Powell, with icy deliberation. "I've not been watching Mrs. Mellish." The poisoned darts glanced away from John's preoccupied breast. There was no room in his wounded heart for such a petty sting as this. "Where's my wife?" he cried passionately; "you _must_ know where she is. She's not here. Is she up-stairs? Is she out of doors?" "To the best of my belief," replied the ensign's widow, with more than usual precision, "Mrs. Mellish is in some part of the grounds; she has been out of doors ever since we left the dining-room." The French clock upon the mantelpiece chimed the three-quarters after ten as she finished speaking: as if to give emphasis to her words and to remind Mr. Mellish how long his wife had been absent. He bit his lip fiercely, and strode towards one of the windows. He was going to look for his wife; but he stopped as he flung aside the window-curtain, arrested by Mrs. Powell's uplifted hand. "Hark!" she said, "there is something the matter, I fear. Did you hear that violent ringing at the hall-door?" Mr. Mellish let fall the curtain, and re-entered the room. "It's Aurora, no doubt," he said; "they've shut her out again, I suppose. I beg, Mrs. Powell, that you will prevent this in future. Really, ma'am, it is hard that my wife should be shut out of her own house." He might have said much more, but he stopped, pale and breathless, at the sound of a hubbub in the hall, and rushed to the room-door. He opened it and looked out, with Mrs. Powell and Mr. and Mrs. Lofthouse crowding behind him, and looking over his shoulder. Half a dozen servants were clustered round a roughly-dressed, seafaring-looking man, who, with his hat off and his disordered hair falling about his white face, was telling in broken sentences, scarcely intelligible for the speaker's agitation, that a murder had been done in the wood. CHAPTER XII. THE DEED THAT HAD BEEN DONE IN THE WOOD. The bare-headed seafaring man who stood in the centre of the hall was Captain Samuel Prodder. The scared faces of the servants gathered round him told more plainly than his own words, which came hoarsely from his parched white lips, the nature of the tidings that he brought. John Mellish strode across the hall, with an awful calmness on his white face; and parting the hustled group of servants with his strong arms, as a mighty wind rends asunder the storm-beaten waters, he placed himself face to face with Captain Prodder. "Who are you?" he asked sternly: "and what has brought you here?" The Indian officer had been aroused by the clamour, and had emerged, red and bristling with self-importance, to take his part in the business in hand. There are some pies in the making of which everybody yearns to have a finger. It is a great privilege, after some social convulsion has taken place, to be able to say, "I was there at the time the scene occurred, sir;" or, "I was standing as close to him when the blow was struck, ma'am, as I am to you at this moment." People are apt to take pride out of strange things. An elderly gentleman at Doncaster, showing me his comfortably-furnished apartments, informed me, with evident satisfaction, that Mr. William Palmer had lodged in those very rooms. Colonel Maddison pushed aside his daughter and her husband, and struggled out into the hall. "Come, my man," he said, echoing John's interrogatory, "let us hear what has brought you here at such a remarkably unseasonable hour." The sailor gave no direct answer to the question. He pointed with his thumb across his shoulder towards that dismal spot in the lonely wood, which was as present to his mental vision now as it had been to his bodily eyes a quarter of an hour before. "A man!" he gasped; "a man--lyin' close agen' the water's edge,--shot through the heart!" "Dead?" asked some one, in an awful tone. The voices and the questions came from whom they would, in the awe-stricken terror of those first moments of overwhelming horror and surprise. No one knew who spoke except the speakers; perhaps even they were scarcely aware that they had spoken. "Dead?" asked one of those eager listeners. "Stone dead." "A man--shot dead in the wood!" cried John Mellish; "what man?" "I beg your pardon, sir," said the grave old butler, laying his hand gently upon his master's shoulder: "I think, from what this person says, that the man who has been shot is--the new trainer, Mr.--Mr.----" "Conyers!" exclaimed John. "Conyers! who--who should shoot him?" The question was asked in a hoarse whisper. It was impossible for the speaker's face to grow whiter than it had been, from the moment in which he had opened the drawing-room door, and looked out into the hall; but some terrible change not to be translated into words came over it at the mention of the trainer's name. He stood motionless and silent, pushing his hair from his forehead, and staring wildly about him. The grave butler laid his warning hand for a second time upon his master's shoulder. "Sir--Mr. Mellish," he said, eager to arouse the young man from the dull, stupid quiet into which he had fallen,--"excuse me, sir; but if my mistress should come in suddenly, and hear of this, she might be upset, perhaps. Wouldn't it be better to----" "Yes, yes!" cried John Mellish, lifting his head suddenly, as if aroused into immediate action by the mere suggestion of his wife's name,--"yes! clear out of the hall, every one of you," he said, addressing the eager group of pale-faced servants. "And you, sir," he added to Captain Prodder, "come with me." He walked towards the dining-room door. The sailor followed him, still bare-headed, still with a semi-bewildered expression in his dusky face. "It aint the first time I've seen a man shot," he thought; "but it's the first time I've felt like this." Before Mr. Mellish could reach the dining-room, before the servants could disperse and return to their proper quarters, one of the half-glass doors, which had been left ajar, was pushed open by the light touch of a woman's hand, and Aurora Mellish entered the hall. "Ah, ha!" thought the ensign's widow, who looked on at the scene, snugly sheltered by Mr. and Mrs. Lofthouse; "my lady is caught a second time in her evening rambles. What will he say to her goings-on to-night, I wonder?" Aurora's manner presented a singular contrast to the terror and agitation of the assembly in the hall. A vivid crimson flush glowed in her cheeks and lit up her shining eyes. She carried her head high, in that queenly defiance which was her peculiar grace. She walked with a light step; she moved with easy, careless gestures. It seemed as if some burden which she had long carried had been suddenly removed from her. But at sight of the crowd in the hall she drew back with a look of alarm. "What has happened, John?" she cried; "what is wrong?" He lifted his hand with a warning gesture,--a gesture that plainly said: Whatever trouble or sorrow there may be, let her be spared the knowledge of it; let her be sheltered from the pain. "Yes, my darling," he answered quietly, taking her hand and leading her into the drawing-room; "there is something wrong. An accident has happened--in the wood yonder; but it concerns no one whom you care for. Go, dear; I will tell you all, by-and-by. Mrs. Lofthouse, you will take care of my wife. Lofthouse, come with me. Allow me to shut the door, Mrs. Powell, if you please," he added to the ensign's widow, who did not seem inclined to leave her post upon the threshold of the drawing-room. "Any curiosity which you may have about the business shall be satisfied in due time. For the present, you will oblige me by remaining with my wife and Mrs. Lofthouse." He paused, with his hand upon the drawing-room door, and looked at Aurora. She was standing with her shawl upon her arm, watching her husband; and she advanced eagerly to him as she met his glance. "John," she exclaimed, "for mercy's sake, tell me the truth! _What_ is this accident?" He was silent for a moment, gazing at her eager face,--that face whose exquisite mobility expressed every thought; then, looking at her with a strange solemnity, he said gravely, "You were in the wood just now, Aurora?" "I was," she answered; "I have only just left the grounds. A man passed me, running violently, about a quarter of an hour ago. I thought he was a poacher. Was it to him the accident happened?" "No. There was a shot fired in the wood some time since. Did you hear it?" "I did," replied Mrs. Mellish, looking at him with sudden terror and surprise. "I knew there were often poachers about near the road, and I was not alarmed by it. Was there anything wrong in that shot? Was any one hurt?" Her eyes were fixed upon his face, dilated with that look of wondering terror. "Yes; a--a man was hurt." Aurora looked at him in silence,--looked at him with a stony face, whose only expression was an utter bewilderment. Every other feeling seemed blotted away in that one sense of wonder. John Mellish led her to a chair near Mrs. Lofthouse, who had been seated, with Mrs. Powell, at the other end of the room, close to the piano, and too far from the door to overhear the conversation which had just taken place between John and his wife. People do not talk very loudly in moments of intense agitation. They are liable to be deprived of some portion of their vocal power in the fearful crisis of terror or despair. A numbness seizes the organ of speech; a partial paralysis disables the ready tongue; the trembling lips refuse to do their duty. The soft pedal of the human instrument is down, and the tones are feeble and muffled, wandering into weak minor shrillness, or sinking to husky basses, beyond the ordinary compass of the speaker's voice. The stentorian accents in which Claude Melnotte bids adieu to Mademoiselle Deschapelles mingle very effectively with the brazen clamour of the Marseillaise Hymn; the sonorous tones in which Mistress Julia appeals to her Hunchback guardian are pretty sure to bring down the approving thunder of the eighteenpenny gallery; but I doubt if the noisy energy of stage-grief is true to nature, however wise in art. I'm afraid that an actor who would play Claude Melnotte with a pre-Raphaelite fidelity to nature would be an insufferable bore, and utterly inaudible beyond the third row in the pit. The artist must draw his own line between nature and art, and map out the extent of his own territory. If he finds that cream-coloured marble is more artistically beautiful than a rigid presentment of actual flesh and blood, let him stain his marble of that delicate hue until the end of time. If he can represent five acts of agony and despair without once turning his back to his audience or sitting down, let him do it. If he is conscientiously true to his _art_, let him choose for himself how true he shall be to nature. John Mellish took his wife's hand in his own, and grasped it with a convulsive pressure that almost crushed the delicate fingers. "Stay here, my dear, till I come back to you," he said. "Now, Lofthouse!" Mr. Lofthouse followed his friend into the hall, where Colonel Maddison had been making the best use of his time by questioning the merchant-captain. "Come, gentlemen," said John, leading the way to the dining-room; "come, colonel, and you too, Lofthouse; and you, sir," he added to the sailor, "step this way." The _débris_ of the dessert still covered the table, but the men did not advance far into the room. John stood aside as the others went in, and entering the last, closed the door behind him, and stood with his back against it. "Now," he said, turning sharply upon Samuel Prodder, "what is this business?" "I'm afraid it's sooicide--or--or murder," answered the sailor gravely. "I've told this good gentleman all about it." This good gentleman was Colonel Maddison, who seemed delighted to plunge into the conversation. "Yes, my dear Mellish," he said eagerly; "our friend, who describes himself as a sailor, and who had come down to see Mrs. Mellish, whose mother he knew when he was a boy, has told me all about this shocking affair. Of course the body must be removed immediately, and the sooner your servants go out with lanterns for that purpose the better. Decision, my dear Mellish, decision and prompt action are indispensable in these sad catastrophes." "The body removed!" repeated John Mellish; "the man is dead, then." "Quite dead," answered the sailor; "he was dead when I found him, though it wasn't above seven minutes after the shot was fired. I left a man with him--a young man as drove me from Doncaster--and a dog,--some big dog that watched beside him,--howling awful, and wouldn't leave him." "Did you--see--the man's face?" "Yes." "You are a stranger here," said John Mellish; "it is useless, therefore, to ask you if you know who the man is." "No, sir," answered the sailor, "I didn't know him; but the young man from the Reindeer----" "He recognized him?" "Yes; he said he'd seen the man in Doncaster only the night before; and that he was your--trainer, I think he called him." "Yes, yes." "A lame chap." "Come, gentlemen," said John, turning to his friends, "what are we to do?" "Send the servants into the wood," replied Colonel Maddison, "and have the body carried----" "Not here," cried John Mellish, interrupting him,--"not here; it would kill my wife." "Where did the man live?" asked the colonel. "In the north lodge. A cottage against the northern gates, which are never used now." "Then let the body be taken there," answered the Indian soldier; "let one of your people run for the parish constable; and you'd better send for the nearest surgeon immediately, though, from what our friend here says, a hundred of 'em couldn't do any good. It's an awful business! Some poaching fray, I suppose." "Yes, yes," answered John quickly; "no doubt." "Was the man disliked in the neighbourhood?" asked Colonel Maddison; "had he made himself in any manner obnoxious?" "I should scarcely think it likely. He had only been with me about a week." The servants, who had dispersed at John's command, had not gone very far. They had lingered in corridors and lobbies, ready at a moment's notice to rush out into the hall again, and act their minor parts in the tragedy. They preferred doing anything to returning quietly to their own quarters. They came out eagerly at Mr. Mellish's summons. He gave his orders briefly, selecting two of the men, and sending the others about their business. "Bring a couple of lanterns," he said; "and follow us across the Park towards the pond in the wood." Colonel Maddison, Mr. Lofthouse, Captain Prodder, and John Mellish, left the house together. The moon, still slowly rising in the broad, cloudless heavens, silvered the quiet lawn, and shimmered upon the tree-tops in the distance. The three gentlemen walked at a rapid pace, led by Samuel Prodder, who kept a little way in advance, and followed by a couple of grooms, who carried darkened stable-lanterns. As they entered the wood, they stopped involuntarily, arrested by that solemn sound which had first drawn the sailor's attention to the dreadful deed that had been done--the howling of the dog. It sounded in the distance like a low, feeble wail: a long monotonous death-cry. They followed that dismal indication of the spot to which they were to go. They made their way through the shadowy avenue, and emerged upon the silvery patch of turf and fern, where the rotting summer-house stood in its solitary decay. The two figures--the prostrate figure on the brink of the water, and the figure of the dog with uplifted head--still remained exactly as the sailor had left them three-quarters of an hour before. The young man from the Reindeer stood aloof from these two figures, and advanced to meet the newcomers as they drew near. Colonel Maddison took a lantern from one of the men, and ran forward to the water's edge. The dog rose as he approached, and walked slowly round the prostrate form, sniffing at it, and whining piteously. John Mellish called the animal away. "This man was in a sitting posture when he was shot," said Colonel Maddison, decisively. "He was sitting upon this bench." He pointed to a dilapidated rustic seat close to the margin of the stagnant water. "He was sitting upon this bench," repeated the colonel; "for he's fallen close against it, as you see. Unless I'm very much mistaken, he was shot from behind." "You don't think he shot himself, then?" asked John Mellish. "Shot himself!" cried the colonel; "not a bit of it. But we'll soon settle that. If he shot himself, the pistol must be close against him. Here, bring a loose plank from that summer-house, and lay the body upon it," added the Indian officer, speaking to the servants. Captain Prodder and the two grooms selected the broadest plank they could find. It was moss-grown and rotten, and straggling wreaths of wild clematis were entwined about it; but it served the purpose for which it was wanted. They laid it upon the grass, and lifted the body of James Conyers on to it, with his handsome face--ghastly and horrible in the fixed agony of sudden death--turned upward to the moonlit sky. It was wonderful how mechanically and quietly they went to work, promptly and silently obeying the colonel's orders. John Mellish and Mr. Lofthouse searched the slippery grass upon the bank, and groped amongst the fringe of fern, without result. There was no weapon to be found anywhere within a considerable radius of the body. While they were searching in every direction for this missing link in the mystery of the man's death, the parish-constable arrived with the servant who had been sent to summon him. He had very little to say for himself, except that he supposed it was poachers as had done it; and that he also supposed all particklars would come out at the inquest. He was a simple rural functionary, accustomed to petty dealings with refractory tramps, contumacious poachers, and impounded cattle, and was scarcely master of the situation in any great emergency. Mr. Prodder and the servants lifted the plank upon which the body lay, and struck into the long avenue leading northward, walking a little ahead of the three gentlemen and the constable. The young man from the Reindeer returned to look after his horse, and to drive round to the north lodge, where he was to meet Mr. Prodder. All had been done so quietly that the knowledge of the catastrophe had not passed beyond the domains of Mellish Park. In the summer evening stillness James Conyers was carried back to the chamber from whose narrow window he had looked out upon the beautiful world, weary of its beauty, only a few hours before. The purposeless life was suddenly closed. The careless wanderer's journey had come to an unthought-of end. What a melancholy record, what a meaningless and unfinished page! Nature, blindly bountiful to the children whom she has yet to know, had bestowed her richest gifts upon this man. She had created a splendid image, and had chosen a soul at random, ignorantly enshrining it in her most perfectly fashioned clay. Of all who read the story of this man's death in the following Sunday's newspapers, there was not one who shed a tear for him; there was not one who could say, "That man once stepped out of his way to do me a kindness; and may the Lord have mercy upon his soul!" Shall I be sentimental, then, because he is dead, and regret that he was not spared a little longer, and allowed a day of grace in which he might repent? Had he lived for ever, I do not think he would have lived long enough to become that which it was not in his nature to be. May God, in His infinite compassion, have pity upon the souls which He has Himself created; and where He has withheld the light, may He excuse the darkness! The phrenologists who examined the head of William Palmer declared that he was so utterly deficient in moral perception, so entirely devoid of conscientious restraint, that he could not help being what he was. Heaven keep us from too much credence in that horrible fatalism! Is a man's destiny here and hereafter to depend upon bulbous projections scarcely perceptible to uneducated fingers, and good and evil propensities which can be measured by the compass or weighed in the scale? The dismal _cortège_ slowly made its way under the silver moonlight, the trembling leaves making a murmuring music in the faint summer air, the pale glowworms shining here and there amid the tangled verdure. The bearers of the dead walked with a slow but steady tramp in advance of the rest. All walked in silence. What should they say? In the presence of death's awful mystery, life made a pause. There was a brief interval in the hard business of existence; a hushed and solemn break in the working of life's machinery. "There'll be an inquest," thought Mr. Prodder, "and I shall have to give evidence. I wonder what questions they'll ask me?" He did not think this once, but perpetually; dwelling with a half-stupid persistence upon the thought of that inquisition which must most infallibly be made, and those questions that might be asked. The honest sailor's simple mind was cast astray in the utter bewilderment of this night's mysterious horror. The story of life was changed. He had come to play his humble part in some sweet domestic drama of love and confidence, and he found himself involved in a tragedy; a horrible mystery of hatred, secrecy, and murder; a dreadful maze, from whose obscurity he saw no hope of issue. A beacon-light glimmered in the lower window of the cottage by the north gates,--a feeble ray, that glittered like a gem from out a bower of honeysuckle and clematis. The little garden-gate was closed, but it only fastened with a latch. The bearers of the body paused before entering the garden, and the constable stepped aside to speak to Mr. Mellish. "Is there anybody lives in the cottage?" he asked. "Yes," answered John; "the trainer employed an old hanger-on of my own,--a half-witted fellow called Hargraves." "It's him as burns the light in there, most likely, then," said the constable. "I'll go in and speak to him first. Do you wait here till I come out again," he added, turning to the men who carried the body. The lodge-door was on the latch. The constable opened it softly, and went in. A rushlight was burning upon the table, the candlestick placed in a basin of water. A bottle half filled with brandy, and a tumbler, stood near the light; but the room was empty. The constable took his shoes off, and crept up the little staircase. The upper floor of the lodge consisted of two rooms,--one, sufficiently large and comfortable, looking towards the stable-gates; the other, smaller and darker, looked out upon a patch of kitchen-garden and on the fence which separated Mr. Mellish's estate from the high road. The larger chamber was empty; but the door of the smaller was ajar; and the constable, pausing to listen at that half-open door, heard the regular breathing of a heavy sleeper. He knocked sharply upon the panel. "Who's there?" asked the person within, starting up from a truckle bedstead. "Is't thou, Muster Conyers?" "No," answered the constable. "It's me, William Dork, of Little Meslingham. Come down-stairs; I want to speak to you." "Is there aught wrong?" "Yes." "Poachers?" "That's as may be," answered Mr. Dork. "Come down-stairs, will you?" Mr. Hargraves muttered something to the effect that he would make his appearance as soon as he could find sundry portions of his rather fragmentary toilet. The constable looked into the room, and watched the "Softy" groping for his garments in the moonlight. Three minutes afterwards Stephen Hargraves slowly shambled down the angular wooden stairs, which wound in a corkscrew fashion, affected by the builders of small dwellings, from the upper to the lower floor. "Now," said Mr. Dork, planting the "Softy" opposite to him, with the feeble rays of the rushlight upon his sickly face,--"now then, I want you to answer me a question. At what time did your master leave the house?" "At half-past seven o'clock," answered the "Softy," in his whispering voice; "she was stroikin the half-hour as he went out." He pointed to a small Dutch clock in a corner of the room. His countrymen always speak of a clock as "she." "Oh, he went out at half-past seven o'clock, did he?" said the constable; "and you haven't seen him since, I suppose?" "No. He told me he should be late, and I wasn't to sit oop for him. He swore at me last night for sitting oop for him. But is there aught wrong?" asked the "Softy." Mr. Dork did not condescend to reply to this question. He walked straight to the door, opened it, and beckoned to those who stood without in the summer moonlight, patiently waiting for his summons. "You may bring him in," he said. They carried their ghastly burden into the pleasant rustic chamber--the chamber in which Mr. James Conyers had sat smoking and drinking a few hours before. Mr. Morton, the surgeon from Meslingham, the village nearest to the Park-gates, arrived as the body was being carried in, and ordered a temporary couch of mattresses to be spread upon a couple of tables placed together, in the lower room, for the reception of the trainer's corpse. John Mellish, Samuel Prodder, and Mr. Lofthouse remained outside the cottage. Colonel Maddison, the servants, the constable, and the doctor, were all clustered round the corpse. "He has been dead about an hour and a quarter," said the doctor, after a brief inspection of the body. "He has been shot in the back; the bullet has not penetrated the heart, for in that case there would have been no hæmorrhage. He has respired after receiving the shot; but death must have been almost instantaneous." Before making his examination, the surgeon had assisted Mr. Dork, the constable, to draw off the coat and waistcoat of the deceased. The bosom of the waistcoat was saturated with the blood that had flowed from the parted lips of the dead man. It was Mr. Dork's business to examine these garments, in the hope of finding some shred of evidence which might become a clue to the secret of the trainer's death. He turned out the pockets of the shooting coat, and of the waistcoat; one of these packets contained a handful of halfpence, a couple of shillings, a fourpenny-piece, and a rusty watch-key; another held a little parcel of tobacco wrapped in an old betting-list, and a broken meerschaum pipe, black and greasy with the essential oil of bygone shag and bird's-eye. In one of the waistcoat pockets Mr. Dork found the dead man's silver watch, with a blood-stained ribbon and a worthless gilt seal. Amongst all these things there was nothing calculated to throw any light upon the mystery. Colonel Maddison shrugged his shoulders as the constable emptied the paltry contents of the trainer's pockets on to a little dresser at one end of the room. "There's nothing here that makes the business any clearer," he said; "but to my mind it's plain enough. The man was new here, and he brought new ways with him from his last situation. The poachers and vagabonds have been used to have it all their own way about Mellish Park, and they didn't like this poor fellow's interference. He wanted to play the tyrant, I dare say, and made himself obnoxious to some of the worst of the lot; and he's caught it hot, poor chap!--that's all I've got to say." Colonel Maddison, with the recollection of a refractory Punjaub strong upon him, had no very great reverence for the mysterious spark that lights the human temple. If a man made himself obnoxious to other men, other men were very likely to kill him. This was the soldier's simple theory; and, having delivered himself of his opinion respecting the trainer's death, he emerged from the cottage, and was ready to go home with John Mellish, and drink another bottle of that celebrated tawny port which had been laid in by his host's father twenty years before. The constable stood close against a candle, that had been hastily lighted and thrust unceremoniously into a disused blacking-bottle, with the waistcoat still in his hands. He was turning the blood-stained garment inside out; for while emptying the pockets he had felt a thick substance that seemed like a folded paper, but the whereabouts of which he had not been able to discover. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of surprise presently; for he found the solution of this difficulty. The paper was sewn between the inner lining and the outer material of the waistcoat. He discovered this by examining the seam, a part of which was sewn with coarse stitches and a thread of a different colour to the rest. He ripped open this part of the seam, and drew out the paper, which was so much bloodstained as to be undecipherable to Mr. Dork's rather obtuse vision. "I'll say naught about it, and keep it to show to th' coroner," he thought; "I'll lay he'll make something out of it." The constable folded the document and secured it in a leathern pocket-book, a bulky receptacle, the very aspect of which was wont to strike terror to rustic defaulters. "I'll show it to th' coroner," he thought; "and if aught particklar comes out, I may get something for my trouble." The village surgeon having done his duty, prepared to leave the crowded little room, where the gaping servants still lingered, as if loth to tear themselves away from the ghastly figure of the dead man, over which Mr. Morton had spread a patchwork coverlet, taken from the bed in the chamber above. The "Softy" had looked on quietly enough at the dismal scene, watching the faces of the small assembly, and glancing furtively from one to another beneath the shadow of his bushy red eyebrows. His haggard face, always of a sickly white, seemed to-night no more colourless than usual. His slow whispering tones were not more suppressed than they always were. If he had a hang-dog manner and a furtive glance, the manner and the glance were both common to him. No one looked at him; no one heeded him. After the first question as to the hour at which the trainer left the lodge had been asked and answered, no one spoke to him. If he got in anybody's way, he was pushed aside; if he said anything, nobody listened to him. The dead man was the sole monarch of that dismal scene. It was to him they looked with awe-stricken glances; it was of him they spoke in subdued whispers. All their questions, their suggestions, their conjectures, were about him, and him alone. There is this to be observed in the physiology of every murder,--that before the coroner's inquest the sole object of public curiosity is the murdered man; while immediately after that judicial investigation the tide of feeling turns; the dead man is buried and forgotten, and the suspected murderer becomes the hero of men's morbid imaginations. John Mellish looked in at the door of the cottage to ask a few questions. "Have you found anything, Dork?" he asked. "Nothing particklar, sir." "Nothing that throws any light upon this business?" "No, sir." "You are going home, then, I suppose?" "Yes, sir, I must be going back now; if you'll leave some one here to watch----" "Yes, yes," said John; "one of the servants shall stay." "Very well, then, sir; I'll just take the names of the witnesses that'll be examined at the inquest, and I'll go over and see the coroner early to-morrow morning." "The witnesses; ah, to be sure. Who will you want?" Mr. Dork hesitated for a moment, rubbing the bristles upon his chin. "Well, there's this man here, Hargraves, I think you called him," he said presently; "we shall want him; for it seems he was the last that saw the deceased alive, leastways as I can hear on yet; then we shall want the gentleman as found the body, and the young man as was with him when he heard the shot: the gentleman as found the body is the most particklar of all, and I'll speak to him at once." John Mellish turned round, fully expecting to see Mr. Prodder at his elbow, where he had been some time before. John had a perfect recollection of seeing the loosely-clad seafaring figure standing behind him in the moonlight; but, in the terrible confusion of his mind, he could not remember exactly _when_ it was that he had last seen the sailor. It might have been only five minutes before; it might have been a quarter of an hour. John's ideas of time were annihilated by the horror of the catastrophe which had marked this night with the red brand of murder. It seemed to him as if he had been standing for hours in the little cottage-garden, with Reginald Lofthouse by his side, listening to the low hum of the voices in the crowded room, and waiting to see the end of the dreary business. Mr. Dork looked about him in the moonlight, entirely bewildered by the disappearance of Samuel Prodder. "Why, where on earth has he gone?" exclaimed the constable. "We _must_ have him before the coroner. What'll Mr. Hayward say to me for letting him slip through my fingers?" "The man was here a quarter of an hour ago, so he can't be very far off," suggested Mr. Lofthouse. "Does anybody know who he is?" No; nobody knew anything about him. He had appeared as mysteriously as if he had risen from the earth, to bring terror and confusion upon it with the evil tidings which he bore. Stay; some one suddenly remembered that he had been accompanied by Bill Jarvis, the young man from the Reindeer, and that he had ordered the young man to drive his trap to the north gates, and wait for him there. The constable ran to the gates upon receiving this information; but there was no vestige of the horse and gig, or of the young man. Samuel Prodder had evidently taken advantage of the confusion, and had driven off in the gig under cover of the general bewilderment. "I'll tell you what I'll do, sir," said William Dork, addressing Mr. Mellish. "If you'll lend me a horse and trap, I'll drive into Doncaster, and see if this man's to be found at the Reindeer. We _must_ have him for a witness." John Mellish assented to this arrangement. He left one of the grooms to keep watch in the death chamber, in company with Stephen Hargraves the "Softy;" and, after bidding the surgeon good night, walked slowly homewards with his friends. The church clock was striking twelve as the three gentlemen left the wood, and passed through the little iron gateway on to the lawn. "We had better not tell the ladies more than we are obliged to tell them about this business," said John Mellish, as they approached the house, where the lights were still burning in the hall and drawing-room; "we shall only agitate them by letting them know the worst." "To be sure, to be sure, my boy," answered the colonel. "My poor little Maggie always cries if she hears of anything of this kind; and Lofthouse is almost as big a baby," added the soldier, glancing rather contemptuously at his son-in-law, who had not spoken once during that slow homeward walk. John Mellish thought very little of the strange disappearance of Captain Prodder. The man had objected to be summoned as a witness, perhaps, and had gone. It was only natural. He did not even know his name; he only knew him as the mouthpiece of evil tidings, which had shaken him to the very soul. That this man Conyers--this man of all others, this man towards whom he had conceived a deeply-rooted aversion, an unspoken horror--should have perished mysteriously by an unknown hand, was an event so strange and appalling as to deprive him for a time of all power of thought, all capability of reasoning. Who had killed this man,--this penniless good-for-nothing trainer? Who could have had any motive for such a deed? Who----? The cold sweat broke out upon his brow in the anguish of the thought. Who had done this deed? It was not the work of any poacher. No. It was very well for Colonel Maddison, in his ignorance of antecedent facts, to account for it in that manner; but John Mellish knew that he was wrong. James Conyers had only been at the Park a week. He had neither time nor opportunity for making himself obnoxious; and, beyond that, he was not the man to make himself obnoxious. He was a selfish, indolent rascal, who only loved his own ease, and who would have allowed the young partridges to be wired under his very nose. Who, then, had done this deed? There was only one person who had any motive for wishing to be rid of this man. One person who, made desperate by some great despair, enmeshed perhaps by some net hellishly contrived by a villain, hopeless of any means of extrication, in a moment of madness, might have--No! In the face of every evidence that earth could offer,--against reason, against hearing, eyesight, judgment, and memory,--he would say, as he said now, _No!_ She was innocent! She was innocent! She had looked in her husband's face, the clear light had shone from her luminous eyes, a stream of electric radiance penetrating straight to his heart,--and he had trusted her. "I'll trust her at the worst," he thought. "If all living creatures upon this wide earth joined their voices in one great cry of upbraiding, I'd stand by her to the very end, and defy them." Aurora and Mrs. Lofthouse had fallen asleep upon opposite sofas; Mrs. Powell was walking softly up and down the long drawing-room, waiting and watching,--waiting for a fuller knowledge of this ruin which had come upon her employer's household. Mrs. Mellish sprang up suddenly at the sound of her husband's step as he entered the drawing-room. "Oh, John!" she cried, running to him and laying her hands upon his broad shoulders, "thank Heaven you are come back! Now tell me all! Tell me all, John! I am prepared to hear anything, no matter what. This is no ordinary accident. The man who was hurt----" Her eyes dilated as she looked at him, with a glance of intelligence that plainly said, "I can guess what has happened." "The man was very seriously hurt, Lolly," her husband answered quietly. "What man?" "The trainer recommended to me by John Pastern." She looked at him for a few moments in silence. "Is he dead?" she asked, after that brief pause. "He is." Her head sank forward upon her breast, and she walked away, quietly returning to the sofa from which she had arisen. "I am very sorry for him," she said; "he was not a good man. I am sorry he was not allowed time to repent of his wickedness." "You knew him, then?" asked Mrs. Lofthouse, who had expressed unbounded consternation at the trainer's death. "Yes; he was in my father's service some years ago." Mr. Lofthouse's carriage had been waiting ever since eleven o'clock, and the rector's wife was only too glad to bid her friends good-night, and to drive away from Mellish Park and its fatal associations; so, though Colonel Maddison would have preferred stopping to smoke another cheroot while he discussed the business with John Mellish, he was fain to submit to feminine authority, and take his seat by his daughter's side in the comfortable landau, which was an open or a close carriage as the convenience of its proprietor dictated. The vehicle rolled away upon the smooth carriage-drive; the servants closed the hall-doors, and lingered about, whispering to each other, in little groups in the corridors and on the staircases, waiting until their master and mistress should have retired for the night. It was difficult to think that the business of life was to go on just the same though a murder had been done upon the outskirts of the Park, and even the housekeeper, a severe matron at ordinary times, yielded to the common influence, and forgot to drive the maids to their dormitories in the gabled roof. All was very quiet in the drawing-room where the visitors had left their host and hostess to hug those ugly skeletons which are put away in the presence of company. John Mellish walked slowly up and down the room. Aurora sat staring vacantly at the guttering wax candles in the old-fashioned silver branches; and Mrs. Powell, with her embroidery in full working order, threaded her needles and snipped away the fragments of her delicate cotton as carefully as if there had been no such thing as crime or trouble in the world, and no higher purpose in life than the achievement of elaborate devices upon French cambric. She paused now and then to utter some polite commonplace. She regretted such an unpleasant catastrophe; she lamented the disagreeable circumstances of the trainer's death; indeed, she in a manner inferred that Mr. Conyers had shown himself wanting in good taste and respect for his employer by the mode of his death; but the point to which she recurred most frequently was the fact of Aurora's presence in the grounds at the time of the murder. "I so much regret that you should have been out of doors at the time, my dear Mrs. Mellish," she said; "and, as I should imagine from the direction which you took on leaving the house, actually near the place where the unfortunate person met his death. It will be so unpleasant for you to have to appear at the inquest." "Appear at the inquest!" cried John Mellish, stopping suddenly, and turning fiercely upon the placid speaker. "Who says that my wife will have to appear at the inquest?" "I merely imagined it probable that----" "Then you'd no business to imagine it, ma'am," retorted Mr. Mellish, with no very great show of politeness. "My wife will not appear. Who should ask her to do so? Who should wish her to do so? What has she to do with to-night's business? or what does she know of it more than you or I, or any one else in this house?" Mrs. Powell shrugged her shoulders. "I thought that, from Mrs. Mellish's previous knowledge of this unfortunate person, she might be able to throw some light upon his habits and associations," she suggested mildly. "Previous knowledge!" roared John. "What knowledge should Mrs. Mellish have of her father's grooms? What interest should she take in their habits or associations?" "Stop," said Aurora, rising and laying her hand lightly on her husband's shoulder. "My dear, impetuous John, why do you put yourself into a passion about this business? If they choose to call me as a witness, I will tell all I know about this man's death; which is nothing but that I heard a shot fired while I was in the grounds." She was very pale; but she spoke with a quiet determination, a calm resolute defiance of the worst that fate could reserve for her. "I will tell anything that is necessary to tell," she said; "I care very little what." With her hand still upon her husband's shoulder, she rested her head on his breast, like some weary child nestling in its only safe shelter. Mrs. Powell rose, and gathered together her embroidery in a pretty, lady-like receptacle of fragile wicker-work. She glided to the door, selected her candlestick, and then paused on the threshold to bid Mr. and Mrs. Mellish good night. "I am sure you must need rest after this terrible affair," she simpered; "so I will take the initiative. It is nearly one o'clock. _Good_ night." If she had lived in the Thane of Cawdor's family, she would have wished Macbeth and his wife a good night's rest after Duncan's murder; and would have hoped they would sleep well; she would have curtsied and simpered amidst the tolling of alarm-bells, the clashing of vengeful swords, and the blood-bedabbled visages of the drunken grooms. It must have been the Scottish queen's _companion_ who watched with the truckling physician, and played the spy upon her mistress's remorseful wanderings, and told how it was the conscience-stricken lady's habit to do thus and thus; no one but a genteel mercenary would have been so sleepless in the dead hours of the night, lying in wait for the revelation of horrible secrets, the muttered clues to deadly mysteries. "Thank God, she's gone at last!" cried John Mellish, as the door closed very softly and very slowly upon Mrs. Powell. "I hate that woman, Lolly." Heaven knows I have never called John Mellish a hero; I have never set him up as a model of manly perfection or infallible virtue; and if he is not faultless, if he has those flaws and blemishes which seem a constituent part of our imperfect clay, I make no apology for him; but trust him to the tender mercies of those who, not being _quite_ perfect themselves, will, I am sure, be merciful to him. He hated those who hated his wife, or did her any wrong, however small. He loved those who loved her. In the great power of his wide affection, all self-esteem was annihilated. To love her was to love him; to serve her was to do him treble service; to praise her was to make him vainer than the vainest school-girl. He freely took upon his shoulders every debt that she owed, whether of love or of hate; and he was ready to pay either species of account to the uttermost farthing, and with no mean interest upon the sum total. "I hate that woman, Lolly," he repeated; "and I sha'n't be able to stand her much longer." Aurora did not answer him. She was silent for some moments, and when she did speak, it was evident that Mrs. Powell was very far away from her thoughts. "My poor John!" she said, in a low soft voice, whose melancholy tenderness went straight to her husband's heart; "my dear, how happy we were together for a little time! How very happy we were, my poor boy!" "Always, Lolly," he answered,--"always, my darling." "No, no, no!" said Aurora suddenly; "only for a little while. What a horrible fatality has pursued us! what a frightful curse has clung to me! The curse of disobedience, John; the curse of Heaven upon my disobedience. To think that this man should have been sent here, and that he----" She stopped, shivering violently, and clinging to the faithful breast that sheltered her. John Mellish quietly led her to her dressing-room, and placed her in the care of her maid. "Your mistress has been very much agitated by this night's business," he said to the girl; "keep her as quiet as you possibly can." Mrs. Mellish's bedroom, a comfortable and roomy apartment, with a low ceiling and deep bay windows, opened into a morning-room, in which it was John's habit to read the newspapers and sporting periodicals, while his wife wrote letters, drew pencil sketches of dogs and horses, or played with her favourite Bow-wow. They had been very childish and idle and happy in this pretty chintz-hung chamber; and going into it to-night in utter desolation of heart, Mr. Mellish felt his sorrows all the more bitterly for the remembrance of those bygone joys. The shaded lamp was lighted on the morocco-covered writing-table, and glimmered softly on the picture-frames, caressing the pretty modern paintings, the simple, domestic-story pictures which adorned the subdued gray walls. This wing of the old house had been refurnished for Aurora, and there was not a chair or a table in the room that had not been chosen by John Mellish with a special view to the comfort and the pleasure of his wife. The upholsterer had found him a liberal employer, the painter and the sculptor a noble patron. He had walked about the Royal Academy with a catalogue and a pencil in his hand, choosing all the "pretty" pictures for the ornamentation of his wife's rooms. A lady in a scarlet riding-habit and three-cornered beaver hat, a white pony, and a pack of greyhounds, a bit of stone terrace and sloping turf, a flower-bed, and a fountain, made poor John's idea of a pretty picture; and he had half a dozen variations of such familiar subjects in his spacious mansion. He sat down to-night, and looked hopelessly round the pleasant chamber, wandering whether Aurora and he would ever be happy again: wondering if this dark, mysterious, storm-threatening cloud would ever pass from the horizon of his life, and leave the future bright and clear. "I have not been good enough," he thought; "I have intoxicated myself with my happiness, and have made no return for it. What am I that I should have won the woman I love for my wife, while other men are laying down the best desires of their hearts a willing sacrifice, and going out to fight the battle for their fellow-men? What an indolent good-for-nothing wretch I have been! How blind, how ungrateful, how undeserving!" John Mellish buried his face in his broad hands, and repented of the carelessly happy life which he had led for one-and-thirty thoughtless years. He had been awakened from his unthinking bliss by a thunder-clap, that had shattered the fairy castle of his happiness, and laid it level with the ground; and in his simple faith he looked into his own life for the cause of the ruin which had overtaken him. Yes, it must be so; he had not deserved his happiness, he had not earned his good fortune. Have you ever thought of this, ye simple country squires, who give blankets and beef to your poor neighbours in the cruel winter-time, who are good and gentle masters, faithful husbands, and tender fathers, and who lounge away your easy lives in the pleasant places of this beautiful earth? Have you ever thought that, when all our good deeds have been gathered together, and set in the balance, the sum of them will be very small when set against the benefits you have received? It will be a very small percentage which you will yield your Master for the ten talents intrusted to your care. Remember John Howard, fever-stricken and dying; Mrs. Fry labouring in criminal prisons; Florence Nightingale in the bare hospital chambers, in the close and noxious atmosphere, amongst the dead and the dying. These are the people who return cent. per cent. for the gifts intrusted to them. These are the saints whose good deeds shine amongst the stars for ever and ever; these are the indefatigable workers who, when the toil and turmoil of the day is done, hear the Master's voice in the still even-time; welcoming them to His rest. John Mellish, looking back at his life, humbly acknowledged that it had been a comparatively useless one. He had distributed happiness to the people who had come into his way; but he had never gone out of his way to make people happy. I dare say that Dives was a liberal master to his own servants, although he did not trouble himself to look after the beggar who sat at his gates. The Israelite who sought instruction from the lips of inspiration was willing to do his duty to his neighbour, but had yet to learn the broad signification of that familiar epithet; and poor John, like the rich young man, was ready to serve his Master faithfully, but had yet to learn the manner of his service. "If I could save _her_ from the shadow of sorrow or disgrace, I would start to-morrow barefoot on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem," he thought. "What is there that I would not do for her? what sacrifice would seem too great? what burden too heavy to bear?" END OF VOL. II. 
58502	----	generously made available by the Internet Archive.) MADAME X _A STORY OF MOTHER-LOVE_ BY J. W. McCONAUGHY FROM THE PLAY OF THE SAME NAME BY ALEXANDRE BISSON ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDWARD C. VOLKERT NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS 1910 Table I. Two Invalids II. The Return III. Magdalen IV. Opening for the Defense V. Continuing for the Prosecution VI. Closing for the Defense VII. The Wanderers VIII. "Confidential Missions" IX. The Hotel of the Three Crowns X. The Uses of Adversity XI. Concerning Dower Claims XII. "Who Saves Another----" XIII. From Out the Shadow XIV. Sic Itur ad Averno XV. The Swelling of Jordan XVI. A Woman of Mystery XVII. Two Lovers and a Lecture XVIII. A Ghost Rises XIX. Hope at Last XX. The Trial Begins XXI. Cherchez l'Homme XXII. Madame X Speaks XXIII. The Verdict XXIV. The Guttering Flame XXV. "While the Lamp Holds Out to Burn----" _ELEGIE_ (_From the French of Massenet_) _Oh, Spring of days long ago, blooming and bright,_ _Far have you fluttered away_! _No more the skies azure light, caroling birds_ _Waken and glisten for me_! _Bearing all joy from my heart--Loved one_! _How far from my life hast thou flown_! _Vainly to me does the springtime return_! _It brings thee never again--Dark is the sun_! _Dead are the days of delight_! _Cold is my heart and as dark as the grave_! _Life is in vain--evermore_! MADAME X CHAPTER I TWO INVALIDS A night lamp--the chosen companion of illness, misery and murder--burned dimly on a little table in the midst of a grim array of bottles and boxes. In a big armchair between the table and the bed, and within easy reach of both, sat a young man. It was his fourteenth night in that chair and he leaned his head back against the cushions in an attitude of utter exhaustion. The hands rested on the arms with the palms turned up. But the strong, clean-cut face--that for two weeks had been a mask of fear and suffering--was transfigured with joy and thanksgiving when he reached over every few minutes and touched the forehead of the little boy in the bed. There was moisture under the dark curls and the fever flush had given way to the pallor of weakness. Louis Floriot was a man with steel nerves and an unbending will. Barely in his thirty-first year, he was Deputy Attorney of Paris, and in all the two weeks he had watched at the bedside of his boy he had not been ten seconds late at the opening of court in the morning. His work and his child were all that were left to him and he divided the day between them without a thought of himself. The woman that had made both dear to him was gone. He had loved the baby with almost more than a father's love because he was hers--theirs. He had slaved for fame and power to lay them at her feet as a proof of his love. Two short years ago it would have been impossible to find a happier man within the girth of the seven seas. Then one night he had returned from his office too early--returned to find his life in ruins and his home made desolate. And she had fled from him into the night and had gone out of his life--but not out of his memory. He had striven with all the strength of his will to forget her; but in his heart he knew that as long as he breathed her image would be there. He worked with feverish energy and poured his love out on Raymond. The child was with him every moment that he was not in court or in his office, but his dark curly hair and great dark eyes were his mother's and forgetfulness did not lie that way. In the two years that had passed since the whole scheme of his life had been shattered he had barely had time to piece together a make-shift plan that would give him an excuse for living. In this new plan Raymond was the one element of tenderness. But for his love for the boy he would have become as stem and inexorable as the laws in which he dealt. He could not tear Jacqueline out of his heart but he forced himself to remember only the bitterness of her perfidy. In the past two weeks the memory had come back more bitterly. How different, he had thought in the long nights, if she had been there! They would have watched hand in hand and whispered hope and comfort to each other. One would have slept calmly when wearied, knowing that the tender love of the other guarded their baby. And what happiness would have been theirs that hour when the fever broke and Raymond passed from stupor to natural sleep! But she had not loved him--she had not even loved her boy; for she had deserted both. Rose, the maid, who had been in their house since his marriage, softly opened the door and whispered that Madame Varenne was in the library waiting to see him. He rose with a sigh, and after a last look at the sleeping child, tiptoed out of the room and noiselessly shut the door behind him. Madame Varenne was a sprightly young widow, the sister of Dr. Chennel, who attended Raymond as if the boy were his own son. Madame Varenne, too, had almost a motherly affection for the child and something beyond admiration for the handsome, slightly grayed father. They supposed, as did everyone else in Passy, that Madame Floriot was dead. Floriot was living in Paris when she left him and he moved out to Passy shortly afterward. He shook hands with her cordially as he came in. "How kind of you to come, Madame Varenne!" he said, gratefully. The young woman looked up at him with a happy smile. "I am delighted with the news that Rose has just given me!" she exclaimed, pressing his hand. "Yes," he smiled wearily, "our nightmare is over and it was time it finished. I couldn't have held out much longer." "You have had a bad time of it," she murmured, sympathetically. "It hasn't been easy. And I shall never be able, to thank your brother enough for what he has done for me," and Floriot's voice trembled. "He has thought of nothing else beside the boy for weeks and he was always talking about him," declared Madame Varenne, shaking her head. "The day before yesterday he went to see one of his old professors to consult him on the treatment, and he was hard at work that night experimenting and reading." Floriot nodded. "He tells me that it was then that he got the idea which has saved Raymond's life. I owe my boy's life to your brother, Madame Varenne," he added, his voice vibrant with gratitude, "and you may be sure that I will never forget it." "What he has done has been its own reward," she replied gently. "My brother is so fond of Raymond!" Floriot smiled tenderly. "And you?" "Oh, I love the child!" she exclaimed. "He loves you, too," Floriot assured her. "You were the first person he asked for when the fever left him. And now, that we are alone for a moment I want to take the opportunity of thanking you from the bottom of my heart!" "Thanking me! For what?" "For your friendship." "How absurd you are!" she laughed. "Then I ought to be making pretty speeches to you to thank you for yours as well!" "It is not quite the same thing," returned Floriot. "You are a charming, happy, amiable and altogether delightful woman while I--Well, I'm just a bear." "You don't mean to say so!" she exclaimed, with a look of mock alarm. "Oh, yes!" he nodded with a smile. "Bear is the only word that describes me--an ill-tempered bear, at that!" "You will never be as disagreeable as my husband was!" And Madame Varenne shook her head decidedly. Floriot laughed. "Really! Was he even gloomier than I?" "My husband! Good gracious me! You are a regular devil of a chap compared to him!" exclaimed the sprightly lady, earnestly. Again Floriot burst into a laugh. It was the first exercise of the kind he had had in some time. "You can't have amused yourself much," he suggested. "You can't have had a wildly merry time." "I didn't!" was the forcible response. "But now everything and everybody appear charming by contrast!" "Even I?" he smiled. "Yes, even you!" she admitted, with another smile. At that moment her brother entered and Floriot greeted him affectionately. His first questions were about Raymond and the replies were satisfactory. He rubbed his hands enthusiastically and busied himself with his bag, while Floriot attempted to continue his speech of thanks in the face of protests from both. "There, there, there!" broke in the doctor. "How do you know that we are not both of us sowing that we may reap? One never knows how useful it may be to be friends with a man in your profession," he chuckled. Madame Varenne made her adieux and left with a rather wistful look at Floriot as she pressed his hand. She promised to come back the first thing in the morning. "And now, friend Floriot," said the doctor, looking at him gravely, "as the boy is out of danger, you begin taking care of yourself." Floriot stared at him in surprise. "Why, there's nothing the matter with me!" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, there is!" retorted the man of medicine. "And a great deal more than you think!" "Nonsense!" said Floriot, lightly. "I'm a little tired, but a few days' rest will----" "No, no, no!" interrupted the doctor, with an energetic shake of the head. "You are working too much and you are taking too little exercise. You brood and worry over things and you must take a cure!" "What sort of a cure?" inquired Floriot, with an uneasy glance. "Every morning, no matter what the weather is, you must take a smart two hours' walk." "But, my dear fellow----" "You must walk at a smart pace for two hours," insisted the doctor. "And you must feed heartily." "My dear fellow, I can hardly get through a cutlet for my lunch!" protested Floriot. "I will let you off to-day, but from to-morrow on you must eat two," he continued firmly, as if he had not heard the interruption. Considering that luncheon was some eight hours in the past, this was not much of a concession. "I shall never be able to do anything of the sort!" Floriot declared. "Oh, yes, you will!" the doctor assured him with exasperating confidence. "On your way home every evening you must look in at the fencing school and fence for half-hour, take a cold shower and walk home." "Walk! Out to Passy?" "Out to Passy." "My dear doctor," he smiled pityingly, "I can't possibly follow your prescription. I haven't the time." "Then you must get married," returned the doctor calmly. Floriot gazed at him for a few moments in dumb amazement and then laughed amusedly. "Distraction of some sort is absolutely necessary for your case," the doctor explained as gravely as a judge. "There is nothing to be startled at--you've been married before"--Floriot winced--"you can do so again. A lonely life is not the life for you. Look out for a happy-minded woman, who will keep you young and be a mother to your child, and marry her. I have an idea," he smiled knowingly, "that you won't have much difficulty in finding the very woman!" In a flash the young lawyer saw what was in his friend's mind. He saw, too, that he must make him a confidant--tell him a story that he had sworn should never be put into words. For almost a minute emotion held him tongue-tied. Then he said brokenly: "My friend, I see now that I ought to--I ought to have--told you before. I--am not a widower!" Dr. Chennel fell back against the table astounded. "Not a widower!" he gasped. "My wife is living," said Floriot in a low, unsteady voice. "After three years of married life--she left me--with a lover. I came home unexpectedly one day--and found them--together. They rushed out of the house in terror. I should have killed them both, I think, if they had not run." The doctor murmured something meant to be sympathetic. He was too much amazed for speech. "I have sometimes thought of telling you, but, somehow, I could not talk of it. Chennel, old man!" he cried, miserably, laying his hand on his friend's arm, "you can't guess how horribly unhappy I am!" "Then--you--you love her still?" asked the doctor, gently. Floriot bowed his head to conceal the agony written on his face and threw up a hand in a gesture of despair. "I can think of no other woman! God knows, I have tried hard to forget her! She was the whole joy of my life--my life itself! I cannot tell you how I suffered. I would have died if I had dared. But I thought of the child, and that saved me from suicide. I remembered my duty to the boy and the thought of it kept me alive. If I had lost him----" He choked and turned abruptly away. "He will be running about in a week," said the doctor's quiet voice. "Thanks to you, doctor, thanks to you!" he cried, his eyes shining with tears and gratitude as he turned to his friend with both hands outstretched. "You have saved both of our lives!" They were gripping each other's hands hard when Rose appeared at the door to announce that Master Raymond was awake. Arm in arm they hurried off to the sick-room. Rose was about to follow a little later when she heard the buzz of the muffled door bell. "It is Monsieur Noel," she thought as she hurried to the door. Noel Sauvrin, a life-long friend of Floriot's expected to reach the house in Passy from the south of France that night. She opened the door with a smile of welcome that changed to a stare of frightened astonishment. There was a quick swish of skirt, a half-sob of "Rose!" a half-smothered exclamation of "Madame!" and a young woman threw herself into the maid's arms. Jacqueline Floriot had returned. CHAPTER II THE RETURN Madame Floriot's face told its own story of remorse and suffering. The cheeks had lost their smooth, lovely contour and the dark clouds under the beautiful eyes spoke of nights spent in tears. The eyes themselves were now dilated as she gripped the maid's arms until she hurt her and gazed into her face with searching dread. "My boy! Raymond!" she gasped, brokenly. "Is it true--has he been ill?" The maid gently disengaged herself from the clinging arms and glanced uneasily at the library door. Madame Floriot followed the look and moved quickly forward as the maid answered: "For more than two weeks, madame." The woman timidly pushed the door open and stepped into the library. She gave a quick gasp of relief when she saw that the room was empty. "I only heard of--it--yesterday--by accident," she half-whispered, her hand at her throat. Then as the memory of the hours of grief and dread swept over her she cried: "Rose, I must see him!" The maid looked her alarm. "Monsieur Floriot is with him, madame!" "Ah--h!" she stifled a sob. "Poor little chap!" said Rose, tenderly. "We thought he could never get over it!" The tortured mother sank into a chair with a moan of anguish. "But the danger is over now," continued Rose, gently. "The doctor says he will soon be well again." Jacqueline's eyes fell on a photograph of the boy on the table beside her and she seized it with both hands and held it to her face. "My Raymond! My laddie!" she sobbed, softly. "How he has grown! How big--and strong--he looks!" "He does not look strong now, madame," and Rose shook her head. "To think--that he might have died! And I should never have seen him again! My darling, my little laddie!" The face of the picture was wet with tears and kisses. "I wonder if he will recognize me! Does he remember me at all?" she cried eagerly. The maid gave a start and an exclamation of alarm. "Here's Monsieur Floriot!" Jacqueline rose unsteadily with a smothered cry and all but reeled toward the door. In a moment Rose's arm was around her. "No, no!" she whispered, reassuringly. "I was mistaken! I thought I heard him coming." The woman stood with both hands pressed to her breast and Rose watched her pityingly. She had loved her young mistress dearly and had seen much in her short married life to which both husband and wife had been blind. It was several moments before Jacqueline had sufficiently recovered from the shock to speak. "How--my heart--beats!" she panted. And then after another pause: "What--will he say--to me? But I don't care--I don't care what he says if he will only pardon me enough to let me stay here with my boy. If he--if he refuses to see me--I don't know what will happen to me! Rose! Rose!" she cried, piteously, sobbing on the maid's shoulder, "I--I am afraid!" Rose patted her shoulder and murmured sympathy until the sobs became less violent. Then she suggested gently: "Wouldn't it be better to write to Monsieur Floriot, madame? He does--he doesn't expect you and--you know how quick-tempered he is." "I have written to him! I have written three letters in the last three weeks and he has not answered them." "He didn't open them," said Rose, very low. There was another convulsive sob and then Jacqueline straightened and threw back her head, her eyes shining with feverish resolve. "I _must_ see him! I _will_ see him!" she cried in a high, unnatural voice. "He cannot--he _must_ not condemn me unheard! He loved me a little once--he must hear me now! Does he ever speak of me?" The maid sadly shook her head. "Never, madame." "Never!" she echoed faintly. "No, madame." Jacqueline turned away for a moment with a sob of despair. "What did he say--what did he do when I--left? Do you remember?" Rose shuddered at the recollection. "I shall never forget it! He was like a madman! He shut himself up in his room for days together and wouldn't see anyone. Once he went out and was gone for twenty-four hours. I used to listen outside his door and I heard him sobbing and crying. I was so frightened once that in spite of his orders I went into his room. It was in the evening and he was sitting by the fire burning your letters and photographs and the tears were rolling down his cheeks!" Jacqueline listened white-faced, and as Rose told the story of her husband's grief a sudden gleam of hope made her dizzy and faint. He had loved her deeply, after all! He must still love her a little! She had not lost everything! "The boy saved his brain, I think," Rose was saying, but she barely heard her. "He never would let him leave him, night or day. Then he began to calm down a little and seemed to settle to his work again. He has worked a little harder than before--that's all. Then we moved out here," she added. Jacqueline turned to her and she was more nearly calm than she had been at any moment since entering the house. "Rose, I must see him!" she cried, determinedly. "Go and tell him that a lady wants to speak to him, but do not let him guess who it is!" "Ah, but----" "Rose, I beg of you!" The maid shook her head doubtfully and then with a sigh of resignation, went out to carry the message. Jacqueline, her knees trembling, dropped weakly into a chair and strove to compose herself for the terrible interview to come. In returning she had had no hope of forgiveness, for she had not believed that her husband had ever truly loved her. But now that she had gained hope from Rose's story of his grief her emotions were beyond control. There was no natural vice in her, and for that reason she had walked in the purgatory of the fallen who are still permitted to see themselves with the eyes of the virtuous. Vice breeds callousness. She had been gay, witty, laughter-loving and emotional. Without love, as she understood it, she felt herself to be incomplete. She had worshipped her husband, but at last had come to believe that she was giving far more than she received. She never knew the heart of the silent, serious, hard-working man. Her vanity was hurt, and through her vanity she fell--to be driven away from her husband and her boy. Her boy! For two years she had thought of little else, had dreamed of nothing else but the hour when she would be permitted to hold him to her breast. Surely, even the stem attorney who had loved her once would not deny her the mother's right to be with her child in his illness! He must permit her to live where she could see her boy sometimes and watch him grow to manhood! She picked up the photograph and kissed it passionately again and again. "Oh, my darling, my dear one! My laddie!" she half sobbed. "If it were not for you I----" A door facing her opened softly and her husband stepped into the room! CHAPTER III MAGDALEN Floriot did not recognize her as he entered. She was rising and her head was bowed. He turned slowly with hand still on the knob of the door and their eyes met! Every muscle in his body grew rigid and the pallor of his face, born of his long nights in the chair by his boy's bed, changed slowly to a pasty, sickly white. The woman gazed at him with heaving bosom and hope and dread in her eyes. "You----!" he choked. Jacqueline timidly took a half step toward him, and clasped her hands. "Yes--I. I----," she began fearfully, but the sound of her voice galvanized the statue at the door. "Leave this house!" he commanded sternly and he advanced firmly into the room. "Louis! I----" "Leave this house at once!" he interrupted, his voice rising with his anger. "Listen, Louis, please! I----" "Go! Do you hear me!" he cried furiously as he stalked past her, opened the door into the hall, and held it for her to pass out. Jacqueline crept toward him looking up with frightened, tear-stained face. "Yes, yes! I will go, I will go!" she panted hurriedly. "I--I promise I will go right away! But, please, Louis, listen--one moment, _please_!" He looked at the crouching, pleading figure and the anger in his face gave way to an expression as indescribable as unforgettable, and he sharply turned away. "Well, what is it then? Be quick! What do you want?" he demanded roughly. She sank to her knees and raised her hands to him in piteous appeal. "Louis, forgive me! For----" "What!" His voice startled her like a pistol shot. But she stammered on: "Forgive me, Louis, so----" He slammed the door and in two strides was standing over with clenched fists. She could not meet his furious eyes and her head bowed almost to his feet. "Forgive you! Forgive you!" and he laughed a short, bitter laugh that was more terrible and hope-destroying than curses would have been to the crouching woman. "For two years I have lived day and night with the thought of you in another man's arms and your kisses on his lips! And you ask me to forgive you! You----" "Louis! Louis!" she moaned. "In our child's name----" "Stop!" he broke in sternly. "Don't dare to mention him! He is nothing to you and you are nothing to him! He is mine--mine only! Did you think of him when you left us?" "Louis, for God's sake! I was mad! I was----" "Oh, of course!" his harsh laugh grated in again. "That is about what I expected." Then his face hardened and he lashed her with his scorn. "I was false to my husband. I deserted my child--I was mad! I stole out of my home like a thief and took all of its happiness with me--I was mad! I went away with my lover to what I believed would be a life of pleasure--I was mad!" I trampled on every "Louis! Louis!" she sobbed, and writhed at his feet. "It's the truth! I was mad! I----" "The truth! Hah! Would you like to hear the truth? You were tired of being an honorable woman--a pure mother! You were tired of me and loved--him! That's the truth! You loved him, didn't you? You loved him!" "He loved me! He said he would kill himself for me! And I----" "And you believed him! You never thought of me and I"--for a moment grief conquered anger and his voice broke--"I worshipped you! And ours was a love match," he went on bitterly, "for you told me once a thousand years ago that you loved me!" His face worked, in a spasm of anguish, and he tried to move away, but the woman clutched a leg of his trousers with both hands and lifted her head suddenly. "And it was--it is true, Louis!" she cried desperately. His look was more than answer enough. "It is! It is, Louis!" she pleaded feverishly. "We didn't understand each other, that's all! It was my fault, my fault! You loved me passionately but I did not know it! I could not see it! And you made me only part of your home--never part of your life! I was never your friend--you were gentle with me, but you never took me into your life--you never really knew my heart, and with you I always felt alone. I loved you but"--she fought for breath and coherence--"but I was always afraid of you--you were so serious and severe! I wanted to laugh and have a good time! You never noticed it--you had your work, your ambitions, your legal friends and I--had nothing! Nothing!" she sobbed. "And I was so young--twenty! Hardly twenty! Oh, Louis, forgive me! Forgive me!" Floriot half staggered to a chair and sank into it. The unexpectedness of the soul-wracking scene coming on top of the strain of his two weeks' vigil in the sick-room was almost too much for even his iron nerve. Jacqueline, huddled on the floor, was sobbing convulsively. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. At the sound she struggled to her feet and took a step toward him, gasping to control her heaving bosom. He waved a hand toward the door without raising his head. "Louis!" she cried passionately, desperately, "you would not condemn the lowest criminal if there were any defense for him, and I am the mother of your boy! It is all my fault, but you could have helped me if you would! You swore to love, honor and protect me, and did you do it? You loved me but you never honored me! You did not think I was worthy to be the companion to you that a wife should be! You looked for companionship to your friends. I might as well have been your mistress! Did you protect me? You brought _him_ to the house the first time? You said he was your friend and you encouraged me to be kind to him. You permitted him to be my escort wherever I wanted to go, because my pleasure would not then interfere with your work or your plans!" She choked. Floriot did not stir. "He grew to be everything to me that you should have been. He sympathized with me in everything! He anticipated every thought and desire! You would not even make an effort to please me if my request interfered with your work--always your work!" "Life of pleasure!" she quoted bitterly. "Louis, I never loved him! You angered me and hurt me because you would not let me come close to your real life. And I--I--Louis, I was mad! But you could have saved me! A little attention--if I could have felt that I was anything more than a plaything--something to amuse you in the few minutes that you ever took for amusement--Louis.. you will never know how I fought with myself--the torture of those days--and when I came to you for help----!" The words died away in a sob. There was no sound from the husband but the labor of his breathing. "Do you remember a few days before--before--I--the night I--left--I wanted you to go to Fontainebleau with me and you wouldn't? And I went with--him! That day in the park he--kissed my hands--and the lace of my dress--and said he would kill himself at my feet if I didn't love him----!" She stopped with a gasp and went on, bringing the words out in broken phrases. "I made him take me home--I was running from him--from myself--to you! I found you in your study and begged you--to go out with me! I wanted to--show myself--that I loved you only! Do you remember what you said? 'I'm too busy. Run along--and get Lescelles to take you!'" "Oh, Louis, Louis!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, while the storm of weeping shook her again, "you could have saved me then!" Still the bowed figure in the chair did not stir. He was so numbed that his consciousness seemed to be that of another--watching, listening and judging. He was the type of man whom Duty, once embraced, grips with hug like the Iron Maiden's, and even gains a monstrous pleasure as life itself or all that makes life worth while is slowly crushed out. Had she come a month before this scene would have left him unshaken, but now----! His boy--their boy--lay up-stairs, saved from death by a miracle. Her clasped hands rested on one of his knees and her head touched his arms. His eyes were closed, but he nearly swooned when he breathed the perfume of her hair that brought back the picture of a dark head on the white pillow in the dim moonlight or the gray of dawn. Then came the terrible thought that for two years that picture had been the joy of another.... Fragments of his talk with Madame Varenne flashed through his mind. Was there a little fault on his side?... He need not speak a word. He had but to open his eyes and look forgiveness and her warm body would be pressed again to his breast, her soft arms would be around his neck and her soft lips would shower kisses on his face. ... He drew a sharp breath and rose slowly and uncertainly. "Jacqueline!" he said in an unsteady voice, not daring to let his wavering eyes look down. "Jacqueline, you must go!" A long, convulsive sob and: "Ah, why did I go at all? Why did I ever go?" she moaned. "You would have killed me and that would have been the end of it! Louis, forgive me! Forgive me!" And she clasped his limp hand in both of hers and looked up piteously. "No! No!" he cried, fighting desperately with an impulse to stoop and crush the slender body in his arms and kiss the tears from the upturned face. "Surely, you see that I----" "What will become of me?" she pleaded, as her instinct told her that he was weakening. "Go back to him! Go back to the man who would have killed himself for you!" he cried in a voice that he tried in vain to make as bitter as the words. And he made no effort to free his hand. The answer was a barely audible whisper: "He is dead!" Floriot jerked his hand away with an exclamation of horror and sprang back, his eyes flashing with anger. "So that is why you've come back!" he blazed furiously. "No! No!" she protested, frightened, struggling to her feet with arms outstretched. "I came to see our boy--our Raymond! To beg you--to----" [Illustration: "_Leave the house_"] The flaming scorn in his eyes stopped her. "And I was on the point of yielding!" His laugh made the woman wince. "What a fool I was! I actually believed you! So he is dead, is he?" She bowed her head in utter despair. "I wrote--to tell you." "And now that he is dead you thought of me again--of me, of your idiot of a husband"--his voice rose with fury--"the simple-minded fool who would be only too glad to take you back again!" "Louis, I love you--I wanted to see you, to see our child again! Can't you see I've changed?" she pleaded. She threw open her arms and tears ran unheeded down her face. "Changed! Hah!--Leave the house!" and he pointed imperiously to the door. "Louis, it's true! Let me see our boy again!"-- "He has forgotten you!" "Let me kiss him--just once!" she begged. "He believes you to be dead!" he said, with cold cruelty. The mother rushed to him with half-stifled shriek and terror in her face. "Louis! No! No!" she screamed, "No! No! No!" "He does!" "Louis, no! Don't say that!" Horror was driving her to hysteria. "It can't be true! You wouldn't tell him that! Louis, you loved me once! You loved me! It's not possible! I am your wife--his mother! His mother!" Floriot eyed her, cold and unmoved. "You have gone out of his life and mine," he replied calmly. Jacqueline moaning, sank to the floor. "Oh, my God!" she prayed. "Help me! Help me! Louis, be kind to me! A life of repentance----" He pulled her roughly to her feet and half-carried her toward the door. "Don't take my child away from me!" she panted, struggling. "Go! Leave the house!" "Oh! Let me see him! I won't--speak! Let me kiss him! I won't--say a word!" she gasped as they reached the door and he pushed her violently through into the hall. "Louis! Pity--! Raymond! My child, my----" The slam of the door cut off the sound of the pleading voice from his ears. He held the knob to prevent her from reopening it. For a few moments there was silence. Then Floriot heard through the door something between a choke and a sob and the quickly receding rustle of skirts. The bang of the outside door echoed through the silent house. CHAPTER IV OPENING FOR THE DEFENSE For more than a minute Floriot stood motionless, but now he was leaning his weight on the hand that held the knob. He listened--half-hoping, half-fearing that he would hear her at the outside door--and then staggered across the room and collapsed into the chair where she had sat, lying with arms and head on the table above the photograph that Jacqueline had kissed. He had won--but to know that he would have found happiness in defeat. "God!" he groaned aloud. "She's gone! She's gone! And I love her! I love her! And I shall never see her again! She must never see Raymond! Her influence would be----No!" he cried, as if fighting something within himself. "She must never come back. God give me strength to forget!" he prayed in anguish. "Let me forget! Let me forget!" There was a sound of someone at the door leading to the stairway, and he barely had time to wipe the moisture from his forehead and half-compose himself before Dr. Chennel swung breezily into the room. "He's doing splendidly!" cried the doctor with a cheery smile. "And he's hungry--the best sign in the world! I have left my orders with the nurses." He began packing his little bag on a side table. "He's to have a little milk and three spoonfuls of soup before he goes to sleep and nothing else until I come again in----Why, what's the matter?" he cried in alarm, hurrying over to his friend as he caught a glimpse of his face. "Are you ill?" Floriot straightened up and put out his hand. His face was lined and livid and his eyes were wild with grief. "My dear--doctor!" he said, brokenly, "I have just gone through--the most awful fifteen minutes of my life. My--my wife--has been here!" "Your wife!" The doctor fell back a step and stared at him. Floriot buried his face in his handkerchief. "Yes, she has--just gone! You can imagine--how I felt No, you can't!" he cried, bitterly, springing up with clenched fists. "For a moment I was afraid of myself--afraid that I would kill her!" Dr. Chennel watched the writhing face in silence as Floriot paced wildly up and down the room. "Doctor, in these few minutes--I have lived five years over again! All the joy, all the miseries, all my love, all her----" The other stopped him with a gentle touch on the arm. "Floriot, my friend," he said quietly, "sit down a moment and try to get hold of yourself." The calm strong voice of the physician had the effect that he desired. Floriot's shoulders squared and his voice grew firm. "You're right, Doctor. I will forget all about it! Do you know why she came back?" he added bitterly. "Her lover is dead!" Rose opened the hall door. "Monsieur Noel has come, sir!" Floriot nodded. "Show him in here, Rose," he said quietly and turned to Dr. Chennel. "Noel is an old and very dear friend whom I thought dead until this morning," he explained. "Poor chap! He and I----" A well-set-up young man--apparently several years younger than Floriot, though his hair was more heavily grayed--entered the library with a springy step and cheery call of: "Well, here I am! And very much alive!" His blue eyes were smiling and his white teeth gleamed in the lamplight but his face bore the marks of storms that sweep the soul. And on his right temple was visible the end of a large scar that extended up under the hair. "My dear old Noel!" exclaimed Floriot, hurrying to meet him with both hands extended. The friends stood with their hands locked and looked each other over with the affection mixed with curiosity that may be marked when two who have been as brothers meet after a long separation. "This is my friend, Dr. Chennel," said Floriot, turning at last. "Shake hands with him, old man! He has just saved my boy's life!" "Then I'm more than glad to shake you by the hand, Doctor," said Noel, gracefully, as he took the doctor's fingers in his. "For anything that touches Floriot comes very near to me!" The doctor bowed his appreciation and Floriot, who had never taken his eyes off his friend, remarked with a smile: "You look in very good health for a dead man." Noel turned and asked with whimsical surprise: "Then you heard of my suicide?" "Yes," returned his friend gravely, "and the papers said you were dead." "In the words of a great American humorist," laughed Noel, 'The report was greatly exaggerated!'" "Two bullets, they said." "Yes, and they were right," nodded the "suicide," brightly. "But two bullets were not enough for me. I've always been a bit hardheaded, you know, though one of the doctors had another explanation." The other two looked at him inquiringly, particularly Dr. Chennel, who was prepared to combat any heretical theory. "When I was on the highway to recovery," resumed Noel, "one of the doctors told me that he didn't think that I would ever get to be marksman enough to hit my brain. Said I ought to practise trying to hit a pea in a wine barrel before I tried it again. Then I found out I could laugh," and he burst into one to prove it, "and decided that as long as I could take enough interest in life to laugh there was no occasion for my going on with my suicide plans." Dr. Chennel and Floriot joined in the laugh with considerable restraint and the former felt that he was the "undesirable third." "Well, I must be going," he said, gathering up his hat and bag and shaking hands with both the friends. "You have a good deal to tell each other. I'll be back in the morning," he added to Floriot. Then with many injunctions about the medicine and food he departed. "And now," said Noel, putting a hand affectionately on each shoulder and holding his friend off at arm's length, "let me have a look at you, Louis, old man!" He paused and gravely scrutinized the smiling face. "Life has not been much kinder to you than to me, judging from your looks," he said at last. The hands fell and he turned away. "Find me looking old, do you?" "No, not old for your age," smiled Noel. "How old are you--forty?" "Thirty-five!" protested Floriot. "Well, nobody would say that you were a day more than forty-two!" his friend gravely assured him. "Thank you!" was the ironic response, and they smiled into each other's eyes. "Fancy! Five whole years since I saw you!" "And five weeks' separation, in the old days, seemed a century!" "You're going to stay here all night and take breakfast with me in the morning." "Most assuredly." "An early breakfast, though," Floriot smiled a warning. "I have to be in court at nine." "Ah, of course!" nodded his friend. "You're Deputy Attorney now." "Yes, I received my promotion more than a year ago." "I always knew you'd get on!" exclaimed Noel, patting his shoulder. Floriot turned away with a sigh. "I have not much to worry about there," he said, without enthusiasm. "But, I want to hear about you, old man! What happened to you? Why did you want to commit suicide. Who was she?" Noel threw him a quick, searching glance. "It _was_ a woman," he nodded. "Of course it was! For some time before you went away I noticed a change in you." Again there was the sharp look. "Ah, you did, did you?" "Yes, you were not as jolly and lively as you had been before," Floriot continued gently. "And you used to be away for days at a time; so I knew it must be a woman. You loved her?" A long steady gaze answered him. "And she was false to you?" "She did not even know I loved her!" was the low response. "Didn't you tell her?" asked Floriot, surprised. "No!" "Why?" he persisted with freedom of a friend. "Was she free?" "She loved another man," replied Noel. There was not a tremor in his voice but he stood very still and did not meet his friend's questioning eyes. "When I heard of her marriage I felt that my life was of no particular use to me. So," with a shrug of the shoulders, "I tried to get rid of it--and failed. Ridiculous, eh?" Floriot laid his hand on his friend's arm. The grip of the fingers told his unspoken sympathy. "Oh, I am used to being a fool!" declared Noel, lightly, but with a sub-current of bitterness in his voice. "I was the fool of the family at home and one of the best jokes they ever had at school. I might have known that the woman I loved would have sense enough to pick out another man. I even made a fool of myself when I tried to take my life!" "But you were badly hurt?" "Pretty badly," replied Noel gravely; "but I was soon on my feet again. Then," the shrug again, "having nothing on earth to live for but an occasional laugh--which doesn't cost much--I made a ridiculous amount of money in the Canadian fur business." "But, why didn't you write to me?" demanded Floriot, reproachfully. Noel turned to him apologetically. "I wanted to forget and to be forgotten, old man," he said. "The papers reported me dead, and the fact that I didn't die didn't seem to interest them, so I seized the opportunity to stay dead until it suited my pleasure to come to life again." "Are you married?" "No!" was the emphatic reply. "I shall never marry!" "So you still love her?" Noel made an impatient movement "I don't want anyone else!" he answered, curtly. "Besides, I'm too old to think of marrying now Let's talk about you, Louis. Are you happy? How is Jacqueline? Little Jennie Wren, we used to call her," he went on with a tenderly reminiscent smile. "What a pretty, lively little thing she was! I suppose she's more quiet now after five years with a solemn old crank like you. Why, Louis! What's the matter?" Floriot had sunk into an armchair, his face white and drawn. In two strides his friend was beside him, bending over him in alarm. "Don't--don't worry! It's nothing--nothing!" said Floriot unsteadily. "My child has been at death's door--for the last few days and I thought --I--had lost him. My nerves are just a little--out of joint. That's all!" "My dear old chap!" cried Noel anxiously, "the boy is all right now?" "Yes, Raymond's out of danger now." There was a long pause and then in altered tones Noel asked. "And how old is this Monsieur Raymond?" "Four." "Quite a man. Is he your only child?" There was a curious strained quality in his voice. Floriot nodded. "I will see him, of course?" Floriot wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. Then he replied more calmly. "Certainly! In the morning. He can't be disturbed to-night." There was another long pause broken by Noel. "Don't tell your wife I'm here," he said. "I want to see her face when she comes in and sees me!" He walked slowly across the room with his back to his friend. "You--won't see her," was the low reply. Noel turned quickly. "Oh, she's away?" Floriot leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "Yes, she's--gone!" "Gone!" echoed Noel in bewildered astonishment. Floriot rose and lurched a step or two away. Noel could see less than his profile and barely caught the words, but they were enough to leave him momentarily tongue-tied and paralyzed with amazement. "She left me--two years ago--with her lover!" Noel stared at him, dumb with amazement, and stammered something incoherently, of which Floriot could catch only the words, "little Jennie Wren!" in tones of pity. He wheeled on him. "You pity _her_!" Noel raised his eyebrows and looked calmly at his friend. "Is she not to be pitied most?" he asked gently. "Do you think so?" cried Floriot bitterly. "Then, what of me who adored her--and whose life she wrecked? I am an old man at thirty-five You told me so, yourself! Now, you know why!" The other half raised his hand and murmured something sympathetic. "You can never imagine what these last two years have been to me!" Floriot's voice was hoarse with anguish. "I have been tom with jealousy and dreams of vengeance and tortured almost beyond endurance by the memory of the happiness I have lost!" He dropped, shuddering, into a chair, his handkerchief pressed to his face. Noel gazed at him in pitying silence for several minutes. Then he spoke as gently as before. "And yet, she was not wicked," he said, and Floriot writhed. "She was only frivolous and wanted luxury and pleasure. Life was too serious a problem for her. And you never suspected anything?" "No!" groaned the figure in the chair. "I loved her and believed in her." Noel walked over and put his arm affectionately across his friend's bowed shoulders. "My dear old man, brace up!" he said, with not quite enough cheerfulness to grate. "Remember you have your boy still and--who knows? One of these days, perhaps, she'll be bitterly sorry for the misery she has caused, and you'll see her here again, asking----" "I have seen her again!" "She came back then?" asked Noel, dropping back, startled, as Floriot sprang up, his face blazing with anger again. "This very day she had the impudence----" "She came back?" repeated Noel's quiet voice, insistently. "And for what?" "Oh, not for much!" replied Floriot with bitter irony. "Merely to ask my pardon, and to ask me to take her back into my house--in her old place, between my son and myself!" "And what did you say?" The gentle voice and mild blue eyes were turning hard and metallic. "I told her to go!" "You turned her out?" "Turned her out! Of course, I did!" And he stared in astonishment at his friend's set face and narrowed eyes. "Floriot!" said Noel, sternly, "you have made a mistake! You turned her out in the street without knowing where she was going! My friend, unless, I'm badly mistaken myself, you'll be sorry for this in the morning!" Floriot stood dumbly for a moment, twice began to speak, and then with a gesture of despair turned away. Noel watched him in silence. Presently he wheeled again, his face calm with some sudden resolve. The pain was in his eyes. "Will you sit down, old man?" he said, quietly. "I want to tell you something." CHAPTER V CONTINUING FOR THE PROSECUTION When Floriot swore that the story of the wreck of his life should never be told until Judgment Day he did not know that the only man to whom he could possibly have poured out his grief was alive, and he could not foresee that one day he would be so near to collapse that he would be forced to seek the relief of confession. It is rarely that high-strung, sensitive men can put into words such a story as that which Floriot was about to confide to his friend. That is why they call upon the gunsmith instead of the divorce court for aid in "cleansing their honor." But now the need of counsel and comfort was strong upon him. Noel's refusal to agree with him, coming with the recollection of his owns wavering before his pleading wife, shook his faith in himself. He was willing to live again the terrible drama of his wrongs, and his grief to harden his bitter resolution and make a sure ally of Noel. The latter, when he was invited to sit down and listen, looked uncertainly at his friend's drawn face for a moment and then slowly settled back in the big chair, shading his eyes with his hands, until the other could barely tell whether they were open or closed. Floriot did not sit. He paced slowly up and down the room in silence as if preparing himself for the ordeal; and then he began. "Noel, my friend," he said, in low steady tones, "there is no man--or woman--alive excepting you, to whom I could talk as I'm going to do. I have no one left in the world but you and my boy and, God knows, I need both of you--if there is a God," he added bitterly. "You were about to defend her just now without question. You said that she was most to be pitied. I know why--you knew her before she was married. That was five years ago. Marriage develops people"--there was the bitter note again--"and she developed into a woman that you never knew and never dreamed could live in the same body with her. She had the happiness of a home and the life's happiness of two--and possibly three--persons in her hands. For the sake of a vicious intrigue which she now sees could never bring her anything but misery, she sacrificed her boy and me. And there is no consolation for me in the thought that she was caught in the ruins of the home that she pulled down!" Noel stirred in his chair but did not speak. In spite of his breezy humor and love of light conversation he had been blessed with the divine power of silence. "Her misery is no consolation to me," Floriot went on, his voice trembling slightly, "because I--I--old man, I still love her! And she loved me--for a year! Oh, Noel, that is the worst of the hell that I have lived in for two years! She loved me--for a year!" He paused in his walk and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Noel watched him silently. "But I am not weak enough nor cowardly enough to let that weigh with me. The boy must be protected. He must never know that she is alive--never know what she did." He seemed to be talking more to himself than to his friend. "If she came back there is no knowing how long she would stay!" He clenched his fists end cried bitterly: "The man who said that a woman who was untrue to one man would be untrue to two or a dozen knew her and her kind!" Noel was motionless; and, after a few more turns up and down the room, Floriot went on: "I know that she must have loved me, or why should she have married me? If she wanted position she could have married men farther up in the world than I was--than I am now. If she wanted money she could have married a bigger bank account than mine. No! She loved me--for a year. You said she was not naturally wicked. She was nothing else. Her love is a passion that bums itself out in a year and she will probably have a dozen lovers before she dies!" There was a restless movement in the chair that Floriot did not notice. "Noel, you can't realize the happiness of my life until I--I--learned that I was a fool! For the first year I pitied the whole world because it couldn't be as utterly happy as I was. It didn't seem possible that a man could be more completely filled with joy and content. Then our boy was born, and after that it seemed that before I had been miserable by contrast!" Anguish choked him and he was silent until he recovered control. "Before that time I thought that I had fully the average man's capacity for work and then it was doubled. I was in my office early and late--every moment that I could tear myself away from my home. I even worked in my study at night so that I could be near her and our baby and still be struggling for them. And my spirit was always with her--at her feet--God! How I worshipped her!" he groaned, his hands pressed to his face. Again there was a silence in which Noel could hear his friend's heavy breathing. "Noel," he went on at last, "if I had not lost belief in everything but hell, I would believe that God Himself must have destroyed my happiness because He envied me, and could promise me none in heaven to equal that I had on earth! It was too great, too complete, for this life! "I had set my eyes on the position I now hold as the first big step in my climb, and I was tireless in my work for it. I was as sure that I would win as I was of the sanctity of my home. Then came the scandal in the Finance Department." "Did you hear anything about it? Do you remember? Some rather big men were convicted." Noel nodded almost imperceptibly. "There was one brilliant young fellow in the lot, of whom you may not have heard--thanks to my efforts. Lescelles--Albert Lescelles. I was morally certain before I had been working on the case three days that he was innocent. The older and dishonest cabal had carefully prepared a chain of circumstantial evidence that would lead to Lescelles. None of my associates agreed with me, and that made my work harder; but I finally proved my theory to be the sound one, and you remember the sensation it created when the net of lies was finally ripped and some of our most respected public officers were dragged into the scandal. "It was a great triumph for me, though my part in it was not generally known beyond official circles. Lescelles knew it and tried to kill me with gratitude. The day that he was discharged we were both drunk with excitement, and I insisted that he should come home to dinner with me that evening." Floriot paused again in his tramp to and fro to wipe his moist brow. "It was a merry dinner the three of us had that night! Lescelles was a brilliant young fellow and I never knew Jacqueline to be wittier or more entertaining. For the few months preceding she had been a little more contained and reserved, but she blossomed out into her old self. "After dinner I left them together and went to my study to attend to some urgent matters that were to come up the next day, and I can remember now how I smiled to hear the laughter coming up to me. If the wine had poisoned him!" he groaned.... "He came to see us often after that. He was alone in the world and seemed to have such a good time with us that I was always glad to have him. I could see that Jacqueline liked him and that was enough for me. He never tired of thanking me for what I had done for him, and his face would light with pleasure whenever he saw me. "How was I to suspect anything? As his visits became more frequent and my work grew more absorbing, I encouraged him to escort Jacqueline to the races and the other places of amusement of which she was always so fond. I seldom had time to go with her. But in spite of this friendship Jacqueline grew more affectionate to me every day and pleaded with me constantly to go about with her and let my work take care of itself. I showed her time and again how impossible this was, and then she would pout until Lescelles came, and I would tell him to take her somewhere. "What a blind fool I was!" he cried with a harsh laugh. "I can see it all now. And what an actress she was! The more guilty she grew with Lescelles the more affection she displayed for me to prevent any hint of suspicion. "One day I told her that I would be unusually busy--would dine at a café and would not be home until very late. But, as it happened, when I returned to my office after dinner, I found there was nothing of importance and so I went home." He stopped again and the other could see that he was fighting to retain his composure as he reached the climax of the story. Noel did not speak or stir, but the hand that had but rested on the arm of the chair gripped it tightly. "Noel!" There was unspeakable anguish in his voice. "Noel! In the blackness of these two years I've suffered so that I've sometimes wished that I had not gone home that night until I was expected! It was raining a little and when I reached the front door I let myself in without making any noise. I wanted to surprise Jacqueline and----Oh, God! I did--I did--I did!" And with a sobbing groan he sank into a chair and bowed his head on his arms. It was a long time before he could continue, and when he began again his voice was hoarse with the effort he made to speak calmly. "My friend, God grant that you may never know what I felt when I opened the door of the room where they were and found them--together! For you will never know till you have been--as I was! I think the shock must have unbalanced my mind in the moment that I saw them as I opened the door, for I leaned against the door-post and stared at them as if paralyzed. They leaped up and were staring back at me, and their faces--! They probably thought that I was enjoying a moment of bitter joy before I killed them both, and do you know what was passing in my mind? I was thinking that a chair just behind her was too close to the divan, and that if she leaned back in it, it would probably strike and scar the furniture. My mind refused to grasp the horror that my eyes had seen. "And then in some dim, vague way the idea worked into my benumbed brain--I must shock them! I turned away from the door and stumble down the hall toward my study. I didn't have any desire to kill them in any way--at that moment I didn't even think that I ought to do it. But it seemed to me that I must kill them, and with a revolver--in the same way that a man would go through a distasteful social function. "I was some little time finding my revolver, but that did not seem at the time to make any difference. I came back with it in my hand, fully expecting to find them there, waiting to be shot--but the room was empty! "And then the paralysis passed from my brain and I went mad with fury. I rushed through every room in the house, cursing them at the top of my voice. Fortunately, none of the servants was at home. "Then I ran bareheaded out into the rain and dashed down the street aimlessly, in the hope that I had taken the right direction and might come up with them. Before I had gone a hundred feet I ran into someone and nearly shot him accidentally. He yelled with fright and ran. I had just sense enough to put the revolver in my outside coat pocket, and with my hand still gripping it, I hurried on." He paused again to mop his brow, but his voice I grew firmer and higher as the story of his wrongs worked him from grief to rage. "I don't remember much of the rest of that night. I was only conscious of the rain on my face and that I was walking always at top speed without any goal. Now I was along the quays, then I remember peering into a few cafés. It seems to me that I was stopped several times by gendarmes, who released me when I showed them my card, but I never heard of it afterward. I think I passed through the Bois once, but when dawn came I was in some vile street in Montmartre. And with the daylight came some sort of calm. "I started back toward my house, and after a short walk found a cab. In that drive I became, as I thought, complete master of myself again. I know now that I was practically a somnambulist. I thought the whole thing over in an almost impersonal way, and decided I would devote the rest of my life to vengeance. I would hunt both of them down and kill them, and I would begin the hunt systematically that day. "When I reached home my clothes were soaking wet and my collar and necktie were gone. I had probably tom them off and thrown them away. Rose met me in the hall, and it did not strike me as being at all strange that she asked no questions. I went up to my room, took a bath and dressed in the most faultless style that my wardrobe would permit. With the pistol in my pocket I started, out again, first sending word that I would not, probably, be in my office for several days. "All that day I haunted the cafés and clubs that I knew Lescelles frequented. I did not intend to kill him there unless he saw me. My plan was to follow him to whatever place he had taken Jacqueline, and kill them together. "No one had seen him and I went home early in the morning, bitterly disappointed. I sat in my study most of the day planning, imagining, devising the most delightful ways in which to commit the double murder, as I did not intend to use the revolver unless it became necessary. The way that struck me as being best would be to find them asleep and waken them with one hand on the throat of each. Those throats haunted me. A dozen times that night I felt the joy of sinking my fingers into them, slowly squeezing out their lives as they stared up at me with eyes pleading for mercy. "I was setting out again that evening when I met Rose a few steps outside my door. I think she was waiting for me--and she had the baby in her arms." His voice wavered and sank as if the rest were too terrible to tell. "Noel," he went on at last in a strained, uncertain voice, "up to that moment I had not felt the slightest grief. I was apparently rational, but I was as insane as any man that ever lived. Fury and the lust of vengeance left no room for any other emotion. And," the voice dropped with horror until it was barely more than a hoarse whisper, "for a fraction of a moment I felt an impulse to kill the baby because it was hers!" Again he stopped, unable to go on. Noel could not repress a shudder but his hand shaded his features and he made no other sign that he had heard. Then Floriot spoke again. "Noel! Noel!" he half-sobbed. "I thought the next moment that I was dying and--if it had only been true! For then for the first time came the realization of what I had lost. I must have staggered into my room and locked the door before I fainted, for light was coming in the window when I recovered consciousness and I was lying across my bed. With consciousness came the suffering hat has not ceased for two years!... "I will not try to tell you what the next few days were. I lost track of time. I could not eat or drink or sleep. My revolver lay on the table and a dozen times I picked it up to blow out my brains, but the thought of the baby stopped me. I wept because I couldn't do it. She was so completely part of me that I did not see how I could live any longer. "Finally, I made up my mind that no matter how dreary and empty my life might be, I must; live for the boy's sake, and with that resolution I locked up the revolver, burned every letter and photograph of her that I had, I held them in the fire, one by one, until the flames burned my fingers! Then I came into the world again. "I fled to work like a man running away from something and the work brought--success! Success!"--And he ended with a grating laugh. Then he turned his white, drawn face and feverish eyes on the still figure in the chair. "Now," he demanded, "my friend, which of us deserves the most pity?" CHAPTER VI CLOSING FOR THE DEFENSE A minute--two--minutes--passed but Noel gave no sign that he had heard the question. The hand that shaded the eyes prevented Floriot from finding in his face any clue to his thoughts. He turned away with a sigh that might have been weariness or disappointment or both and sank slowly into a chair. At last Noel rose and shook himself slightly as if shaking off a hypnotic spell. His face was a little pale and his eyes had a queer look. He walked over and put his hand on his friend's arm. "Floriot," he said, gently, "between us there need be no talk of sympathy. You know that I feel your pain almost as much as if it were mine. But I see this thing from a different angle. Even before I heard your story I understood, of course, that she was guilty of grave misconduct. But it seems to me that she has been punished enough--and she has repented!" Floriot's only reply was an exclamation of scorn and contempt. "Then why should she have come back?" asked Noel. "I don't think I told you that her lover is dead," replied Floriot, bitterly. Then he straightened up determinedly: "She shall never come into this house again!" "She's your wife!" said Noel calmly. "I won't have her near the boy!" "He's her boy, too! And whatever becomes of your boy's mother now, my friend, you can take the responsibility." Floriot stared at him in astonishment and anger. "I! Responsible! For her?" he exclaimed. "Yes, you are responsible," was the firm reply. "Who knows what that poor woman may do now--after you have thrown her out!" Floriot rose and burst out between anger and astonishment: "Noel, what on earth is the matter with you? This woman has wrecked my home and ruined my life! Haven't I any rights? Wouldn't you have done what I did?" "Your rights!" sneered his friend, with a scornful laugh. "Do you think that you have the right to sentence the mother of your boy to the life that she will have to lead now? Your own conscience must be singularly clear and your own life wonderfully blameless, my friend! Your rights! Humph! What about your duties? Did you look after your duties as faithfully as you are now looking out for your rights? "Jacqueline was young and thoughtless--did you guide her and guard her? By your own story you threw her in the way of an attractive man so that you could shift some of your duties on to his shoulders! "Did you study her heart? You expected her to make you happy--did you study her happiness?" he cried with bitter scorn. "Did you remember that she is far younger than you are? Did your age try to understand her youth and its needs?" He paused. Floriot had sunk uncertainly back into his chair under the weight of this arraignment. "You don' t answer! And because she--erred--because she has wounded your vanity by preferring--I'm not defending her!--by preferring another man to you when you did everything you could to make her do it, you throw her out and close your door against her! And you tell me you love her!" "God knows I love her!" groaned Floriot. Noel turned away with a short, scornful laugh. "You loved her!" he exclaimed, contemptuously. "Noel!" Noel wheeled on him with flashing eyes. "I say, it's not true!" he cried. "I tell you, you did not love her! Love is stronger than hate, for nothing can stop it! True love will trample down any obstacle to pardon, to sacrifice! And no one who has not suffered can be sure that he has loved. No, my friend," he went on more calmly, "you didn't love Jacqueline. You loved her grace and her beauty and her charm but it did not blind you to her weakness! If you had really loved her she could have done you no irreparable wrong; for, even when she made this mistake, your love would have found an excuse!" Floriot sprang up with an angry protest. "No, no!" he cried. "Any man in the same place would have done what I did! You would--what would you do?" Noel hesitated a moment. "I don't know----exactly--what I should do," he replied gravely, "because I am a man with a man's limitations. But I know what _you ought_ to do!" "I will never forgive her! I----" "Listen to me a minute, Louis!" interrupted his friend, sternly. "Jacqueline is the mother of your son. He is her child and you have dared to separate them for life! Instead of holding out a helping hand to her, you have thrown her out of your house! You might have saved her from her future and you have given her the first push down the hill that leads--we both know where! Wait! Listen to me! You are a public servant. When you plead against a criminal you ask for a verdict and a sentence in proportion to the crime committed. Your wife loved you and gave you a son. She sinned against you and is sorry for her sin, and yet"--his voice rose with bitter passion--"and yet you have sentenced her to misery, despair and death!" A growing fright was driving the angry gleam from Floriot's eyes as he raised his hand in protest. "No! No! I----" he began in an altered voice. "Yes! Yes!" broke in his friend. "What will she do? What will become of her? Have you ever thought of that? She will have a dozen lovers, will she? Who will be responsible? Have you ever thought of that? "You have not! I can see it in your face! And I suppose you consider yourself an honorable man, a model husband, a blameless father! If you won't do your duty, Floriot, by the living God! I'll do it for you!" Floriot started up and moved toward his friend with queer, halting steps. "What--do--you--mean?" came from his lips in barely more than a whisper. Noel looked squarely into his eyes. "I mean that your wife shall find in my house the place that you refuse her! My life shall be hers--and I will ask nothing in exchange!" Floriot halted and stiffened and for a dozen seconds the two men gazed into each other's eyes. Then Floriot spoke slowly and coldly: "It seems to me, Noel, that you are presuming little beyond the privilege of even a friend." "In this case I have more than the privilege--of a friend!" was the calm reply, with a note of meaning in the voice. Floriot continued to stare at him with a mixture of wonder and resentment. Then a sudden thought made him catch his breath with a sharp hiss. His figure relaxed and he took a half-step forward. "Noel! ... Noel!" he gasped. "Jacqueline! ... She was the woman--you loved!" The blue eyes did not waver. "Yes, it was Jacqueline! And," he added, bitterly, "I loved her better, if not more, than you did!..." In the nerve-wracking night Floriot had exhausted, he thought, every emotion. This last shock numbed him. He groped his way to a chair and with both hands to his head tried to collect his wandering mind and grasp the meaning of Noel's admission. Noel had loved Jacqueline! This was the woman for whom he had tried to kill himself! His brain reeled dizzily and he stared down at the carpet with unseeing eyes. It put his friend in a strange and almost incomprehensible light. All that he had said and done now took on a different aspect. Noel had loved her! He still loved her and defended her! All that his friend had said, all that Jacqueline had said, his talk with Madame Varenne--all swept back over him with a new meaning! Was he wrong? Should he have obeyed the impulse to forgive when she sobbed at his feet--the impulse that he strangled almost at the cost of reason?... Noel was speaking but he barely heard the words. "I loved her for years before your marriage," he was saying. "Many and many a time I made up my mind to speak to her but--I loved her more than I could tell her! I was afraid to risk everything on a word. Again and again I went away on my long wanderings, trying to show myself that I wanted nothing more than my freedom. The farther I traveled from St. Pierre the more miserable I grew and I always came back more in love than ever." There was no grief or pain in his voice. He was still the judge denouncing the culprit. "Then I began to think that she was falling in love with you! I tried again to take my life in my hands and to tell her I loved, but I couldn't. I ran away again, and this time I made up my mind that I would never come back. I got as far as Messina and bought my ticket for the next east-bound P. & O. Then I deliberately missed the boat and the next one. I couldn't drag myself up the gangplank! "The next day, without hardly knowing how it happened, I found myself in the railway station, on my way back to France. I had nearly reached her house when I heard of your betrothal!" He paused for a moment and eyed his friend's bowed figure. "I suppose you wonder, Louis, why I was not more completely overcome and horrified by your story of your madness. My madness carried me a little farther. I, too, sat up in my room with a revolver one night trying to decide whether I should kill you or myself or both of us!" Floriot gave no sign that he had heard. "The old Padre told me once when I was a boy," he went on in the same bitter tone, "there is a line somewhere in the holy writings which says, 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' But his friend ought to show that he appreciates the sacrifice!" He paused again for a moment. "If I had dreamed," he said with stem calmness, "that Jacqueline would be where she is to-night, I would have killed you, my friend, before I tried to kill myself!" The voice ceased abruptly and Noel turned slowly away. The silence seemed to stir Floriot more than the lashing words. He raised his head wearily. "What do you think I ought to do?" "Do! Do!" cried Noel, wheeling, his face blazing with scorn. He walked quickly to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. "I am going to find Jacqueline! Are you coming with me?" Floriot rose unsteadily--doubt, dread and the faint promise of returning hope in his face. He moved uncertainly over toward his friend with hand outstretched. Noel seized it in an eager, painful grip and they looked into each other's eyes with trembling lips. Then, without a word, they passed down the hall and out of the house. CHAPTER VII THE WANDERERS You will find in the chronicle of Matthew of Paris (and a reference to it somewhere in the Apocrypha) a legend of a Jew who refused a resting place on the bench by his door to the Friend of the World as He passed on His way to Calvary. And as He walked on He said: "I go to My rest in My Father's house but thou shalt wander o'er the earth till I come again." Many great writers have loved to believe the strange old tale, and it has been immortalized in prose and verse. As the curse was launched, try to imagine that the ancient Jew felt in his heart a great dread and unrest, and he rose from the seat that he denied the Saviour and struck out across the desert. Then--who knows?--for his further punishment the wind piled sand-dunes in his path, and as he toiled over them new ones rose, and ever in the form of the Cross. The palm trees were as crosses through the heat-haze. A hundred times he was near death from thirst and heat but he could not die. And when he came to the mountains the torrents were crosses and the snow drifts and the crags. He turned and sought death in the frozen North and the icebergs rose in cold and shining crosses. And southward in the trackless jungles, in the creepers at his feet and the vines overhead he saw the sign of him who walked on to Calvary. Wandering over the face of the earth in suffering of the body and misery of the soul, praying daily for the death that is denied him, he must go on and on, and always about his path the hated symbol of his curse. Louis Floriot thought often of the queer old legend in the dark years that followed that night in the house at Passy. Some one once said that the greatest hell on earth is reserved for the man who returns to his empty house from his wife's funeral and begins to ask himself whether he was or was not responsible for her death. But there is one even more terrible than that--believing that he is in a large measure responsible for her shame. And Louis Floriot stretched himself on that bed of torture every night of his life. When he and Noel set out on their search they fully expected to find her within forty-eight hours at the longest. They learned at the Passy station that a woman answering Jacqueline's description had taken a train for Paris a short time before they arrived! so that simplified the hunt. They roamed through the cafés of the better sort and examined the registers of the larger hotels all through the night, planning to get help in the morning. There was one dread in the hearts of both that neither dared speak until after daylight. They had found no clue after seeing the man at the Passy station, and when they took breakfast together they were avoiding each other's eyes as they talked. Floriot would not eat, but his friend insisted that he drink several cups of coffee and two small glasses of brandy. When he saw his eye brighten and a faint touch of color return to his pale cheeks, Noel suggested as gently as possible: "There is one more place that we ought to visit before we do anything else, Louis." Floriot glanced at him with questioning dread. Noel read his thoughts and nodded. "I don't think she would do it--as long--as long--as the boy is alive, and I don't want to alarm you needlessly. But we might as well be sure," he continued. Both had feared all night that when Jacqueline reached Paris and realized that she was alone! in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to for aid, comfort or advice, she might have thrown herself in the Seine. They were going to the morgue to see if her body had been found. They walked through the rows of the silent figures wrapped in white sheets, and as the face of every woman was uncovered, Floriot gave a gasp and closed his eyes before he dared to look. The body they dreaded to find was not there, and they silently thanked God as they came out into the sunlight again. Then they hastily formed a plan of campaign. Noel went out to the house in Passy to get a photograph of Jacqueline that he had in his bag. It was six years old, but it was better than none. He was to meet Floriot at the office of the Chief of the Parisian police. The chief knew the young Deputy Attorney very well, and had a deep admiration and respect for him. He did not ask any useless or embarrassing questions when Floriot told him what he wanted. Being a good policeman he already knew much of the private life of the man, and it was easy for him to fill in the gaps in Floriot's story. Noel returned with the photograph and he promised that he would have a number of reproductions made and put his best men on the search. Leaving the office of the police chief they made the rounds of all the hospitals without learning anything of a woman answering Jacqueline's description. Then Noel insisted that they could do nothing more that day and that they had better go out to Passy, have a good dinner and a night's rest. All the way home, at dinner, and throughout the evening Noel talked to his friend with a buoyancy he did not feel. As the day wore on he realized what a task they had undertaken, and already he began to feel that if they succeeded in finding her it must be due more to chance than otherwise. But he had no idea of abandoning the search. In his heart he told himself that he would devote his life to it if necessary. And Floriot? Like the Jew of the legend the spirit of unrest had already entered his soul. He made a hundred vain and impracticable suggestions in the course of the evening, each one involving useless activity on the part of himself and his friend. But the manifest futility of adopting any of his plans did not weigh with him. He wanted to be doing something. Noel finally drugged him with Burgundy and persuaded him to go to bed with many assurances that the Chief would have her or be on the trail in the morning. "Noel, old man, I don't want to sleep!" was his last protest. "What do you think about going, as I suggested, down to----" "Tut! Tut!" interrupted Noel, testily. "What have you employed the police for? Go to sleep, old man! It'll be all right by to-morrow night!" And with a final hand-shake he left him. In spite of his protest that he did not want to sleep, a mine explosion would not have stirred Floriot two minutes after he touched the bed. Exhausted Nature seized the opportunity to make up for the drains of more than two weeks, and he was still sleeping heavily when Noel came to call him shortly after noon. "I've just come from the Chief's office," said Noel, brightly, after he had listened to and put aside Floriot's reproaches for not calling him. He did not mention that he had been to the morgue again. "And what does he say?" demanded the other sitting up with eager anxiety. Noel avoided his eyes. "He hasn't anything definite to report but he assures me that it is only a question of hours," he replied, cheerfully. "He has telegraphed to the frontiers and all the seaports, and unless Jacqueline has left France we have her just as surely as if she were in the next room now!" "Left France! She can't have done that!" exclaimed Floriot. "It's hardly possible in that length of time," agreed the other, "and for that reason I think that our friend the chief will have news for us by to-morrow night--_sure_!" But there was no news "to-morrow night" nor the next night. The nights grew to weeks and the weeks to months and the months to years, and there was never a trace of the missing woman from the moment she left the Passy station. Noel, true to the vow he had sworn the day after she left, spent his life in the search for her. He had ample funds, and Floriot was well provided for in the goods of the world. All the capitals of Europe and the larger cities he searched, aided by the police. He made friends with the demi-monde and the "submerged" of many races. The painted women of St. Petersburg and the belles of, the Tenderloin knew him equally well. But it! was all in vain. Jacqueline had disappeared. Floriot could not abandon his work, for the sake of his boy, but he took from it all the time that he could spare. He labored now without soul and without ambition. The one thing in his life that seemed worth while was to find his wife. He and Noel wrote to each other constantly when the latter was away--advising, suggesting, planning. All the time that he could take from the courts he employed in roaming about Europe while Noel was on the other side of the world. And like the sign of the cross to the ancient Jew, a hundred times a year he thought that in the glimpse of a profile or the sound of a woman's voice behind him, he had reached the end of his quest. And each disappointment was more bitter than the last. Even in his home there was no escape. For as Raymond grew up it became more evident every year that his dark, passionate eyes, smooth forehead and dark curly hair were his mother's. The firmly cut jaw and mouth and straight, high-bred nose came from his father. He was growing into a splendid young man, as clean mentally as he was physically. He was the one joy of his father's life and he tried to make up in his love what the boy missed in not having the mother that had been driven away. He had an inherited taste for the law and at school he was a source of constant pride to his father. He was prouder when the young man--just turned twenty-four--was admitted to practice in the courts of France. Floriot had been transferred from Paris to Dijon and from there to Bordeaux. He was appointed President of the Toulouse Court just before Raymond became a full-fledged advocate. This made it necessary for father and son to part because the son could not practise in his father's court. It was therefore decided that Raymond should remain in Bordeaux with Rose as housekeeper. She had been the nurse of the boy's babyhood, had raised him, and grown gray hair in the service. She was a fixture for life in the Floriot establishment. About this time two men who had never even heard of any of the characters in this story-excepting M. Floriot, for whom they entertained a marked respect and hearty dislike, although he did not know of their existence--sat down one morning and wrote a letter, the effect of which was far beyond their foresight or wildest imaginings. CHAPTER VIII "CONFIDENTIAL MISSIONS" It was nearly twenty years after the disappearance of Jacqueline that M. Robert Henri Perissard and his very dear confrère, M. Modiste Hyacinthe Merivel, reached their office in a little street not very far from the Palace of Justice, about nine o'clock in the morning, as was their custom. They always took a cab in going to and from their place of business for the same reason that the cab never took them to the door of their residence. And, for the same reason, their residence was in one of the worst streets of Montmartre. One maintained an address in the Rue Fribourg and the other in Rue St. Denis, but neither could ever be found there. Their little home was beautifully furnished, but it was on the top floor of a squalid-looking building, and scarcely a soul in the world besides themselves knew that they lived there. They did not look at all like residents of the vilest quarter of Paris. In fact, their appearance was so blamelessly respectable that it would have aroused the suspicions of a clever policeman. All this may seem strange, but in their relation to society it was quite necessary. It was their mission in life to avenge all transgressions of the laws of God and man. They ferreted out evildoing that escaped or was not punishable by the police, and heavily fined the evildoers. It was a lucrative business, but they dared not live up to anything like the full strength of their income. It would attract too much attention, and gentlemen who engage in that business always shrink from notoriety. As it is, they are frequently found in queer places decorated with bullet holes or knife wounds of great merit. Then, besides, the natural guardians of the community--the police--are frequently brutal enough to call them "blackmailers" and send them to prison for long terms. So you can see that only gentlemen of great caution and perspicacity can ply the trade successfully. M. Perissard, the elder of the two, had in conversation a mixture of pomposity and unction that was truly edifying. He was about medium height with a rotund figure, bald head, bushy side-whiskers and little porcine eyes in a fat face. If you were not a close observer of men you would have taken him for a prosperous banker. His companion, M. Merivel, was the larger and younger man. He affected an even more subdued and painfully respectable garb. He had oily black hair and heavy jowls. He was gifted with a deep heavy voice, though not so glib a tongue, but it was most impressive to hear him back up his co-worker's statements with rumbling affirmatives. The commodities in which they dealt are not hard to come by--especially in Continental Europe. There is scarcely a wealthy family that has not some secret that it would rather the world did not know. For men with the shrewdness and insight of Messrs. Perissard and Merivel a whisper, a breath, was enough. A patient and careful system of espionage and research and a little judicious bribing of servants and, lo! The thing was done! Lately their business had been remarkably successful and was spreading rapidly--so rapidly that they had found it necessary to take in another man to look after their interests in Lyons, where they had two or three "_most_ promising affairs," as M. Merivel would have put it. And now they felt the need of a shrewd man in Bordeaux--shrewd and courageous, for they had laid out a "mission" there that was so dangerous that neither cared to handle it in person, and yet so lucrative that it could not be abandoned. The man in Lyons had proved that he was just the genius needed there and the partners feared that they should "never look upon his like again." For weeks they had gone over the field of reckless and unscrupulous blackguards whom they knew--and knew to be at that time out of prison--but they could not fix upon one who, they were sure, had the ability and the loyalty combined. It was in this dilemma that M. Perissard began opening the morning's mail, sighing heavily, while his associate busied himself with a collection of society papers from various capitals in the hope of unearthing a profitable hint of threatened scandal. The first letter was from the editor of a black-mailing weekly who received commissions on all of his "tips" that developed into financial gain for the firm of "Perissard and Merivel, Confidential Missions." It contained the information that a certain Marquise had gone into a secluded part of Switzerland "for her health" and was very anxious to maintain the utmost secrecy, as it was well known that her husband had been in the Far East for more than a year. M. Perissard put the letter carefully to one side of his desk and picked up the next, which bore a queer-looking South American stamp. He opened it and glanced over the two sheets of notepaper that it contained, and as he read his face expressed a grateful and uplifting joy. "My dear Merivel!" he exclaimed. "Our problem is solved! The--veree--thing!" M. Merivel ponderously folded his paper and turned a look of heavy inquiry on his associate. "Indeed!" he rumbled. "True! my dear friend, true!" M. Perissard assured him, joyously. "Listen!" And this is what he read: Café Libertad, Buenos Ayres, Feb. 11th. _My Revered Preceptor_: You will no doubt be surprised to hear from me, and especially in this God-forsaken place, but here I am without exactly knowing how I got here. Furthermore, now that I am here and have been here for some weeks, I don't see how I am going to live much longer. South America is a great place for government officials and cattle raisers. Cattle thieves, I am told, do rather well, too, but none of these three lines of occupation is open to me. I haven't the influence for the first, the capital for the second or the inclination for the third. It is _bourgeois_, and it is well for us of the upper classes to keep our hands clean of vulgar theft. The more gentlemanly forms of acquiring mentionable sums are practically useless. These people of Latin America have the suspicious nature of all provincials; and, as most of them chat about their family scandals in the cafés, it is not a fruitful field for a discreet young man with a keen scent. The very wealthy are usually investing in revolutions, and I have no vocation for that form of promoting. All this, my dear teacher, is simply a prelude to the information that I want to get back to La Belle France--want to very badly. If you can find something for me to do and want me badly enough to pay my passage, I will take the first ship that sails. You can reach me at the above address, unless a certain yellow-skinned suitor of one of the ladies at the café knifes me before I hear from you. Believe me to be yours dutifully, FREDERIC LAROQUE. M. Perissard read and M. Merivel heard this flippant letter without the trace of a smile. They were serious-minded folk. "Confidential missions" have the effect of dwarfing the sense of humor, and they had been in the profession for many years. "A-ahem!" said M. Merivel heavily. "And this Frederic Laroque---? "He is a young man who was a clerk in my office before we became partners, my dear Merivel," explained M. Perissard, smiling happily. "He displayed a singular aptitude for our work but----Youth! Youth!" He shook his head. "He would not stay with me as I advised. He insisted on going his own way and I lost sight of him in a short time. I am really surprised that he is not in prison, but it shows that he must have developed as I knew that he would. His hardships in the New World probably have had the needed subduing effect. And now he is an instrument made to our hand! Thoroughly loyal to his friend or employer he always was, I assure you, my dear Merivel, and without fear--without fear absolutely! Oh, it is providential! Providential!" and he raised his hands piously. "_Most_ providential!" echoed M. Merivel in rolling thunder. Then he added: "You are certain, my dear Robert, that the young man is trustworthy? You remember that Guadin was also fearless!" "Oh, quite so! Quite so, my dear friend!" his confrère hastened to assure him. "He is the soul of honor! He would not think of attempting anything dishonest with me!" "In that case," came from the depths of M. Merivel's chest, "I think that we would do well to send him the money." "Just what I was going to propose the moment I finished his letter!" declared M. Perissard. So the letter was written and a postal order for a thousand francs enclosed. Laroque was requested to meet M. Perissard at the Hotel of the Three Crowns in Bordeaux as soon as he could get there. * * * * * Some three weeks later M. Frederic Laroque, accompanied by the lady of the Café Libertad, walked up the gangplank of the "Amazon," bound for France, while on the pier, Manuel Silvas blasphemed the Virgin because he was armed only with a knife; and Laroque had carelessly dropped his hand on his pistol pocket as he passed. CHAPTER IX THE HOTEL OF THE THREE CROWNS Marie, the pretty chambermaid of the Hotel of the Three Crowns, was visibly nervous one misty day in April. She could not be kept away from the front door, which opened on a dingy street a few minutes' walk from the railway station. Not that there was any particular reason why she should not be there. The guests of the Hotel of the Three Crowns were late risers as a rule. It was too early to set about her duties, and in the meantime the proprietor would rather have had her at the front door than anywhere else, for we have mentioned the fact that she was pretty, and that made her the only attractive feature about the front of the down-at-heel little inn. Transients of the commercial traveler type were seldom known to walk past the door if they caught a glimpse of Marie. It was for one of these gentlemen that Marie was so anxiously waiting, and her nervousness was due to the fact that her husband, Victor, the "boots" of the hotel, was roaming around in the background. He was as simple-minded and unattractive as a husband ought to be. Whenever his intellect tried to grasp anything beyond the mysteries of cleaning shoes and carrying trunks it ran into heavy opaque obstructions. Marie might have carried on a dozen flirtation under his very chin and he would have been none the wiser. But she had never done it, because of her naturally clean morals. So now, that she was preparing to inflict on him the greatest wrong that she had in her power to commit, she felt the trepidation that always precedes the first plunge into crime. In spite of the wrought-up condition of her mind she could not help observing curiously a queer-looking pair that alighted from a cab in front of the door. The man was a tall, rather slender but muscular man of thirty-five or past with sandy hair, a bold chin and sparkling pale gray eyes that ran over her trim figure and pretty face with undisguised pleasure. It was his dress that most attracted her attention. He wore a long, check traveling coat of rough English cloth and soft gray hat, patent-leather shoes with singularly high heels, brown and very baggy "peg-top" trousers. His open coat and overcoat disclosed a gray silk shirt and loose black tie. But the really bizarre feature of the costume was a broad red sash about the waist in place of the conventional belt or braces. The woman, his companion, was rather flashily dressed in clothes that bore the marks of travel and long wear. She was small and might once have been pretty. She was now plainly past forty and looked all of it. Her figure still retained suggestions of a departed grace. Her hair was dark and wavy but it was cut short, and she had dark, unnaturally bright eyes. Even Marie knew enough of the world to place her at once in a calling that is older than the profession of arms. In her face, glance and walk she bore the brand that Nature places on those who "eat the bread of infamy and take the wage of shame." But what Marie did not understand was the unearthly, almost translucent, pallor of her face and the peculiar delicacy of the pouches under the eyes--the hall-marks of the drug slave. The man dropped a large traveling bag on the sidewalk and then helped the driver of the cab unship a small and much battered trunk. The woman eyed the proceedings listlessly. Then he turned to Marie with a breezy smile. "Well, my dear, have you a room to spare and some strong and willing young man to help me carry this trunk up to it?" he asked. On being addressed, the maid started and then smiled sweetly. "Oh, yes, monsieur! I think there is still a vacant room. Victor! Victor!" she called, turning her head to the doorway. In a few moments her husband shambled out. He had a placid, gently inquiring expression that made his face resemble nothing so much as that of a good-natured horse. "Just give me a lift with this trunk, my man," commanded the guest, briskly, as Victor came down the steps. The procession streamed into the house, leaving Marie still on guard at the door, much to the gentleman's regret. Victor showed the way up two flights of stairs to a rather large room under the roof. It contained one big bed, two small tables, a dressing-case and several chairs. The porter, in a slow drawl, pointed out that one of the most stylish features of the apartment was a small dressing-room that opened off it. The walls and low ceiling were kalsomined. The floor was stained with cheap paint and a few cheaper rugs were scattered about. A step or two inside the door the man stopped, looked around and laughed. "H'm! I've seen better!" he remarked. "It's the only one we've got left, monsieur," drawled Victor. "Not a palace, is it?" he went on, turning to his companion. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Oh, what does it matter? This room or any other!" she replied, and the indifference of tone and words matched the weariness of her manner and the carelessness of her tawdry attire. "Well, I don't suppose we shall be here long," said her companion. He and Victor carried the luggage into the dressing-room. The woman took off her hat and cloak, put the former on the dresser, threw the latter carelessly across a chair and dropped wearily into another. "Oh, I'm tired!" she sighed. "Has anyone inquired for M. Laroque--Frederic Laroque?" the man was asking as he came back with Victor. The porter handed him a card. "This gentleman called about an hour ago," he replied. Laroque glanced at it. "Perissard," he nodded, half to himself. "He said he'd come back in about an hour," he drawled. "All right! Show him up when he does," he ordered briskly, taking off his coat and overcoat. "Can I get you anything, monsieur?" "A bottle of absinthe!" was the prompt reply. "Yes, monsieur." "And some cigarettes." "Yes, monsieur." And, the guest adding nothing further to the order, he shuffled out and slowly closed the door. Laroque looked again at the card that he still held in his hand. "I wonder what that old devil is up to now!" he murmured, thoughtfully. He had been wondering ever since he received the letter and the thousand francs. The woman did not hear him; or, if she did, paid no attention. "This is better than the ship, anyhow, isn't it?" she remarked from the depths of the big armchair. Laroque was busily emptying his pockets on to the top of the dresser. As he took out the pistol he thought of Senor Silvas and smiled. "Yes!" he declared emphatically, "I've had enough of the sea for a long time. You ought to be glad to be back again; you were certainly anxious to see 'la belle France,' weren't you?" "I've been away from it for twenty--twenty years!" said the woman in a low voice. "I shouldn't wonder if you found a change or two," he suggested pleasantly, marching into the dressing-room to "wash up." She sighed wearily. "I don't suppose I'll find any changes greater than those in myself." "Because you have your hair cut short?" came from the dressing-room with a laugh. "People often have their hair cut short for all sorts of reasons. Typhoid fever is better than most. And I rather like your short curly hair. You look like a boy, dressed up!" "I'm not thinking of my hair," she returned wearily. "I'm thinking of what I was twenty years ago when I left France and what I am to-day." "If it hurts you to think of it, my girl, don't think of it!" he suggested lightly, appearing at the door with a towel in his hands. "I suppose you are right--perhaps that is the better way," was the reply in world-weary tones. "Of course, it is!" he assured her cheerfully. "What's done can't be undone, old girl. There are lots of women more to be pitied than you are." "I wonder!" she murmured, with a faint bitter smile. "To begin with," he went on, vigorously polishing his nails on his trouser legs, "you are the only woman I have loved for the last six months! That ought to count for something, oughtn't it?" "Twenty years ago!" she repeated more to herself than to him. "I was young and pretty then." "Oh, you look all right by gaslight now!" he assured her. "I had a husband and child," she went on without heeding. "Now, I am alone--with nothing left!" "And what about me, pray!" he protested with a laugh. "Don't I count for something?" "Oh, shut up!" she snapped, pettishly. "I don't want to play the fool to-day!" "So I see," retorted Laroque, with an ironical bow. "Madame has her nerves, has she?" "To-day I'm sick of everything," she continued drearily. "Life disgusts me. I'd sell mine for a centime!" "Oh, it's worth more than that! Now, buck up!" he cried, cheerfully. "I quite understand that you used to be a rich woman and now you are not, but everyone has his ups and downs. Look at me! I used to be a lawyer's clerk--old Perissard's clerk--and look at me now! Take the times as they come, old girl, and money when you can get your hands on it! That's my motto--money's the only thing that matters!" She turned her head slowly toward him with a contemptuous look. "Oh, I know you'd do anything for money!" M. Laroque shrugged his shoulders. "Better that than do nothing and get nothing for it," he replied with light philosophy, taking a chair at the opposite side of the table. Victor entered with bottle of absinthe and the cigarettes and deposited them carefully between them. Laroque rubbed his hands together and gazed at the bottle with glistening eyes. "Good!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "Now, mix up the drinks, old girl, and put some power in 'em! You want yours about as badly as I want mine!" The woman uncorked the bottle and began preparing the absinthe while he lighted a cigarette and turned to Victor, who stood stolidly by the table. "What's going on in Bordeaux?" he asked pleasantly. "Is there any fun?" Victor studied the question gravely and then drawled: "Well, it's amusing sometimes, then sometimes it isn't." Laroque's clear laugh rang out. "Now, we know all about it, don't we?" Victor stared at him with the mild gaze of a surprised cow. He did not see the joke and didn't feel up to the mental effort of looking for it. "Will you dine at the table d'hôte?" he inquired. "What's the cooking like?" Again Victor pondered for several moments. "Well," he drawled at last, "some people say it's good and then--some people say it isn't." Again Laroque roared with laughter. "Well, you are a mine of information, aren't you?" he shouted. Victor did not acknowledge the compliment. "Dinner's at seven," he announced solemnly. "Right!" "If you want anything, ring once for me and twice for the chambermaid." "Thank you, my lord!" bowed Laroque. "Shall I take away the absinthe?" he asked, as the woman slowly put the bottle down when enough of the milky fluid had dripped slowly into, the tumblers. The other quickly put out a restraining hand. "Nay, nay, my lord!" he replied, firmly. "Never remove a bottle until it's empty!" "It makes no difference to me, monsieur." "Just what I thought!" was the retort. "But it makes a good deal of difference to me!" And as Victor slowly slouched out he picked up one of the tumblers with trembling hands and took a sip. "Great! Great!" he murmured, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "Yes, it is good, isn't it?" And the woman took a long drink. "It's a marvel! A marvel! There's nothing you do better than an absinthe! Light up, old girl and let's be happy!" She lighted a cigarette, and for several minutes they smoked and sipped in silence. "Are we going to stay here long?" she asked at last, in a tone that implied that it made no difference to her whether they did or not. "I don't know," he replied, passing over his empty glass as she began laying the foundations of another drink. "That depends on Perissard. I must have a chat with him before I can say." "Who is Perissard?" she inquired indifferently. "I told you I used to be his clerk. He's a lawyer!" "What sort of a man is he?" "Oh, he's a clever old devil!" smiled Laroque. "He knows the Code Napoleon backwards! When I wrote to him I thought to myself, 'There's a postage stamp wasted, for Perissard has either retired from business or he's making felt shoes in prison somewhere, unless he's flirting with the dusky native ladies of New Caledonia.' But I was wrong, you see, for he's not in prison, says he's glad to hear from me and sends me a thousand francs to pay my passage. That knocked me edgewise! The old fox certainly needs me for something. He doesn't spend a thousand francs for nothing!" "Be careful!" she warned him, but the tone was a mockery of the words. "Don't worry!" he replied jauntily. "I'll keep my eyes open and----" a knock at the door interrupted him. "There he is now, I guess. Come in!" he called, turning his head toward the door. It was opened quickly and with brisk step, M. Perissard, closely followed by his associate in "Confidential missions," bustled in. CHAPTER X THE USES OF ADVERSITY "My dear Laroque!" exclaimed M. Perissard, effusively holding out his hand as the adventurer advanced to meet him. "Well! How are you, monsieur?" returned the ether, cordially shaking his hand. "By heaven! You've put on flesh, haven't you?" M. Perissard laughed. "Ah! I put most of that on with my clothes every morning," he explained with a wink of elephantine slyness. "Every morning! What on earth for?" demanded Laroque, blankly. "Thin people do not inspire confidence," declared M. Perissard, impressively, but still smiling. "Fat people do!" Then he noticed the woman in the chair and evolved an elaborate bow, seconded by M. Merivel. "Madame!" "My life's companion--for the last six months," said Laroque, with flippant irony and an introductory wave of his hand. The partners bowed once more in unison and the woman acknowledged the introduction with a perfunctory nod, the absinthe and cigarette immediately reclaiming her attention. "Let me present M. Merivel," said Perissard, suavely. "Formerly a schoolmaster, but now my friend and associate!" "Delighted!" exclaimed Laroque, squeezing a limp, mushy hand, "But, sit down! Sit down!" All three took chairs, the visitors carefully placing their silk hats on the floor beside them. "And first let me thank you," he went on addressing himself to the older man, "to begin with----" "For the thousand francs I sent you?" "Yes," nodded Laroque. M. Perissard smiled. "When I received your letter it struck me that you were not exactly rolling in money," he said with ponderous playfulness. "I wasn't--exactly!" laughed the young man. "So I thought it was well to send you a little on account," continued M. Perissard. "And supposing I had put the money in my pocket and remained in South America?" "I should have lost my thousand francs. But I wasn't afraid of that," his prospective employer assured him. "I knew you too well, Laroque. I knew you to be too--too----" "Too honest?" grinned the adventurer. "Too intelligent," corrected M. Perissard, "to do such a foolish thing. What are a thousand francs," with an expressive sweep of his arm, "in the position I am going to offer you!" "As good as that, eh?" There was an eager gleam in his eyes. "Ask M. Merivel!" said the senior partner bowing toward his friend. M. Merivel, thus appealed to, delivered his first contribution to the chat in an unctuous bass. "A first class position! _Most_ admirable!" "Well! That sounds interesting!" and Laroque hitched his chair a little nearer. The woman had just finished concocting a third glass of absinthe and now she rose with: "I'll leave you to your business talk and go and unpack the trunk." "Yes, do, my girl!" nodded her "life's companion," and she passed out with the drink and the package of cigarettes. "Now then, to business!" said M. Perissard in slightly crisper tones when the door had closed. "Right!" "To begin with, I'm no longer a lawyer," declared M. Perissard. "So I see," nodded Laroque. "According to your card you are now a Notary Public." His eyes twinkled. Messrs. Perissard and Merivel laughed at the same moment and for precisely the same length of time. The Siamese Twins were in constant discord compared with these two. "That's to inspire confidence," explained the senior partner. "I see! Like this!" chuckled the adventurer sticking his finger into M. Perissard's paunch. "Ah, yes!" rumbled M. Merivel, rolling his eyes up piously and clasping his hands, "Confidence is such a be--u--tiful thing in these days of disrespect! Alas! To-day respect is rapidly disappearing. The young have ceased to respect the old and the family solicitor no longer holds the proud position that was his. 'Where are the snows of yesteryear'?" Laroque listened to this speech with a grin that indicated an utter absence of the virtue the decline of which struck M. Merivel as so exceedingly deplorable. "By Jove! He talks well, doesn't he?" he exclaimed. "Like a book!" declared M. Perissard in a hoarse but enthusiastic whisper. "But to resume," he added in his "business" voice, "I'm in business now." "What sort of business?" inquired the adventurer. "Business of all kinds. I refuse no business!" "With money in it," amended M. Merivel, in a thunderous aside. "But we deal principally in the faults, vices and weakness of our fellow men," continued the senior partner. "Sounds like a good trade!" commented Laroque, heartily, his lips twitching, as he glanced from one to the other. "And a _most_ moral one!" came unctuously from the unsounded depths of M. Merivel's chest, "For we do good with the Strong Hand, you see. Ah-_utile dulci_--the Latin--ahem!" "I don't altogether get you," said the young man, crossing one knee over the other with the air of a man who has made up his mind not to understand hints. M. Perissard shifted his chair a little, cleared his throat and leaned forward with his hands on his thighs. "You shall!" he declared, a little more of the "stagey" quality was missing in his voice. "There are very few houses without a skeleton in the closet." "Skeletons are cheap to-day!" struck in M. Merivel's bass. "And in the best families there are often secrets which are worth a fortune," continued M. Perissard, impressively. Laroque's eye-brows went up. "O, I see," he said a trifle coolly, "Blackmail!" Four large fat hands went up simultaneously in a gesture of horror and two shocked voices burst forth as one. "Sh--h--h! My dear young friend! What an ugly word!" "We are humble helpers in the cause of justice! _Most_ ugly word!" "Find it rather dangerous, don't you?" pursued Laroque in the same tone. "We do not!" came the reply in chorus, baritone and bass. "Pays, does it?" Again the four plump hands went up. "Pay! My dear Laroque, I should think it did!" cried Perissard. "You will very soon find out for yourself how well it pays for I propose paying you--in addition to your salary--ten per cent upon the profits! You won't find it hard work and you won't find it difficult. Quickness, discretion and tact are all that are required. I know you pretty well, my dear friend. You are intelligent and energetic and I'm sure you are honest! Not too scrupulously so at all times--but--ah--you understand!" "Scruples are out of date," groaned M. Merivel, shaking his head gloomily, "_Ne quid nimis_--the Latin again--ahem!" "And you are fond of money!" went on the spokesman. Laroque smiled and nodded. "Well, then! You shall have the money!" declared M. Perissard. Word, look and tone were those of a true philanthropist. "It's a tempting offer," admitted the adventurer rubbing his chin, reflectively; "but, you know, I was sometime getting out of----It has not been many years since I was in trouble and I don't want any more trouble if I can help it." "What possible trouble can there be?" M. Perissard protested. "Well, you know, even a lamb will bleat if you handle him roughly." "Our little lambkins don't!" the older man as? sured him with an oily, paternal smile in which his confrère nobly seconded him. "They have a horror of all kinds of fuss and do net draw attentions to themselves if they can help it." "The fear of a fuss is the beginning of wisdom!" rose from M. Merivel's diaphragm in oracular thunder. "So there is nothing to be afraid of! Our head office is in Paris," resumed M. Perissard, "But I have come to Bordeaux to open a branch office of which M. Merivel will be temporary manager. In a little while, when you understand our methods thoroughly, he will go to Marseilles and leave you in charge. Then we will double your salary and increase your share of the profits to fifteen per cent!" Laroque wavered a moment, then suddenly straightened up to his feet and held out his hand. "It's a bargain!" he said. CHAPTER XI CONCERNING DOWER CLAIMS When the partners had pawed over and patted their new employer like a couple of affectionate behemoths welcoming back their lost offspring, the elder suggested that they must now come to the business details of the first mission which was to be entrusted to him. Laroque resumed his seat and prepared to listen but they smiled at him in paternal reproof. "Not here, my indiscreet friend!" "_Most_ certainly not!" The young man gazed at them astonished. "Why, what's the matter with this place?" he demanded. "Never discuss an important matter in detail within ear-shot of any wall, my dear young man!"! smiled M. Perissard, shaking his head. "_Most_ certainly not!" affirmed his confrère, decidedly, "_Muribus aures_--ahem!--The Latin has it!" Laroque rose and reached for his hat and coat with a smile of amusement. "Well, where do you want to go?" "We will seek a--ah--safe spot in the vicinity!" replied the senior partner. Laroque put his head in the dressing room and remarked chat he was going out for a little while and the three allies departed. M. Perissard led the way to a large café and selected a table in a not too prominent location but still where there was no chance of being overheard. He ordered a bottle of Chateau Lafitte and expensive cigars, gave the waiter more than suitable pourboire and told him they would require nothing more. They were as much alone as they would have been on a South Sea atoll. Three glasses were raised together and a little later three clouds of smoke arose from the table. M. Perissard gazed into his glass reflectively for a moment. "You must understand, my dear Laroque," he began, "that our business is largely with those men who, in public or private life, are a menace to the well-being of society." The adventurer nodded with a little smile of weary cynicism. M. Merivel said something about "_latrones in officio_." "Imagine the shock, the grief to my colleague and myself," continued M. Perissard, "when we learned that a very high official of this fair city of France had falsified his accounts to the extent of one million francs, _at least_!" If he expected to rouse his new employé to eager enthusiasm he was not disappointed. Laroque's face expressed it. "His name I will disclose to you in due time," said M. Perissard, in reply to an unspoken question. "You are wondering how so a large a peculation can possibly be concealed and therefore be of any value to us. "I will not conceal from you that the man is a power in this part of the country and has many rich and influential friends. He recently threw himself on the mercy of these and appealed to them for help. As they were under obligations of more or less doubtful character they could not fail to respond. "They have now made up more than eight hundred thousand francs, I have reason to believe, and will have no difficulty in raising the balance. But there is no occasion for haste and he is all the more useful to them while they still have this hold over him. "Fortunately for the cause of civic and national purity--so dear to the heart of every true citizen of the Republic!--some of them were so indiscreet as to put part of the negotiations into the form of correspondence. A letter or two, quite providentially--" "_Most_ providentially!" interjected M. Merivel. "--Fell into our hands. We made investigations in a quiet way, as was our duty, and have secured What is almost legal proof of this astounding corruption!" Laroque, stretched back in his chair, with his gleaming eyes half-veiled by the drooping lids nodded almost imperceptibly as M. Perissard paused. M. Merivel shook his head in heavy sadness over the fresh proof of the wickedness of man and sipped his wine. "Now, then," resumed M. Perissard. "Since they are so willing to come forward with the full amount of his shortage they will undoubtedly be only too glad to add fifty or seventy-five thousand francs to the amount to insure the utmost secrecy. Ah--you understand, now?" Laroque slowly heaved himself upright in his chair and rubbed his chin for a moment before replying. "I understand, all right," he said doubtfully, "but if these friends of his can save him any time they choose, what is to prevent them from coming up with the money the moment we approach him?" M. Perissard indulged him with another fatherly smile. "Ah, my dear young sir, you don't quite understand as yet! If we go to the Public Prosecutor and lay our information in his hands he will have no way of knowing whether the money has been refunded without an official investigation, which will certainly ruin the gentlemen. For even if he escapes prison the fact that he is guilty of misconduct in office must be brought to light." Laroque's face brightened. "Ah, ha! I see!" he exclaimed, "It certainly begins to look promising!" "_Most_ promising!" rumbled M. Merivel. Then they began to outline the details of the campaign, and it was late in the afternoon when M. Perissard suggested that there was nothing more to do. "I need not impress upon you the necessity for the utmost tact and caution in dealing with this gentleman," he said in conclusion. "You can see that in his position he has powerful official influence and we must be careful that he does not trip us. He is shrewd, bold and unscrupulous." "_Most_ unscrupulous!" affirmed M. Merivel. "By the way," said his colleague, suddenly, "you aren't married, are you?" "Lord! No!" laughed Laroque. "That's all right!" said M. Perissard, approvingly. "Women are charming creatures, but in business-s-s!" M. Merivel's hands, shoulders and eye-brows went up. "I was afraid when I saw the lady and I meant to mention it sooner!" "Most charming woman!" declared M. Merivel, unctuously, "Artistic! Good-looking!" "I met her at Buenos Ayres," explained Laroque, "She hadn't a son to bless herself with and was picking up a living around a café. There's no harm in her but she's taking a lot of trash--morphine, ether, opium and that sort of stuff--to help her forget, she says. She's a married woman, you know. Wife of a man in a good position and quite a shining light at the bar, she says." "Really!" exclaimed M. Perissard, with interest, and he exchanged a glance with his colleague. "Yes," went on Laroque carelessly, "Deputy Attorney in Paris, I believe. She was false to him and he turned her out." M. Merivel's upraised hands indicated that he was shocked. "Oh dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he groaned with a sigh like the roar of a tornado, "Even the morals of our magistrates and leading lawyers _are_ not above suspicion these degenerate days!" "Have some more wine!" laughed Laroque, filling his glass. But M. Perissard hardly heard either of them. "Was this long ago?" he demanded eagerly. "Twenty years ago," replied the young man, settling back in his chair. "She says she went to England shortly after he turned her out. Since then she has been to America, Colombia, Brazil, all over the place--sometimes rich and sometimes poor. When I met her she was dying to get back to France and didn't have a centime, so I brought her with me. Never liked to travel alone," he added with a grin. But the master of "confidential missions" did not smile. "Did she tell you the story herself?" he persisted. "Yes," nodded Laroque, "one day when she'd had a little more ether than usual. It's funny sort of stuff--that! She's a silent sort of woman as a rule, but when she's been drinking ether she gets talkative, and if she doesn't become maudlin over her past, she breaks out with a hellish temper and says anything. She won't live long. About worn out--poor tramp!" M. Perissard listened attentively. "I have been thinking," he said slowly, when Laroque had finished, "that if her husband was a Deputy Attorney in Paris twenty years ago, he may be Attorney General now." "Indeed, yes!" his partner nodded emphatically. "This might lead to business," pursued the other in the same thoughtful tone. Laroque's face betrayed that he, too, had grown suddenly keenly interested. "How?" he demanded. "Supposing the husband is now occupying a position worth having," suggested the older man, "He would be likely to make a sacrifice to prevent scandal about his wife from becoming public property." M. Merivel's fat countenance expressed the most exalted admiration. "Isn't he a wonderful man?" he breathed ecstatically. "Always getting ideas like that! A benefactor of humanity! Most certainly a benefactor!" But his partner and Laroque did not heed. "Do you know her husband's name?" asked the former. "No, she never told me that." "How old would you take her to be?" "Past forty." "H'm! He must have been rather young for the position if he was near her age. You are sure she never mentioned his name?" "I would have remembered it if she had," replied Laroque. "H'm! Well, I don't know that it matters. A Deputy Attorney in Paris whose wife left him twenty years ago ought not be difficult to find." "Do you think so?" "Mere child's play, my dear boy! And I think," he added, thoughtfully, "I think that, on the whole, this had better be your first piece of business. Ah! Wait!" he exclaimed with a sudden thought, "Did she ever mention that her own people were wealthy at the time of her marriage?" Laroque scratched his head in an effort to remember. "No, I don't think she ever did," he said at last "Why? It's the husband we'll have to see anyway? What have her people to do with it?" "Why, don't you see," cried M. Perissard almost pityingly, "That if she is only a little past forty she must have married young and left her husband shortly afterward. The inference is that he was probably a young lawyer and without a great deal of money. He could not have married her unless she brought a _dot_." "Well?" demanded Laroque, not catching the ether drift. "Well, then! If he drove her out of the house she has a good claim to that money--unless he gave it to her then or later," he added anxiously. "Do you know?" "I don't know whether she ever had a _dot_," replied Laroque, as the scheme dawned on him, "but if she did I'm certain that she didn't take it away with her." "Excellent! Excellent!" exclaimed M. Perissard, pressing the palms of his hands together. "_Most_ excellent! Wonderful man!" breathed M. Merivel, with an upward glance of thanksgiving. "Now, then," continued the former briskly, "we will stay the hand of punishment temporarily in the matter of this official scoundrel and teach this magistrate or attorney-general, or whatever he is, that he cannot turn his wife out of his house and keep her money!" "But," objected Laroque. "I think there is a child, though I'm not certain." "Makes no difference whatsoever!" declared M. Perissard. "The money goes to the child upon the death of its mother--not before!" He glanced at his watch. "You go back and find out all that you can from the lady and we will wait for you here. You should be able to pump her thoroughly in an hour. That will give you plenty of time to catch the six-thirty train for Paris. You might as well begin on the work right away." "_Most_ certainly!" agreed M. Merivel, with a heavy nod. "_Nulla dies sine_--H'm!--the Latin, of course!" "We will wait for you here and give you your final instructions," added M. Perissard, as Laroque rose. "Oh, and try to get a power of attorney from her!" The latter nodded. "I'll be back in an hour!" he promised, and with a wave of the hand he hurried out. CHAPTER XII "WHO SAVES ANOTHER----" When the footsteps of the three protectors of society died away down the stairway of the Three Crowns, the woman opened the door of the dressing room and crept out. "Thank God, they've gone!" she muttered, wearily, "I'd like to be alone always. People bore me to death. What a life! What a life!" She walked across the room a trifle unsteadily and deposited her empty glass on the little table with the absinthe and sat down at the other one with her face to the door. She fumbled in a dingy hand-bag, slung to her left wrist, and presently produced a small vial, followed by a greasy pack of cheap cards. None but the eyes of abiding love or undying hate would have seen in the pitiful, drug-ridden, half drunken, fast-sinking wreck any trace of the bewitching, laughing bride of twenty-odd years before. The austere ancient, who virtuously wrote "the descent into hell is easy," might have read in her face a different story of that dark pathway. She took a swallow of the fluid in the bottle and coughed sharply as she recorked it. The peculiar odor of ether spread through the room. Then she began shuffling the cards as if about to play solitaire. Suddenly she stopped, threw herself across the table, buried her face in her arms and burst into tears.... Our life is like some vast lake that is slowly filling with the stream of our years. As the waters creep surely upward the landmarks of the past are one by one submerged. But there shall always be one memory to lift its head above the tide until the lake is full to overflowing. In the calmness of our days it is little noted, but the tempest-lashed waters are swept upon it again and again. It may be but the memory of a moment when a woman looked into our eyes with trust, or it maybe that that trust Was betrayed. But sweet or bitter, its ghost shall come in the hour of woe to whisper hope and solace, or to press more deeply the thorns into the anguished brow and add its weight to the burden of the cross.... Far back over the path of those twenty years Jacqueline had learned to hate her husband, but the memory and love of her boy grew stronger. She had sunk from indifference to degradation and from degradation to despair. She had been a man's joy of a year, his pleasure of a month and his plaything of an hour. But through it all the mother love had lived in the blackened soul and the mother heart--scarred and calloused as it was--yet yearned for her boy. But for this, the years of loathsome vice, of drink and drugs, would have brought at last the numbness of oblivion. She had sought it in vain. She had steeped herself in vice until at times the life within flickered dangerously. But it brought never a moment of forgetfulness. When she was sober, or not under the influence of drugs, she lived in the darkness of black despair. And when she turned to these "to help her forget," she did not know that that was not the reason. They revived and quickened the slowly numbing brain until she could feel again the wild anguish of hopeless loss; and as she sobbed out her agony she vaguely felt that she was again more nearly worthy to press her child to her breast. In the past few months her enfeebled mind had gloated miserably over one dismal ray of hope--the hope of one moment of joy before she died. She had learned from a half-breed woman in Caracas the art of telling fortunes with cards, and hour after hour she retold her future with the soiled pack that she always carried. They told her that the fleeting second of happiness would be bought at the price of one life, to be followed by the end of her own. To that promise she clung.... The storm of weeping, as is the case with sobs that are due wholly or in part to drunkenness, ended as abruptly as it had begun. She took another swallow of the ether and began laying out the cards in the same weary seven rows. She looked over them quickly and wept again. Always the two deaths! "Now, then," she straightened up with a snuffle, "I'll try again." She was spreading them out once more when there came a knock at the door. "Come in!" she called, without looking up. The maid, Marie, entered with pen and ink and a form that the police require the hotel-keepers to have filled out and filed by every guest. She advanced, a little timidly, to the table and said. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, madame, but the police make us go through this business." She held up the blank form. The woman looked up, puzzled for a moment, and then nodded. "Oh, yes, well then----Oh, write it yourself!" she snapped irritably, turning again to the cards. She took another drink of ether and looked up at the maid, as if she did not exactly remember the purpose of her visit. "Monsieur and Madame Laroque," she said at last, listlessly, her eyes on the table. "From Buenos Ayres, on their way to Paris." Marie filled in the blank. "To Paris. Thank you, madame," she said. Then she stood looking curiously at the cards. The woman raised her head. "Is that all?" "Yes, thank you. Are you telling fortunes with the cards?" Marie asked, timidly as the woman began studying the table once more. "Yes." "Then you really believe in them?" "They're the only thing I do believe in," was the weary response. "That's funny!" exclaimed the maid, with a nervous little smile. "I don't believe in them at all!" "You will!" was the grim comment. "Oh, it's like palmistry and all that sort of thing. It's all nonsense." Jacqueline looked up at her pityingly. "You don't know what you're talking about!" she declared, a little thickly. The ether and absinthe were beginning to work more powerfully. "What do the cards tell you?" asked Marie, growing interested. Jacqueline gazed over the table again. "Always the same thing, always the same thing!" she said, with a glassy stare, meant to be impressive. "Death! My own death! And it's coming very soon. That's what the cards tell me!" The maid's eyes opened wide. "Really!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "They never change!" the woman went on in a dull monotone. Dissipation had left little of expression and given much of harshness to her voice. "I can see blood--a great deal of blood! But before I die I shall see the two people that I always see in my dreams, waking or sleeping--the man I love more than anything else in the world and the man I hate more than anything else in the world! The cards have been promising me for the last three months that I shall see them soon and that--I'll die! The cards have never been wrong, and that's why I wanted to get back to France." "You believe in them as much as that?" asked the maid, wonderingly. "Yes!" She watched her rearranging the cards for some moments in silence. "Won't you tell my fortune?" she asked at last with a little hesitation. "What's the good if you don't believe?" retorted the woman, without looking up. "Oh, I don't be--I don't believe in it," she stammered with a slight blush, "but I--I--do believe in it!" Jacqueline glanced at her with the dispassionate, rolling gaze of a drunkard. "Sit down!" she commanded. While Marie was settling herself on the edge of the bed she took another drink of the ether. "Is that ether you're drinking?" asked the girl. "Ye--yes!" coughed the woman, slipping in the cork. "It smells horribly strong! What does it do to you?" she inquired, with shuddering curiosity. "It changes my ideas and that's a good deal," was the grim reply. "But it gets on my nerves sometimes and then I cry or smash the furniture." Marie started. "But that doesn't matter! What do you want to know?" "Oh, but if I tell you that," smiled the maid, cunningly, "there'll be nothing in your telling my fortune, will there?" "Don't tell me anything!" mumbled Jacqueline, shuffling the cards and spreading them out once more. She studied them in dead silence for a minute or more. Then: "You're married!" she announced. "Oh, there's nothing in that!" sniffed Marie; "You saw my ring." "You have a child." "Yes, the darling! Seven months old." "You're in love." The maids cheeks flushed with excitement. "Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed. "But not with your husband." She straightened up. [Illustration: '_Death! My own death! That's what the cards tell me_ ...] "No, I should think not!" she exclaimed, almost indignantly. "You are going to leave your husband!" went on the dull, even voice. Marie's cheeks paled and she gasped but did not reply. Jacqueline looked up slowly. "Is it true?" "Yes! it's quite true!" was the low reply in an awed tone. Then she added by way of justification: "My husband is Victor, the boots, who brought up your luggage." "He seems to be a good fellow," remarked the woman, indifferently. "Yes," the girl sniffed contemptuously, "but he's such a common sort of man!" "And the other?" There was awakening interest in the stupid eyes and dull voice. "Oh, the other is a gentleman! A real gentleman!" cried Marie, clasping her hands joyously. "He's a commercial traveler--in soap! He dresses beautifully and he smells--ah--m-m! I am to meet him to-night at the Grand Café, opposite the theater, and to-morrow we shall be fa-a-r-away!" "And your baby?" The girl shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "He's out to nurse," she replied, "and I know his father will not let him want for anything!" Jacqueline consulted the bottle again. "Look here, my girl! You're going to make a fool of yourself!" she declared with drunken bluntness. "Take my tip and stay with your husband! Be false to him if you must, but stay with him!" "No, no! I love no one in the world but Anatole!" cried the girl, melodramatically. "And I'm going away with him to-night!" "Well, you'll suffer in the long run!" was the other's grim assurance, with something of a return of her usual indifference. "No, I shan't! Anatole loves the very ground I walk on!" declared Marie, proudly. "H'mph! He may now, but it won't last," retorted the woman. "Your lover will leave and you'll take another--and then a third and fourth, and you'll see what sort of a life that means. I _know_!" The girl opened her pretty eyes wide. "Do you?" she asked, with a little shiver of awe. "Yes! I was about your age when I left my husband and my child. I hate my husband God! How I hate him!" she burst out, her eyes blazing with insane fury, he clenched fists above her head. Marie half started toward the door, fearing that one of the furniture-breaking moods was coming on. But as suddenly the voice dropped back to its toneless level and the eyes dulled. "But I'm dying because my child is not with me. Child! Why, he must be a man of twenty-four now, and I'm sure he's a tall, handsome fellow that everybody loves and admires. Just think of it! I might be walking down the street--now--on his arm! Wouldn't I be proud! And I don't even know him. I think of him night and day--all the time I think of him. And if he came into this room now I wouldn't know him. But I shall see him again!" she cried, excitedly, clutching the cards. "I'm sure of that! I know it! But--but I shall not--be able to--kiss him--and press him to my heart. He'll never know who I am!" Jacqueline shook her head with a solemnity born of the stimulants, and went on thickly: "I'd be ashamed! He might despise me or reproach me, and I couldn't stand that. He--he--thinks I died years ago and--and I'm glad of it Oh, Raymond! My boy, my laddie!" And again there was a quick burst of tears. Marie sprang up hastily and hurried over to the table, touching the sobbing woman gently on the arm. "Oh, madame! Don't cry, don't cry!" she pleaded, with clumsy sympathy. "Better be warned by my case!" wept the woman, in a high, queer voice. "You're a pretty girl--now--but you--won't be long! Your lover'll leave you as mine left me! Men--soon get tired. I used to be pretty, too!" The girl began to cry at the sight of the other's distress. "I'm sure Anatole will never leave me!" she whimpered. Jacqueline's tears stopped as suddenly as if they had been turned off at a spigot and she sat up, rigid. "Then you're a d----d fool!" she snapped Marie wept more bitterly. And then--God knows how!--as she stared at the sobbing girl, somewhere in her warped! soul the ether found a spark of womanly pity and fanned it to a little flame of weak resolve. ... "He saved others. Himself he could not save. "Sit down!" she commanded, harshly. "And let me tell you a story, and maybe it will save you some of the suffering that I went through." CHAPTER XIII FROM OUT THE SHADOW Jacqueline brushed the cards to one side, coughed over the ether bottle again and lit another cigarette. The girl settled herself, snuffling on the edge of the bed and wiped her eyes. When she looked up the woman was leering at her contemptuously. "S'pose you think you're beautiful, don't you?" she demanded scornfully, slurring huskily over the words. "S'pose you think you see why anybody'd grow tired of me, but you're different, eh? Let me tell you, m'girl, when I was your age, if anybody'd put us side by side, there's no man in the world would ha' looked at you twice!" And she glared at her as if daring her to deny it. "Not a man in the world!" she repeated, proudly, fixing her bleared eyes on the girl's fresh, young face. "Why, my lovers used to tell that----But that's not what I wanted to tell you! Let me see! What was it?" her eyes wandered and she frowned. The ether was sweeping over her in waves. "Oh, yes! I wanted to tell you that's it's all right 'bout your husband. Don't pay any attention to this rot about being true to him. Nobody cares anything 'bout husbands! Husbands are no good! No good! I could have a dozen husbands!" Her head sank and she waved her hand feebly as if dismissing the whole tribe of married men. The mumbled words died away in incoherencies. The girl watched her a little frightened. "You were going to tell me a story," she reminded her timidly. Jacqueline sat bolt upright, her eyes blazing with senseless anger. "Of course, I am!" she snapped. "You shut up and le' me tell it my own way an' maybe it'll do you some good!" Marie shrank back and glanced nervously at the door. "But that's all light!" the woman assured her generously. "You didn't mean anything wrong. I'm going t' tell you why you better not go'way and leave your boy like I did...." She bowed her head again for a moment and, spurred by the drug, her memory slowly unfolded the panorama of her past. All its happiness, all its sorrow, misery and despair came back to her. As she told the tale her voice was sometimes harsh and indifferent and sometimes only a drunken mumble. Again it was faintly vibrant with the ghost of a lost emotion, or the knife-thrust of reawakened grief cut off the words in her throat. And the simple girl on the bed leaned forward and listened with glistening eyes and hectic cheeks.... "Twenty-five--twenty-six--I don't know how many years ago--I lived in a big house not many miles from this place," she began, slowly. "I was the only child and I don't remember much about my father and mother. They died young. It was a small place and I didn't know much about life--but I learned plenty afterwards. "You're a peasant," she went on with harsh contempt. "You don't know anything about how girls like I was, are brought up. When I was sixteen I knew only two young men more than to bow to when I met them. One was named Noel--I'd known him all my life--and the other's name was--Louis!" The liquid word came gratingly off her tongue. "He was older than Noel and he was one of these grave, dignified young men, all wrapped up in his work. He was a lawyer and I guess he was a pretty good one. Everybody seemed to think so. Well, anyway, we fell in love with each other, and I married him before I was nineteen. Maybe the other one loved me, too," she added, carelessly "He tried to kill himself a little while after I married his friend. "After our honeymoon we took a house in Paris, where his work was. He was ambitious and wanted to be a Deputy Attorney. I didn't see much of him after we settled down, because he was giving so much time to his work, but I didn't care much--then. I loved him so and--I had something else to think about. And when _he_ came I was the happiest girl in Paris. He was the prettiest, little, dark-eyed----" The sentence ended in a choke and she put out her hand for the ether bottle.... "For a while the baby was everything to me, but he couldn't be always. I wanted my husband. I liked fun and a gay time, but he was always too busy--too busy!--until I grew angry at him. He thought that the baby and the little that I saw of him in the evening occasionally were all that I needed. "Sometimes when he was working in his study I used to go in and try to talk to him and get him to tell me what he was doing. I wanted to be more in his life. He always laughed and said that I wouldn't understand and--then he'd turn me out. "I begged him to take me to the theater, to the carnival, to the country--anywhere for life and amusement--but he never had time. I used to cry myself to sleep at night. "One evening he brought home a young man to dinner with him. They were very happy. My husband had saved the young man in some case or other--he never took the trouble to tell me, or I forget what it was. He was a witty, handsome fellow, and that was the merriest dinner I ever had. "The young man--his name was Albert--seemed to have a pretty good time himself, for he came often after that. I suppose my fool of a husband," she grated the word viciously, "thought that he was coming all the time to show his gratitude! One afternoon while he was there, I wanted to go driving and he asked Albert to take me--so he could go on with his d----d work! "That's the way he discovered how to keep me amused and without interfering with his own plans. Albert was always my escort after that, and the more my husband neglected me the angrier I grew. He didn't have brains enough to know that no man devotes his time to a married woman out of gratitude to her husband. "Albert was always respectful--oh, yes, always respectful! But he could tell a lot with his eyes, and the more enraged I was with my husband the more I listened to what his eyes were saying. Once, in a carriage, he picked up my gloves and kissed them again and again. But he never spoke a word of love or put a disrespectful finger on me. Oh, he knew women, he did! He knew women!" she chuckled, tipsily. "I had one of the first editions of every new book. There were flowers every day. He had me in a box at the opening of every new play. Once I mentioned that I would like to have some real white heather to make birthday favors. I didn't see him for four days and then he came out to the house with a trunk-load, nearly. He had gone to Scotland for it. D'you ever have a lover'd do that for you?" she demanded, with a fierce frown. "You bet you didn't!" she went on proudly, while Marie was trying to imagine Anatole en route for Scotland. "That's the kind of lovers I had! "Well, one Sunday I wanted my husband to go to Fontainebleau with me and he wouldn't do it. That was the finish! Albert saw something--for he began to make love to me. When I felt his first kiss on my hand, I started! I was about to jerk it away, when I remembered how my husband had treated me and I let him go on. Ah! he knew how to make love!" she declared, with the admiration of a savant. "When I returned to my husband that night, I was frightened! I knew that I cared for Albert more than I should and I wanted him to protect me. When I tried to talk to him he told me to run along and play with Albert! And I did! I went! I went! I went! I----" The voice trailed off into a sob. She buried her face in her arms for a few moments and the table shook. The girl on the bed was in a semi-hypnotic trance and did not stir. When Jacqueline raised her head her face was set in its usual stony mask. "When I came back that night," her voice was hard and high, "I was no longer a pure woman. I crept into bed and wept, afraid that my husband would question me when he came to say good-night. He didn't come. He was thinking about one of his problems and forgot it. All my remorse was gone in a moment. I didn't think of him or my boy. I was mad--crazy! I gave myself up to Albert without a thought of the future! "But it didn't last long!" she wagged her head solemnly. "My husband came home too early one night and found us in my room. Never should ha' been there! Never! Never, never! But I thought I hated him so much that I wanted to be untrue to him in his own house. Well, when he opened the door he just stood there and looked at us for a minute and didn't say a word. Then he went off down the hall toward his study. We ran down-stairs and out of the house and----" She stopped, her eyes wavering and her face wrinkling, as the absinthe or the ether apparently sketched a humorous picture on her mind. "Hee! Hee!" she cackled hysterically. "I'll bet he was surprised when he came back! Hee, hee, hee! I never thought of that! Hee, hee, hee! Ha, ha, ha! I never--ha, ha, ha!" And she rocked back and forth in uncanny mirth until the laughter changed to sobs. Then she stiffened suddenly and tried to glare at Marie with watery eyes. "What you laughing at? S'there anything funny?" she demanded, belligerently. The frightened girl, who had not made a sound, began a stammering protest. She was too much fascinated by the evil story and its creepy narrator to think of rushing out of the room. "'S all right! All right! But don't do it again," Jacqueline warned her. "Now, le' me see! Oh, yes! Well, Albert and I went down South and bought a little place in the country and lived there for a long time. Happy? No, I wasn't happy! I wanted my boy. My boy! My boy!" And again she burst into tears. "I hadn't been there but a little more than a year," she went on, snuffling and wiping her eyes, "when I told him I couldn't live without my baby and I was going to ask my husband to forgive me. He begged me not to do it, and for months I was afraid to try. At last, he took pneumonia and died. "I wrote three letters to my husband, asking Aim to see me, and he never answered. That made me all the more afraid to meet him, and I don't think I would ever have had the courage if I had not overheard a conversation between two men in a café one evening. They had just come from Paris. They were lawyers, and one of them was wondering at my husband's strength. He said that my boy had been dangerously ill, and that my husband was beside his bed all night, but in Court every day as usual. "When I heard that my baby might be dying I nearly swooned; and, before I had recovered, the two men were gone. I called a cab and drove to the railway station as fast as I could, and within a few hours I was in Paris. Nearly all of my fear of my husband was gone in my grief about my baby and I hurried to the house where we had lived as fast as a horse could go. When I got there I found that he had moved to Passy shortly after I--I left him. It was late in the evening when I found the place." Jacqueline paused and her head sank slowly on to the table. After a few moments she sat up and reached feverishly for the ether bottle. "The--hugh!--maid knew--hugh! hugh--knew, me," she coughed, "but I begged her to tell my husband that a woman wanted to see him, without giving him my name. When he came in he tried to put me out of the house without listening to me. I groveled at his feet and begged him to let me see my boy! I told him how I had suffered and how bitterly I had repented the wrong I had done him, and for a time I thought he would yield and forgive me. But when I told him that my lover was dead he thought that was the only reason that I had returned to him and he went mad with rage. In spite of my tears and struggles he pushed me out of the house and--and--and--I had lost--my boy--forever!..." "You remember that, d'you hear?" she demanded. "You can kill a man, and if you've any sort of reason everybody may forgive. But if you're untrue to your husband--it doesn't make any difference how much reason you have--every-body'll kick you...." CHAPTER XIV SIC ITUR AD AVERNO Jacqueline fumbled in the box for another cigarette and held it, unlighted, in her hand as she went on. "I don't remember much what happened for the next few hours after that. I must have found my way back to Paris somehow, because while it was still dark I was standing at the edge of an embankment looking into the Seine. "It was raining and my clothes were wet through and through. I didn't know what I was doing or how I got there. A light on the other side threw a reflection across, almost to my feet; and, as I looked down, I saw my baby in the water!" Her voice had dropped until it was barely audible across the room, and she leaned toward Marie, her eyes shining with an insane light. "I s'pose you think I'm crazy, eh? Couldn't have seen? Well, you don't know all about babies, my girl! "D'you ever see your baby in the river?" she demanded, with hoarse fierceness. The girl's only reply was a dry sob and a shudder. "Well, you will if you run away with that d----d soap peddler of yours," she grumbled, settling back in her chair.... "I was just going to get into the river and take him in my arms when someone caught hold of my wrist and I heard a man's voice asking, 'Are you ill, madame?' "I don't know what I said, but he put his arm through mine, led me into a little café where he made me drink some brandy before he would let me say a word. Then he called a cab and asked me where I lived. "In the light of the café I had a chance to look at him when the brandy made me feel a little warmer. I knew by his accent that he was an Englishman. He had curly brown hair and a pink and white skin--altogether a nice-looking young man! He seemed to be less than thirty, and he talked and acted toward me as he would have if I had been his sister. "When the cab came he wanted to take me home in it. I told him that I had no place to go and begged him to go away and leave me. He sat down again and I don't remember how much of my story I told him. "He told me afterward that I fainted in the cab; but when I could understand things clearly once more, I was lying in a big soft bed in a beautifully furnished room. There were pictures and statues and heavy draperies everywhere. Foils and arms and books were scattered about. There was a little table covered with bottles beside my bed and a nurse sitting near by. When she saw that I was awake she told me that I was in the Englishman's apartment and that I had been delirious for three weeks. "In a little while he came in and told me how he had brought me home and had sent for a doctor and nurse. The doctor said that I had narrowly escaped brain fever. I went to sleep again in a little while and did not wake until the next day. The nurse stayed less than a week after that and he came into my room and read and talked to me by the hour. He told me all about himself. He was the son of a wealthy English family and had developed a love for painting which he had ample money to cultivate. "He was a bright, cheerful young fellow, and in his company and through his care I grew strong rapidly. He never asked me to tell him one word about my past or my plans for the future. When I was able to sit up comfortably in bed he brought his easel into the room and painted me. He was given honorable mention for it. "All this time I was worrying about what I was to do when I grew strong enough to leave his rooms. I made up my mind that I would try to find work of some sort in the millinery shops. One day I mentioned to him that I would be leaving in a short time, and he looked very grave and asked me what I intended doing. I told him and he approved of the plan. In all this time he had not as much as given me a passionate glance. "He insisted, when I was able to go out, that I should make my home there, until I was established in a place where I could make a living, and loaned me the money to get clothes that I needed. I did not love him, but I worshipped him for his goodness. "It was disappointing work--trying to find employment, and I could not make enough to live on decently. I had never had to be very careful of money before, and I did not know how. He advised me, and helped me, cheered me all he could, and we ate supper together every night. "I was making a few francs a week trimming hats, and when we began telling our experiences of the day those little suppers were almost merry. I was learning to hate my husband with a hate that will be with me till I die," and the glow of her dark eyes put the seal of truth on the words, "and when John--my Englishman--told his jokes and blunders, the pain of the longing for my boy did not hurt so much. "Then I lost my miserable position, and it was days before I got another, although it was a better one when I did find it. During that time he was even more thoughtful and attentive and did not give me a chance to feel hopeless very long. "The night, after I went to work again, we were sitting in the room where I had lain ill and he was telling me, with many laughs, about a picture that a fellow student was painting. As I watched his clean, handsome face and listened to his cheery talk I thought of all that he had done for me--that he had asked for nothing and received nothing but my empty words of gratitude--and my eyes filled with tears. The next moment I was kneeling before his chair, kissing his hands.... "His story stopped with a gasp, and I felt him tremble. Then he drew his hands away and raised me up to him and I kissed his lips and eyes and hair again and again. And ... that night ... I gave him ... all I had ... to give!... "He never really loved me, but he was happy with me for a long time, and when he went back to England he took me with him. His home was only a few hours' ride from London, where he found apartments for me, and he was with me more than he was at home. "Finally his visits were not so frequent and regular and they kept falling off, until once I did not see him for nearly three weeks. When he came he told me he had to tell me something that he was sure would hurt me, but he couldn't help it. He had fallen in love with an English girl, whom he had known all his life, and hoped to marry her; so he would have to break with me. He was always very liberal in money matters, and he wanted to keep on sending me the same allowance that he had given me when I settled in London. But I was too proud--then--to take it. I gathered together what money I had saved, packed my clothes and left that day. "I took a cheap room and started out to find work again. I was given a place as clerk in a millinery store and by living as carefully as I could I did not have to draw often on my savings. But I had to draw on them a little and I was beginning to feel reckless, when an American theatrical man, who was spending part of the summer in England, came into the store one day o buy some ladies' gloves. I waited on him, and--well, in a few days I left my cheap room, and that fall I went back to New York with him. "He wasn't as careful of my feelings as the Englishman was----You'll find that out, too, my girl," she broke off, with a grin of drunken cynicism. "After the first two or three, your lovers don't think much about your feelings. He left me destitute in less than a month after we got to New York! "I tried to get work but I couldn't. The woman where I roomed took all of my clothes, except those had on, to pay for my room, and turned me out. I walked the streets all that night and the next day without anything to eat, and the next night stopped a well-dressed man and asked him if he could give me enough money to get some food. He walked on as if he had not heard me, and then next instant a man stepped out of a doorway and told me I was under arrest! "He took me to a police station where I spent the rest of the night in cell, and the next morning I was taken to court. The detective who had arrested me told the judge that he had seen me speak to a strange man on the street, and the judge gave me my choice of paying a fine of twenty-five francs or going to prison for a month. I tried to explain that I had had nothing to eat for two days and that I had only asked the man for a little money, but they would not listen to me. Just as they were about to take me away to prison, as I had seen them take three or four other girls before me, a young man, very stylishly dressed, came forward and said that he would pay my fine. The clerk took his money and he led me out of the courtroom. "When we were outside I tried to thank him, but I was so weak with hunger and weariness that I could hardly speak or stand. He took me to a little restaurant a few steps away and made me eat until I felt that I would never be hungry again. During breakfast he learned that I was alone, friendless and penniless, and he said he would help me. I went with him and he took me to his room where ... we stayed all day! "That night he took me out, saying that he would get me a room of my own. We went to a nice-looking house not far from one of the main streets of the city where a pleasant woman met us at the door. He asked me to sit down while he explained about me to the woman and when she came in to show me to my room she was very kind. The next morning my clothes were gone from my room and there was nothing in their place but a low-cut wrapper that I couldn't wear on the street. I was a prisoner.... "I was in that house for more than a year and I made sometimes seventy-five--a hundred--a hundred and fifty francs in a day and a night, but I was never allowed to keep any of the money. The woman took part of it and the man who brought me there got the rest. I was on the point of trying to run away two or three times, but the girls in the house told me that I would be arrested and sent to prison and would have to come back to him in the end. Several of them had tried when they were first made slaves...." The voice that had been dispassionate, almost impersonal through the latter part of the story, suddenly ceased. Jacqueline gulped at the ether bottle again and lit the cigarette she had been holding in her fingers. She was silent so long that Marie looked up at her, with something between a sob and a shudder. "Is that all?" she half whispered. The woman once more burst into a harsh, eerie laugh. "All! All!" she repeated with drunken scorn. "Oh, hell! That's only the beginning! Where d'you s'pose I've been for the last fifteen years?--Well, I've been where you'll be if you run off with your soap peddler!" and she glared wickedly. "I was sent all over the country," she went on, "always living the same life, and always with a different master. At last I got back to New York and had to go on the streets to make a living for myself and money for the man that owned me. One night, when my feet were wet with rain and I was cold all through, a girl showed me that an opium pill would make me feel better. "After that I was never without some sort of drug, but I found out that ether is the best. Ether is the best!" And her eyes rested lovingly on the little bottle. "I don't know how many years I was in the 'land of the free.' I'd have been about as well off there as anywhere else if it hadn't been for a lot of fool-women who were always trying to save me. There's a lot of women over there that have plenty of money and nothing to do, and instead of doing nothing they keep sticking their noses into other people's business. I'd like to choke some of 'em!" she blazed out viciously. "Save me!" she sneered with her mirthless laugh. "They got hold of me once when I was arrested and gave me a place where I could make twenty-five or thirty francs a week if I worked hard. All the time they looked at me and acted as if I was some new sort of a wild beast. When they put me in that work-shop they all called and said, 'Now, you're all right!' "'All right!' I could hardly help laughing in their faces. They couldn't put my boy in my arms nor clean the stain from my body or drive the hell out of my soul, but they thought that twenty-five francs a week ought to be a good substitute for all three. It wouldn't much more than buy my food and whiskey and drugs. And because I left I was, 'incorrigible' and they sent me to prison----! "When I was released the man that was collecting my money at that time told me that I wouldn't be of any more use to him in New York and he sold me to a man who was taking some women to South America. It isn't hard to get a lover in South America, and I had been there only a little while when I was free. Then I roamed around from one city to another, sometimes with one man, sometimes with another, until I met--this"--she nodded toward the door--"in Buenos Ayres. A woman in a dance-hall at Caracas taught me how to tell fortunes with cards, and when I learned that I had not long to live and would see my boy before I died I wanted to get back to France. He brought me." There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Marie's soft weeping. Jacqueline looked at her reflectively. "Now, you're going to go the same way I did," she went on with a solemn air, born of the stimulants. "Remember what I tell you, m'girl. When you run away with that man you're through with being a decent, happy woman! I was an aristocratic prostitute once. You'll never be anything but a common one! Nobody'll try to stop you. Women'll be a sight harder on you than men. The men'll amuse themselves with you and push you a little farther down, but the women'll push you down and swear at you while they're doing it!----Well?" "I'm sure--Anatole--will never--leave me!" sobbed the girl. Jacqueline gazed at her as if trying to decide whether it were worth while to continue the argument. Then the ether moved her to impatient anger. "All right, you d----d fool!" she snapped, "Get out of here!" Marie rose, weeping more loudly and bitterly. "Isn't there--something--I can do for you?" "No! Get out!" As the door closed behind the girl Jacqueline's head fell on the table with a long convulsive sob. She was silent for a long time and then, sitting up, she turned once more to the cards. CHAPTER XV THE SWELLING OF JORDAN Laroque almost skipped with delight as he hurried back to the Three Crowns. The prospect of making plenty of money without working for it acted like champagne on his restless, reckless mind. Before he had walked a hundred steps he was building air-castles to be inhabited four or five years hence. He had no intention of remaining long as an employé of Messrs. Perissard and Merivel. The pay was good and the percentage of the two "missions" that had already been unfolded to him would be larger. He told himself that the first really big sum of money that he collected he would brazenly put in his pocket and whistle at the partners. Then he would buy out a small café somewhere in a paying neighborhood and settle down to a life of ease. And if the woman at the hotel had really brought her husband a dower of considerable size, as Perissard's logic seemed to prove, here was the chance made right to his hand. He would get the money, abandon the woman, and the rest of his years would be a pathway of ease. So he sprang up the stairs, three at a time and threw open the door of the room, singing a song of the dance-halls. Jacqueline glanced up as he came in and then went on with her reading of the future. He tossed his hat on to the bed, kicked a chair up to the table and dropped into it with a cheery: "Do you know, old girl, this man Perissard is a wonderful old chap?" "Is he?" she asked, absent-mindedly, without raising her head. "I should think he was!" was the enthusiastic response. "Brimful of ideas!" "Has he got anything for you?" "Rather! He's offered me a place in his office?" "What does he do in his office?" "Oh--business!" At the evasive reply, Jacqueline raised her head curiously. "What kind of business?" she asked, with a trace of interest in the thick voice. "Oh, business of all kinds! He really is an extraordinary man! Do you know, the moment he set eyes on you he saw that you were a woman of good family?" These were the first words that she seemed to hear clearly, and her face displayed a foolish smile of gratified vanity. "Did he really?" "Yes! 'There's blood in her,' he said," went on Laroque, impressively. "Those were the very words he used." Jacqueline raised the ether bottle. "Here's his health!" she cried, taking another drink. "I told him he could go and bet on it!" continued Laroque. "You--you didn't tell him--who I was!" exclaimed Jacqueline, a dawning fright in her bleared eyes. She had forgotten for the moment that Laroque did not really know. "Not much!" was the emphatic reply. "No," he laughed. "I told him, after making him promise to keep it secret, that you were the daughter of a general--that your father and mother were very rich--that your husband was a marquis and you had brought him 300,000 francs on your marriage!" Jacqueline's hysterical cackle was added to his laugh. "That's good! Veree good!" she chuckled. "And he b'lieved it, did he?" "Every word of it! What do you think of that? Three hundred thousand francs! Ha, ha! And I suppose you didn't bring him a son, did you?" Jacqueline fell into the trap without a thought. She stiffened with drunken dignity. "I beg your pardon!" she said, with a haughtiness somewhat impaired by her difficulty of enunciation. "I did not bring my husband 300,000 francs on my marriage, certainly! But I did bring him 125,000!" Laroque hid the gleam in his eyes. "Oh, nonsense! You're joking!" he laughed, "125,000 francs!" "I 'sure you it's true!" declared Jacqueline, solemnly. "Tut, tut! You're stretching it some!" "Not a sou--more nor less!" "Truth and honor?" he cried, laughing and raising his hand in the gesture of the oath. "Truth _an_' honor!" "A hundred and twenty-five thousand francs?" "A hundred and twenty-five thousand francs!" And she nodded her head with heavy importance. "Then where's the money?" he suddenly demanded. Jacqueline stared at him in mild surprise. "Wha'd'you mean?" "Did your husband give the money back to you?" His voice had changed from a bantering tone to excited harshness. "No, of course not!" she replied roughly. Laroque sprang up, pretended anger in his face. "I can't believe you were such a fool as that! Do you mean to tell me that when your husband turned you out you didn't ask him for the money?" "The money's not mine!" she mumbled, her eyes wandering. "Whose is it, then?" "My son's!" The words were barely audible. "But you're alive still!" he protested angrily. "Your son will get it when you die!" "My son thinks I'm dead," she replied, wearily. "His father told him I was. And when he was twenty-one he probably came into my fortune." Laroque half-turned away with a quick gesture of impatience. "What a fool you are!" he cried, disgustedly. "I don't suppose he saw a sou of it!" He was racking his mind for some lure that would draw her husband's name from her. But this last lead was fatal. Jacqueline glared at him suddenly, her eyes wild. "What the hell's it to you?" she blazed out fiercely. "You've got nothing to do with it, have you? What business is it o' yours, anyway?" "But you ought to clear it up!" protested Laroque, in a milder tone, as he saw that he had erred. "That's what Perissard thinks, and Perissard knows what he's talking about." "What business is it of Perissard's?" she shouted. Laroque extended his hands soothingly. "He only spoke in your interests!" he hastily explained. "When I told him you had brought your husband 300,000 francs, he asked me whether you had got them back again. I said I didn't know, and he declared that you had a perfect right to the money." "Well, I shan't claim it!" declared Jacqueline, sullenly sinking back into her chair. "Why not?" he persisted. "Because I don't--want to!" "But why?" Jacqueline burst into tears again. "I'd rather beg in the streets!" she wept in a high whine. "I'd rather starve in the gutter man ask that man for a son!" "Yes! yes! Of course, I understand that!" he agreed, eagerly. "That's natural pride, that is! But you might get somebody else to get your money for you. You might give somebody the power of attorney." The sobs stopped abruptly and she stared at him in drunken scorn. "Signed with my name and address, eh? No, thanks!" "Well, a letter then," he suggested. "I should think a letter would do just as well. Look here! Give me a letter and I'll go and get your money for you!" "I'd rather die than let my son know I'm alive!" she cried, her voice hoarse with passion and weeping. "He's not to know at any price! I'd rather kill myself! Yes, I would! Kill myself!" "But he'll never know!" protested Laroque. He was fairly dancing with excitement. But Jacqueline apparently did not hear him. "If he ever thinks of me," she went on between raging and sobbing, "I want him to regret me and I want him to feel sorry now and then because I'm not with him. He never knew me! I want him to respect my memory and love me!" "Now, don't get excited!" interrupted Laroque soothingly. "I don't want him to know what kind of a woman his mother is. And he shan't know it!" she shouted with sudden fury. "He shall never know it, I tell you! _Never_! I tell you! _Never!"_ "All right! Don't lose your temper! Who on earth is going to tell him? I certainly won't, and It isn't likely his father will." Jacqueline sank back into her chair and glowered at him. "I don't want to talk about it any more!" "But the money's worth the trouble!" he insisted, trying to hide his exasperation. "D----n the money!" "A hundred and twenty-five thousand francs! Think what a difference they'd make to us!" "Oh, shut your d----d mouth!" she growled. "I don't want to talk about the money, I tell you!" Laroque's eyes sparkled. "Look here, my girl!" he cried, threateningly. "You keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll teach you who you're talking to!" Jacqueline measured him with that boundless contempt that is given only the very drunk to feel. "You can't teach me any more than I know about you!" she retorted with unmistakably insulting meaning. Laroque elected to ignore this last thrust and ostentatiously looked at his watch. "Will you write me a letter so I can get the money?" he demanded with an air of finality. "_No_!" she screamed. He took off his coat and vest and went into the dressing-room with the remark that "he could do without the letter." Jacqueline did not at first catch its significance but an idea slowly worked into her brain. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "Oh, there's no trouble about finding a Deputy Attorney!" was the cheerful reply, accompanied by noise of splashing. She rose unsteadily. "What are you doing in there?" "Dressing." "Are you going out?" "Yes, my girl, I'm going out." "Where are you going?" she demanded. "To Paris," he replied, calmly, through the open door. "This evening?" "Right away!" "Then I'll come with you!" she declared, determinedly. "No, you won't!" he replied, coolly, returning into the room. "Perissard objects." Jacqueline faced him with dilated eyes. "You're not to try and find my husband!" she cried, between anger and dread. She swayed on her feet. The thick slur had disappeared from her voice in the instant. "Mind your own business!" snapped Laroque, picking up his hat and coat, "and I'll mind mine!" "You are not to ask him for that money!" she cried, her voice rising shrilly. "I'll do just as I like!" he sneered. Jacqueline clutched the lapel of his coat with both hands and glared into his face with blazing eyes. "You shall not go!" she screamed furiously. "What kind of a fool do you think I am?" he cried, roughly, trying to break away from her grip. "Who'll stop me?" Jacqueline, with clenched teeth, clung grimly to his coat. "Take care, my girl!" he cried, threateningly, as he tried to wrench his coat out of her hands. "Take care or you'll regret it!" "You shall not go, I tell you! You shan't go into that house and see my child. I won't let you go!" Laroque jerked his coat out of her grip and in the same motion threw her violently against the bed. "Let me alone!" he snarled, and stalked into the dressing-room to get his traveling bag. Jacqueline lurched to her feet and staggered over toward the hall door.... The room was reeling around her in crimson streaks. He must not pass that door! At the price of her life, he must not pass that door! ... There was no key! ... He would go and tell her husband of her shame!... Her boy would blush now for the mother, for whose memory he had wept.... Crazed with rage and horror and drugs she put her back to the door and stared helplessly around the room. The dresser was at her right, and there within easy reach was his revolver! With a gasp she clutched it as Macbeth might have reached for the phantom dagger.... What was his life compared with the thought that her boy would know his mother's shame?... She heard him coming and hid the revolver in the folds of her skirt. Bag in hand, he walked briskly up to the door and attempted to push her to one side. "No! You shan't go! you shan't go!" she panted, struggling. "We'll see!" he laughed, derisively, getting his hand on the knob. [Illustration: "You shan't go" she panted struggling.] "Take care!" "Don't be a fool!" he snarled. "Get out of the way or I'll _make_ you!" And at the word he shoved her roughly against the foot of the bed. With an effort she regained her balance. "_There_--then!" The pistol flashed up and at the same instant the report rang through the house. Laroque dropped his bag, and his right hand went up to his left side. She gazed at him fearfully and he stared back for a few moments with a look of blank amazement. Then his eyes suddenly glazed and he pitched forward on his face at her feet, rolled over and was still. There was a rush of footsteps up the stairs and down the hall and frightened voices calling back and forth. Then the door was thrown open and Victor, followed by a dozen guests and servants, dashed into the room. Jacqueline was still standing with the warm pistol in her hand, looking down at the face of the dead man. She did not even lift her head when they entered. Victor took the pistol out of her limp fingers and called in a shaking voice: "She's killed him! Run for the police, somebody. Quick!" Jacqueline did not take her eyes off Laroque's still, white face. "There's no hurry," she said, in dull, passionless tones. "I shan't try to get away!" CHAPTER XVI A WOMAN OF MYSTERY It is a well-known fact that a sudden and powerful shock will have a remarkable counter-effect on a mind under the influence of alcohol and other stimulants. The shock is immediately succeeded by a numbness which in a few moments gives way to an astonishing clarity of thought. Jacqueline went down the stairs of the Three Crowns and out into the street on the arm of a sergeant of police. She was in a trance, but before she had been taken a hundred steps from the door she had come to a full realization of her position. The officer who arrested her was a veteran, and knew full well that in the two or three minutes immediately after the commission of a great crime the criminal is more than likely to make startling admissions or give hints that lead to the discovery of the real motive. This does not, of course, apply to habitual criminals who seldom utter a syllable until their defense is totally prepared and tested. On the way down the stairs Sergeant Fontaine asked the woman, point-blank, why she had killed her companion. In the voice of a somnambulist she replied that she had done it to prevent him from committing an "abominable act that would bring grief and shame on someone she loved." And after that she could not be induced to open her mouth. They were followed to the police station by a curious and excited throng of men and women, the latter reviling the prisoner and threatening her with the extremity of punishment while the sergeant had to stop several times and threaten to draw his saber to keep some of the men from laying violent hands on her. "The law's delay," upon which the high priests of jurisprudence have opened the floodgates of their wrath, generally proves a blessing in criminal cases. For, by a singular contradiction of a natural law, the laws of a civilized community rise above their source--a majority of the individuals. The commune is less cruel than its component parts. Let an ultra-civilized, hyper-refined man stand between the slayer and his victim and watch the life blood's fitful spurts from a wrecked artery, and all his Veneer of refinement and civilization is burned up in a blast of horror and rage. He does not know--does not care to know--whether there was justification for the deed. In a breath he is hurled back thousands of years, and he demands the instant and primitive justice of his tribal forefathers. Fortunately, it is not then that laws are either made or executed. Men who have grown gray and wise in the analysis of the human brute sit far removed from scenes of violence and frame the laws, and they are executed when natural passions have cooled. Of this latter type of man was Henri Valmorin, the public prosecutor of Bordeaux. He was remarkably able and ambitious, but his ambition did not take the form of worldly advancement. He had a comfortable income beyond his salary and enough reserve to give his daughter a handsome _dot_, so he did not feel the need of a higher position for the sake of money. His office as public prosecutor appealed to him and he filled it so ably that he would have been advanced a dozen times had it not been known that he preferred this work to any other. He had a true and broad conception of his functions. His work was to protect the community and punish its enemies, but he never erred by falling into the habit of regarding every individual accused of a crime as a presumptive criminal. He was rather counsel for the defense until the police and examining magistrate placed in his hands the weapons of attack. Then he became the shrewd, skilful, uncompromising prosecutor. M. Valmorin was in the office of his friend, M. Feverel, Examining Magistrate, when the woman of the Three Crowns was brought before him. He remained in the background and paid but little attention to the proceedings--for as much as a minute. Then his interest was keyed up to the highest pitch. M. Feverel began with the usual questions as to name, age, place of birth, etc., which are to examiner and examined a mutual test of strength, as two pugilists dance around each other for the first round of a fight without striking a blow. To the surprise of both men the woman maintained an absolute and indifferent silence. There was nothing about her suggestive of sullen stubbornness. She looked over M. Feverel's head through an open window with an expression which indicated that she had not even heard the questions. M. Valmorin studied her face closely. Through the ravages of vice and the mask of despair his experienced eyes could see the wreck of a departed beauty and refinement of features that must have been once remarkable. M. Feverel, though less experienced, perceived also that there was apparently some deep and tragic purpose back of the silence that he had at first attributed to the sullen brutishness of her class. But how to break it down? "Madame," he said, courteously, dropping his brusque professional manner, "you must see that your present course cannot but be prejudicial to your case. The authorities will have no difficulty in ultimately establishing your identity but you can readily save us much inconvenience by replying to these simple questions----Is your name Laroque? Was this man your husband?" The woman gave no sign that she had heard. M. Feverel bit his lip. He had purposely used the most polished French and he was sure that she understood him. But he was apparently no nearer to making her speak. "What did you mean by saying that you killed this man to prevent him from bringing grief and shame on someone you love?" he demanded suddenly. The lips moved almost imperceptibly, and for a fraction of a second the eyes wavered and met the magistrate's sharp gaze. But she did not make a sound and the next moment her face was as impassive as before. M. Valmorin, narrowly watching her, waited for the magistrate's next move. The latter had, at command, a voice as soft and persuasive as a woman's and many an evildoer had felt its spell and had been lured to confession. "Do not think, madame," he began, his tone at once, respectful, inclusive and inviting, "that I would try to draw you into saying anything that can injure your cause! Do not consider me an enemy. I know that you shot this man Laroque in the Hotel of the Three Crowns and I am more than willing to believe that you had some good reason for this terrible act. Your words to the policeman who arrested you are an indication of that. It is not my duty to try to convict you of crime which was probably justifiable. The man that you killed was an ex-convict and society is well-rid of him. You have probably simply saved the State the expense of putting him in prison once more and keeping him there. I am more than willing to believe that your reasons for killing him were excusable, even in the eyes of the law. "Look upon me as a friend!" he continued persuasively. "In my office there is no criminal, no judge. You are simply accused of a homicide which you undoubtedly committed. But the law holds that many forms of homicide are justifiable. Convince me that you had even a fairly good reason for shooting this man--and I won't be hard to convince--and it is likely that you may never even come to trial--that your story may be buried with the few who must know it. My stenographer and my friend, the prosecutor, will leave us here together and you can explain everything to me and to me, alone." Valmorin rose with a bow and passed slowly out followed by M. Feverel's stenographer. Jacqueline's eyes met his as the door closed and he began to speak again. "Now we are alone!" and the tone was even more inviting and confidential. "You can talk to me now without fear. I do not care to pry into the secrets of your past. You need not mention any names. But just to tell me as simply as you can the reason you killed this prison rat!" The voice put them on the same level--made them allies against the dead. In its soft, gentle rise and fall, in the dark sympathetic eyes and clean, aquiline face there was something approaching hypnotic power, as several ladies of Bordeaux knew. She began to feel a strange sensation of rest and comfort and vaguely wished that he would go on. M. Feverel's trained eye caught the all but imperceptible relaxation of the rigid figure. A thrill of triumph ran through him. He was winning! But there was no sign of elation or impatience in his voice or words when he continued. He begged her not to think that the machinery of the law was directed against her. Justice was not blind. She was clear-sighted. She was not sternly even-handed, but more frequently merciful. She had long since forgotten the bitter law of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. She could make allowances for the frailty of humanity. She could understand that there might be many circumstances under which an assassination might be justifiable. Nay, more--when it became a duty to kill! Twice when he paused, Jacqueline's lips trembled and her eyes looked into his with yearning. She seemed about to speak, but her lips closed firmly and her glance sought the window, without a word uttered. Suddenly he rang a bell and a policeman appeared at the door. "Remove the prisoner!" he commanded in a harsh, curt tone that fell on the woman like the blow of a whip. She hesitated and half-extended her hand as if to stop him and once more the magistrate thought that he had triumphed. But the impulse was conquered and she passed out of his office without having uttered a word. M. Valmorin returned and in reply to his questioning look, the magistrate shook his head. "She would not speak," he said, wearily. M. Valmorin's interest as an expert was aroused, and with the magistrate he went over the examination in detail. M. Feverel told him the impression that he had made once or twice and expressed the fear that she would never be forced to tell her story. "You can see, my friend," he said, "that she is addicted to the use of drugs. She has now been without anything of the sort for forty-eight hours. That means that her nerves must be in a bad shape, and it also means that she has an iron will to conceal the fact so determinedly and foil the examination." M. Feverel's prophecy proved true. In the first few hours of her arrest Jacqueline's instinct told, her she would be helpless in a verbal duel with these trained men of the law. An apparently aimless question and a careless answer might be the combination to open the locked gates of her past and then she would have killed Laroque in vain. So, as the days passed and the examinations followed each other with nerve-wracking persistency, she wept, shrieked, and groaned for hours in her cell, begging for ether or morphine, but not a word of her story could be forced from her. She refused counsel and when the court appointed an advocate she would not see him. At last, M. Feverel abandoned hope. "You will have to try the case as a plain homicide," he told M. Valmorin. "The testimony of the servants and the policeman is ample for conviction but--what is back of it all?" "And you could not even find out her name!" mused the prosecutor. "Call her Madame X!" snapped the exasperated magistrate. "She is about as thoroughly and stubbornly mysterious and elusive as any quantify in the algebra of my youth!" M. Valmorin laughed a little and told the story in the courts that day. The mysterious woman had already attracted some attention among the journalists who frequent the halls of justice, and when brilliant M. Feverel called her "Madame X," as an acknowledgement of defeat, her case in the three days became a _cause célèbre_ in Bordeaux. In the cafés, in the courts, in the homes, nothing else was talked about for weeks. In spite of the elaborate passport system and registry, here was a woman who absolutely defied the authorities to find a clue to her identity. The police of Buenos Ayres could not help them, and beyond that city her past was a blank. Who was she? Where had she come from? Why had she killed her companion? Was he her husband? These and a hundred other questions were asked every hour of the day. Scores of rumors were set afloat. She was the daughter of a noble house who had run away from a convent. She was the wife of a marquis, had left him and married an adventurer. She was the queen of a band of kidnappers. She was the leader of a secret society of murder. She had served a sentence for counterfeiting in an American penitentiary. She was a nihilist, escaped from Siberia. And so on. Dozens were turned away from the prison gate every day. Morbid women and curious men pleaded with the police for a chance to look at her, assuring the chief that they would be able to identify her. A number of hysterical women started! a fund for her defense, but this was firmly suppressed. Advocates of established reputation, who had smilingly congratulated Maître Raymond Floriot on his first brief and expressed the hope that it would lead to something worth while, now regretted that they had not been appointed by the court to defend her, though it was an unprofitable and hopeless case. But M. Valmorin was unaffectedly pleased. He was glad that young Floriot had stumbled into a position to attract so much attention, and was almost sorry that the young man had no chance to win his case. The reason is not far to seek. For several years M. Valmorin and M. Floriot, père, had seen that M. Raymond was in love with blue-eyed, sweet-faced Helene Valmorin. There was nothing remarkable about this, as numbers of young men in Bordeaux were in precisely the same state of mind. But what was important was that it was equally plain that Mademoiselle Helene was passionately in love with the dark-eyed, curly-haired young advocate. The fathers knew that it was only a question of a very short time when they would be formally requested to sanction the marriage. Hence M. Valmorin's desire to see his prospective son-in-law rise as rapidly as possible. That the young man would rise, he was certain. He had inherited, as has been mentioned, his father's faultlessly logical mind and love of his profession and his mother's quickly sympathetic and emotional temperament. His mind was quick to grasp a situation or an unexpected point and equally quick to give it its true value. Coupled with these gifts he had a marked facility of expression and a smooth, vibrant voice. As Mademoiselle Helene said, he made love beautifully. M. Valmorin was prepared to do what he could financially, and he knew that Raymond's father would strain himself to establish the young people properly, but the young man must look to success in his profession to raise a family. M. Floriot had written that he would come over from Toulouse to watch his son handle his first case, and M. Valmorin planned to talk things over with him then. It was to be a great day for Raymond and all who were dear to him had promised to be in court when he appeared for the first time on the firing-line. Rose had promised to take charge of Helene. His father, by request of the President of the Court of Bordeaux, would sit on the bench with the judges. "Uncle" Noel and Dr. Chennel were coming from Paris. The young man worked hard all day on his case and told Helene about it in the evening, and then worked far into the night. He read parts of his speech to her, while her father pretended to be eavesdropping in the hall "to learn the secrets of the defense." He did not have any false notions about the strength of his battle-line. He knew that he had a bad case but he was determined to do as well as could be done. As he remarked, "it is hard work defending a homicide whose conduct is the best evidence for the prosecution." As the day approached he was nervous, anxious, restless--but ready. CHAPTER XVII TWO LOVERS AND A LECTURE It was a day of excitement in the house of Floriot the morning before the trial. M. Floriot arrived from Toulouse on the preceding evening and M. Valmorin planned to call on him that morning if he could find time. Helene was at the house before ten o'clock eager to see Raymond. He had gone to the prison early to make a last attempt to see his client, and she put in the time of waiting by chatting with Rose and lamenting the fact that Raymond's father could not be the judge in the case so he would have a reasonably certain chance of winning! "It's hard enough to get cases, isn't it?" she complained. "I don't know anything about it," replied Rose cheerfully, "but I guess the law is like anything else--you have to make a beginning!" "And Raymond is beginning to-morrow!" murmured the girl, as if it had just occurred to her. "To-morrow he is pleading his first case!" "And a capital case to begin with it is!" declared Rose. "Everyone is talking about it!" "Oh, I hope he'll win!" exclaimed the girl, almost tearfully. "I haven't thought of anything else for weeks!" "Oh, I'm not anxious about that!" returned Rose, with the confidence of an old and loyal servant. "M. Raymond is clever, I tell you! He'll convince them!" "Do you think he'll be back soon?" asked Helene, anxiously. "That depends!" smiled Rose. "Does he know you're here?" "I--I don't think so---No!" Helene replied, turning hastily to the window of the study where they were talking. "I only told him that my father would probably call on M. Floriot this morning at eleven o'clock, and that I might come and meet him. Rose, what are you laughing at?" "Oh, nothing in particular." "Don't tease me!" she pleaded. "Well, I was laughing," chuckled the housekeeper, "because you came here in such a hurry at half-past nine to meet your father, who won't be here until eleven!" Helene blushed. "I suppose you think I'm an awfully silly girl?" "Oh, dear, no!" Rose assured her with a grave little smile. "I'm only too glad to see that you and Raymond love each other." The girl's face lit up with a quick little gleam of pleasure. "Really, does that please you?" she asked softly. "Very much!" nodded Rose. And the next moment the girl kissed her withered cheek. "I brought the young man up, you know," she continued, slipping her arm affectionately around Helene's waist. "And I feel as if he belonged to me a little. I am very happy that he has made such a good choice." "He is going to talk to his father about it this morning," said the girl, timidly. Rose smiled. "I don't think he'll surprise him much." Helene gave her a startled look. "You don't think M. Floriot suspects?" she gasped. "That you and Raymond are in love with each other? Oh, of course, not!" laughed Rose. "He would have to be blind not to see it. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it!" With a gasp of consternation the girl hid her face in her hands. "The baker asked me yesterday when the wedding was to be celebrated," went on the housekeeper, wickedly. "And day before yesterday it was the butcher. A few days ago the grocer made some inquiries about it, and----" She was apparently prepared to continue indefinitely when a joyous voice from the doorway interrupted her. "There you are!" And Maître Raymond Floriot hurried in. "Yes, there she is--quite by accident! You didn't expect to see her, did you?" They heard her laughing as she went down the hall. Helene managed to recover a semblance of her prim dignity as she gave him both her hands and looked up into his dancing eyes. "You did not expect to see me this early, did you?" she asked. "No, I didn't expect you in the least!" he laughed. "I shouldn't wonder if that was why I came so early myself!" "But seriously, aren't you surprised to find me here?" He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. "No, I'm not surprised," he replied, gravely. "I like to think that you are as impatient as I am,--and it seems weeks since I saw you!" "Twelve hours!" she laughed happily. "Twelve years!" "Have you thought of me since then?" He answered that question in a manner that the custom of some thousands of years has proved to be the best. "Did you dream of me?" "Not at all!" he shook his head and smiled. She moved away in mock offense. "Reality is too sweet a dream, dearest, for us to need dreams!" he added, tenderly. This little speech was followed by a silence of several minutes, in which occurred the performance considered proper under the circumstances. Helene drew gently away. "Have you been working hard?" she asked. "Yes, I was up at five o'clock this morning finishing my brief. I'm quite ready now." "And the case comes off to-morrow!" she exclaimed, softly. "To-morrow is the great day!" nodded Raymond. "And I'm to hear you!" "Of course! But I'll have to find a place where I can't see you. I'd forget what I was talking about if I caught sight of you; and just think what it would mean if I should stutter and stammer and break down with you in court! Why, I'd never get over it!" He shivered with a dread that was not all feigned. "And you've made up your mind to speak to your father to-day?" she asked timidly, after a little pause. "Yes, I'm going to speak to him as soon as he comes in," declared her lover with an air of hardihood that was far from real. "Well, you must be careful not to stutter and stammer and break down then!" she smiled. Rose put her head in the door an instant. "M. the President is here!" she whispered and was gone. "Now, then, shoulder arms!" ordered Helene, in an eager undertone as they heard the step of the father in the hall outside. She was bubbling with inward laughter as her panic-stricken love hastily fell back out of the direct line of vision from the door. So when M. Floriot walked up and kissed her he did not at first see that his son was present. "Good morning, my child!" he said with a ten der smile. Raymond edged forward and cleared his throat. "You might say, 'good morning, my children,' father," he suggested in an uncertain voice. "If you like!" was the smiling reply. And taking a hand of each he said: "Good morning, my two dear children!" Helene ran over to his desk and returned with an enormous bunch of roses in a slender vase. "I brought you these this morning, monsieur," she said, looking up at him shyly. M. the President took them with both hands and buried his face in their fragrance. "They are only less charming than the donor!" he declared with a stately bow. "Oh, M. Floriot!" she protested with a blush, and smile. Then as he turned to replace the' bouquet on his desk she added in a whisper to Raymond: "I think you might speak to him now." "So do I!" he agreed in the same tone. "My father told me to tell you that he would be over to see you about eleven o'clock, M. Floriot," she remarked as he turned to them again. "I shall be charmed to see him!" "I'll go and bring him--if you don't mind!" she offered eagerly. M. the President smiled. "I'll try not to be very angry!" he assured her. The three walked slowly out into the garden where the older man found a seat in a little rustic house while the lovers moved slowly toward the gate. He pretended to be much absorbed in the morning paper, but watched them slyly out of the corner of his eye. Instead of going outside, Helene stopped behind a big shrub that totally concealed her, and Raymond came back with not exactly eager strides. Within ten feet of the seated figure in the rustic house he stopped and twice opened his mouth, but could not get out a word. His father did not seem to have the slightest idea that he was there. He took another timid step; and then, as the paper rustled, he bolted in the direction of the bush that concealed his ally. Helene stepped out, shaking with silent laughter, and waved him back with imperious gestures. He returned once more to the attack, but again gave way to panic at the critical moment. At last he edged up to within conversational ear-shot and asked with a mock solemnity that did not conceal his nervousness: "Is M. the President extremely busy?" "Extremely!" replied his father, without looking up from the paper. Raymond winced slightly; and, then, raising his eyes to the sky, murmured dolefully: "What a beastly nuisance!" M. the President glanced up in surprise. "Did you want to speak to me?" he inquired, politely. "Yes--and quite seriously!" His father rose with a laugh and folded his paper. "For how long?" he demanded, with a mischievous smile. "Not very long!" Raymond hastily assured him. "At least, I don't think it will take long to say it." "Try it in four words!" "I love Helene Valmorin!" he blurted out, desperately. M. the President fell back a step, his face expressing the utmost astonishment, but his eyes were laughing. "Do you!" he exclaimed. Raymond gazed at him doubtfully a moment and then saw it all. "Did--did you know it?" he asked, sheepishly. His father burst into a hearty laugh. "What an old fool you must think I am!" The lover's instinct told Raymond to strike quickly. "And I want to marry her," he went on. M. the President nodded. "I can quite understand that," he smiled. "Well, God bless you both and make you happy! Is that all you want to say?" "Yes, that's all!" breathed his son, with a deep sigh of relief. M. Floriot gazed into the eyes that were so like the lost woman's, and all the love and yearning that he had ever felt for mother and son shone in his own. He stepped up to the boy and laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder. Raymond felt the grip of the fingers as his father began to speak. "My boy," he said, in grave, gentle tones, "you're a good fellow, and you've been the one joy of my life. I think Helene is worthy of you. Love her, my lad! And love her always--whatever happens! Be her friend, her guide, her mainstay--as well as her husband. "Above all--do your best to understand her! Women are not always easy to understand; but don't leave your wife out of your own life! "Share everyone of your joys and everyone of your sorrows with her. You will have hours of gloomy thought and bitterness, perhaps--most men do. But never forget in those unhappy hours that a husband has a heavy responsibility. Always remember, Raymond, my boy, that you are responsible for the life and soul and happiness of the woman who gives herself to you!" The young man listened gravely with bowed head. As his father paused he looked up with a tender smile. "I don't think the responsibility will be a very heavy one in my case, father," he said. "Life sometimes proves to be exceedingly cruel, my boy," replied his father, shaking his head. "Valmorin will be here presently and I will have a talk with him. I must tell him a secret before I ask him to give you his daughter's hand." "A secret!" exclaimed the young man, startled. "Yes," nodded his father. "I'll tell you what it is afterwards." Raymond felt a growing uneasiness and dread. Lovers are easily-alarmed. "Your secret--won't--won't prevent him----?" he stammered. "No!" replied his father with a light laugh, "ii don't think so." CHAPTER XVIII A GHOST RISES For a time the two were silent in that close communion which is possible only to father and son, who are all in all to each other. Then the father's face lit up with a whimsical smile. "Mind you, I don't expect that Helene will be very rich," he said. Raymond laughed. "I don't either!" he replied. "You have the 125,000 francs of your mother's fortune and I will add as much as I can myself." "Oh, we'll get along all right," his son assured him with a smile. "You seem to forget my briefs." "Impossible!" laughed his father. "You haven't any." "I have one that isn't bringing in anything in the way of money but it is giving me advertisement that will lead to profitable cases." M. the President, being of the old school of lawyers, shook his head at this value set on publicity; but he made no comment. "Are you ready for to-morrow?" he asked. Raymond nodded. "I saw the presiding judge this morning and he was full of praise for you," went on his father with a fond gleam in his eyes. "They are going to make a place for me to-morrow." "So you told me. But you'll make me terribly nervous!" protested Raymond. "Not a bit of it! Have you really an interesting case?" "Well, yes and no," replied the young advocate. "A wretched woman who has killed her lover for no reason that anyone can find out--and she won't speak. For the last three months she has not uttered a word in the prison that can be of any interest to anybody. We don't know who she is, where she comes from or what her name is. I haven't even seen her or heard the sound of her voice; and when the names of the judges, the public prosecutor and her defending lawyer were sent in to her, she tore up the paper without looking at it." "And couldn't the Examining Magistrate get anything out of her?" "Nothing! He dubbed her Madame X," added Raymond with a smile. "What sort of a woman is she?" "Oh, like all women of her kind. She is, I understand, addicted to the use of drugs, and her supply being cut off she naturally turns from stupidity to hysteria all the time. I'm afraid it's one of the cases that are worked out before they come to trial. I don't see how the court proceedings can last much longer than five minutes. But I'll do my best." "Try pathos," suggested his father. "Try to work on the sympathies of the judge and jury." "That's what I'm going to do," smiled Raymond. "I've been practising tears in my voice for the last three days, but I'm not going to have an easy time of it. It's rather hard to find excuses for a woman when you don't know why the crime was committed." And he shook his head dubiously. "On the contrary, that gives you every chance," declared his father. "See here! Your client won't speak and so she can't contradict. This gives you a fine opportunity to invent a host of reasons. Make the jury respect her silence! Throw a veil of mystery over the whole crime and give your imagination play. Say that she is the victim of heredity--say anything you can think of that will work on the jury's feelings and you have a good chance to win." Raymond listened with eager attention. "I had something of that in mind," he said, "but I'll work it up stronger than I intended. I didn't----" He was interrupted by a cheery shout from the house-door and both turned quickly to see M. Noel hurrying across the garden. The elder men greeted each other with hearty affection. "And how is the young disciple of St. Yves?" asked Noel. "St. Yves?" questioned Raymond with a puzzled smile as he shook hands. "Why, certainly! St. Yves of Brittany! Don't you know----? How does the Latin go, Louis?" M. the President threw up his hands and laughed. "Let me see! 'Advocatus sed non latro--latro'--I can't remember it. Anyway, it fits your case, Maître Raymond. He was an advocate but not a thief, and devoted his life to the service of the poor. So he is supposed to be the patron saint of the lawyers--though more of them to-day are rather inclined to lay votive offerings on the shrine of Mammon. So to-morrow is the great day, eh?" "Yes, to-morrow is the day." "Feel frightened?" "A little excited," the young man admitted. "Have you really come all the way from Paris to be here to-morrow?" "Of course I have!" The lined face softened. "I'd have come from Kamschatka to see you fight your first battle!" "Chennel is coming, too," remarked Floriot. "Good! You were not particularly blooming the day I met the worthy doctor, young man," said Noel, turning to Raymond. "No, so I've been told," smiled Raymond; "Dr. Chennel is going to take a practice at Biarritz. He often comes here to see me. Now, I think I'll go over my brief again, father, and see if I can't work in some of the things you suggested." "Yes, that's it! Shake them up, my lad!" nodded his father. "After all she may be more sinned against than sinning--or you can make them think so, anyway. Well, what do you think of the boy?" he demanded, as Raymond disappeared in the direction of the large bush near the gate. "You ought to be proud of him." "I am! Very proud!" said Floriot, softly. There was a long pause. Floriot motioned his friend to a seat on the bench in the rustic house and sat beside him. He felt the need of comfort and counsel; for the hour that he had dreaded for years was upon him at last. He must tell Raymond the truth about his mother. Twenty years of tireless searching had, indeed, proved utterly vain. There was every reason to believe that Jacqueline was dead and that the true story of the boy's mother might be buried with the three men and one woman who knew it. But this loophole of escape from the ordeal did not even present itself to a man with Floriot's stem sense of honor. How would he take it? Floriot had no idea of defending himself or trying to distort the facts in the least degree. If anything, he would take more than his share of the blame for the wreck of his home. It would be terrible enough to tell Raymond that his mother had fallen, but what would he say when he was told that she had repented and pressed her forehead against her husband's shoes only to be hurled out, friendless, on the world--condemned to death, or worse than death? Would the boy--at last knowing why he had grown up without a mother's love, and all the million priceless and nameless joys the phrase contains--rise in the wrath of his outraged youth and denounce the father who had robbed him? What would he say to the neglect that had driven his mother to shame and placed the brand on his own pure life? And now, whatever the cost, he must tell him.... In the twenty years they had pursued a common quest, these long silences were not unusual when the two friends met. Noel divined a little--but only a very little--of what was passing in the Other's mind. He had not foreseen this crisis. "I never look at him without thinking of his mother!" he said, softly. "Louis, it's awful to think that in all these years we have never been able to find a trace." Floriot's only reply was a somber shake of the head. "God knows we've hunted!" "I've done all I can--we've done all we can!" returned the husband in bitter hopelessness. "Detectives, advertising--everything! I haven't told you that I went to Monte Carlo a few days ago to see a woman that seemed to answer the description. The usual result!" And he gazed out across the garden. "And last week I thought I had come to the end of the hunt," returned Noel. "The first night that I reached Paris I dropped into a music hall and thought that I recognized her on the stage. I got an introduction to the woman. She had Jacqueline's eyes to a line almost, but that was all. I was sure from the front of the house! You remember those eyes?" "If I could only forget them!" groaned the other, burying his face in his hands. There was a long silence. In the last few years growing despair and the inaction that is the inevitable outgrowth of the conviction of failure had succeeded the constantly reviving hope that had fed the energy of the search. Their talks, recently, had been bitter reminiscences instead of optimistic plans. At last Floriot raised his head and spoke in a low voice. "I think sometimes that she must be dead or we should have found her!" he said. Noel, staring at the ground between his feet, did not answer at once; then: "Perhaps!" he said in the same low tone. "And perhaps that is the best thing that could have happened!" The other understood his meaning and shuddered. There was another pause and then Floriot spoke of the matter that lay heaviest on his mind. "I have never--dared yet--to tell Raymond--the truth about his mother," he said, unsteadily; "but I have to now!" Noel stared at his friend in amazement. "Tell Raymond!" he exclaimed, "Why?" "He wants to marry and--and--I must tell him the truth!" There was a smothered exclamation from Noel as he grasped the situation. He was silent a few moments and then he asked with meaning emphasis: "Will you tell him the _whole_ truth?" Floriot straightened up with a determined expression. "Yes!" he declared, "I am going to tell him everything! He must know the whole unvarnished truth and--God knows what he'll think of me!" Noel confusedly murmured something meant to be reassuring but Floriot interrupted. "Oh, I have no illusions!" he cried bitterly. "Youth doesn't make allowances! It is possible that he may love me a little after he has heard all of it but he will never forgive me for having robbed him of his mother!" Noel pulled himself together and replied with a heartiness that he did not feel. "Why, of course, he will!" he declared. "He knows what kind of a man you are--what a father you have been to him--and he will not need to be told how you have suffered and repented." The other shook his head hopelessly. "The boy is in love!" he groaned. "If it were not for that there might be some hope. But, don't you see?--He is madly in love with a pure, beautiful girl. He will try to put himself in my place and fail! He will try to imagine himself throwing Helene out into the street in the rain after she has grovelled at his feet--and he will think I am a monster!" Before Noel could think of a counter-argument Rose hurried out from the house with a visiting card in her hand. Composing himself, Floriot looked up and asked: "What is it, Rose?" She handed him the card with: "It's the two gentlemen who were here before and wanted to see you, M. the President." "Perissard! Perissard!" mused the President, studying the bit of pasteboard. "I don't know the name. However, Rose, show them in and take M. Noel up to his room." The friends silently gripped hands as a mute promise that they would renew the conversation later and Noel went in with the housekeeper. CHAPTER XIX HOPE AT LAST Messrs. Perissard and Merivel were not hopelessly shocked and grief-stricken over the death of Laroque. They were grateful to his memory, inasmuch as he had put them in the way of making 125,000 francs with more ease and less risk than they had expected to incur in collecting, at the outside, three-fifths of that amount in Bordeaux. They were doubly grateful when they reflected that his timely death had saved them ten per cent of that amount. While he would have been useful in the matter of the public official of Bordeaux, they felt that they would eventually find as trustworthy an agent. On the whole, from the viewpoint of the partners in Confidential Missions, nothing in his life became him as the leaving it. The fact that he had been murdered by the wife of the President of the Court of Toulouse put that gentleman in position where he could not possibly refuse to pay for "discretion." They went over all this as they sat in a café not far from the Floriot house in Bordeaux and waited for M. Floriot's return. It had taken them nearly three months to finally fix upon him as the husband of the homicide of the Three Crowns. They went to Toulouse to interview him and found that he had just gone to Bordeaux to attend the trial in which his son was to appear for the defense. They fairly hugged themselves with pious joy when they saw the shocking corruption of the whole proceedings. "We have got him, my dear Merivel," declared M. Perissard. "And he has actually come to Bordeaux to see the trial!" "A most shrewd man!" rumbled his colleague. "I should say so!" returned M. Perissard. "He has his own son chosen for the defense, and according to gossip, his son is to marry the daughter of the Public Prosecutor!" "A _most_ clever man!" insisted M. Merivel in a voice like the roar of the surf. "And they tell me that Floriot's wife refused to say a word to the Examining Magistrate." "Of course! The husband has been telling her what to do!" "Obviously! Obviously!" agreed the senior partner with a vigorous nod. "In this way, you see, her name won't even be mentioned, and as nobody knows her in Bordeaux----" A two-handed gesture and a shrug of the shoulders filled the hiatus. "None of the trouble will get out of the family," concluded M. Merivel heavily. "The jury will find her guilty or acquit her--that is of no interest whatever. But no one will ever know the inner interest!" "Excepting ourselves, my dear Perissard," corrected the ex-schoolmaster. "Exactly! Exactly! It is _most_ providential!" It was with the situation thus reasoned out that the defenders of society presented themselves for the second time at the house of M. Floriot, when they were conducted to the garden. M. the President received them with grave courtesy and invited them to take seats. With all three comfortably settled, M. Merivel being a little in the background, he asked: "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" "Have I the honor of speaking to President Floriot?" inquired M. Perissard in his most polished manner. "Yes, monsieur. And your name is----?" "Perissard! This is M. Merivel, my associate," he added, rising with a bow to that gentleman who also rose and saluted M. the President with a profound obeisance. "And what business brings you to Bordeaux?" M. Floriot inquired once more when they had all resumed their seats. "A--a matter of some delicacy, M. the President," began the senior partner, clearing his throat impressively. "A matter which interests you personally." M. Floriot raised his eyebrows a trifle. "Well?" M. Perissard fidgeted slightly. When he spoke again it was in his most "inspiring" manner. "Every man has, at one time or another in his life, reason to regret the past, and these regrets--however secretly we may hide them--remain open wounds," he began, heavily. "Alas!" exclaimed M. Merivel in gloomy thunder. M. Floriot stirred impatiently. "Probably true. But kindly explain yourself!" he commanded, shortly. M. Perissard at once decided that nothing was to be gained by moralizing, so he went directly to business. "M. the President, you were Deputy Attorney in Paris twenty years ago, were you not?" "Yes." "And if I am correctly informed you married a lady named Jacqueline Lefevre, at the Town Hall in the Rue Drouot. She brought you a dot of 125,000 francs." Floriot's glance was troubled and uneasy. "Your information is perfectly correct," he said. "But why all these questions?" "Because they are indispensable," M. Perissard assured him, and he was backed up by a ponderous nod from his colleague. "In family matters of this kind one cannot take too many precautions. In matters of honor, I have always said----" Floriot half-rose. His face had paled slightly and his manner was nervous. "My time is limited!" he broke in, abruptly. "I beg your pardon, monsieur! I beg your pardon!" And four fat hands motioned him back to his seat. "I will be brief!" M. Perissard assured him. "Your marriage was not altogether as happy as it might have been, and one day you had a violent scene. You turned out of your house the lady who had the honor of bearing your name!" "How do you know this? Who told you?" demanded Floriot. His voice was low and menacing. "Ah, it is true, then!" exclaimed M. Perissard. The other gave no sign and Perissard took the silence as an assent. "Very good! After this incident," he continued, hastily. "Madame Floriot traveled. She traveled very far and was more or less--happy. More or less!" Floriot sprang up, white-faced and trembling. "She is dead!" he cried. "You have come to tell me she is dead!" M. Perissard smiled cunningly. He could appreciate good acting. "Oh, no, I haven't!" he replied. "She is _alive_?" "Undoubtedly!" "_Most_ certainly!" thundered M. Merivel. "And where is she? In Paris! In France! Where?" cried Floriot, almost too excited for coherency. M. Perissard was beginning to be really puzzled. Was it possible that this man did not know who the woman of the Three Crowns was? Was it possible that he had not arranged the whole defense? "Do you really mean that you don't know where your wife is now?" he demanded. "No! No! But you've come to tell me, haven't you?" He was feverishly eager. He walked up and down before them with quick nervous strides? and looked from one to the other with burning eyes. "This is really most extraordinary!" declared M. Perissard. "I should have thought with all your means of getting information----" "I have never heard from her or of her since the day she disappeared!" "Never?" insisted the other, wonderingly. "Never! I thought she was dead!" "Extraordinary! Isn't it?" M. Perissard appealed to his partner. "_Most_ extraordinary!" was the prompt response. Floriot was fairly dancing with excitement and impatience. "You know where she is and where I can see her?" he demanded. "Indeed, I do!" declared M. Perissard. "Tell me, man! Tell me!" he cried. M. Perissard stroked his chin a moment. All this excitement indicated excellent opportunities for financial advancement and he did not want to spoil anything through unwary haste. "I have not been instructed to tell you," he said, guardedly. "Good God, man! You don't mean to say you refuse?" "My--my client has so instructed me----" began M. Perissard in his most professional tone. "You come from her?" interrupted the other. "She's your client? What does she want? What can I do?" M. Perissard drew a quick breath. "She wants the money she brought with her on her marriage!" he plumped out. "Her dot? Her 125,000 francs?" "She wants that sum refunded to her!" affirmed M. Perissard, pursing up his lips impressively. "She would have had it long ago if I had known where to find her!" cried Floriot. "Then you will raise no objections?" There was a triumphant gleam in M. Perissard's pig-like I eyes. "None whatever! The money is here!" The two partners rose as one and held out their hands. "I will tell her what you say--word for word!" declared the senior. "Give me her address so I can go and see her at once!" pleaded Floriot, eagerly. "M. the President," replied M. Perissard in his heaviest manner. "I must beg you to excuse me: I have no authority from my client to give you her address." "But----" "I am only acting on instructions!" "But what reason can she have for refusing to see me?" he protested, wildly. "I don't know that she has any reason, but before giving you her address I must ask her permission!" was the firm response. "Then you are going to see her?" "I shall write to her," replied M. Perissard. "I may confide one thing in you, I think, without exceeding my professional duty." "Yes?" questioned Floriot eagerly. "May I count on your discretion?" "Absolutely! You have my word for it!" M. Perissard appeared to hesitate. "Madame Floriot is just now in--ah--er--tight place," he said. "A very tight place!" echoed his partner. "She is absolutely penniless!" "Great heavens!" gasped Floriot, horror-stricken. He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "Are--are you willing to send her some money?" inquired the senior partner. Floriot sprang up, his face flushed. "By all means!" he cried, his hand darting into his coat pocket. "Will you see that she gets it? _Immediately_?" "Without a moment's delay!" M. Perissard assured him, heartily. Floriot bowed his head as he worked with the leather tongue of his pocket-book, and when he looked up his eyes were misty with tears. "Gentlemen," he said, brokenly, "you must excuse my emotion--when I think that--she--is without a penny----! Here are 300 francs--all I have with me. Send it to her at once and----" "She shall receive the money to-day!" M. Perissard broke in. "Allow me to give you a receipt. And when can I see you again, M. the President? Will the day after to-morrow suit you?" "Can you have an answer by then?" "I hope so!" "I'll expect you in the morning then." He smiled almost joyously and held out his hands to the visitors. "We can go and see her together! I need not ask you to be discreet, need I? Nobody must know!" he added anxiously. M. Perissard drew himself up haughtily. "M. the President!" he said stiffly, "I have not the honor of being known to you, but remember these words: Whatever may happen, we are engaged by our word of honor to remain silent--my partner, you and I!" "Silent as the tomb!" echoed M. Merivel. "And you may always reckon--always, I repeat--on our entire discretion!" Floriot put out a hand which was eagerly gripped. "Gentlemen, I thank you!" he said in a grave, unsteady voice. And with many a scrape and hand-shake and assurance of their perfect discretion the firm of Perissard and Merivel bowed itself out. For a moment, after they had gone, Floriot stood with head raised and fists clenched. "Oh, Jacqueline! Jacqueline!" he murmured aloud, as if he felt that the cry from his heart must reach her ears. "Forgive--forgive me!" Then he darted across the garden and into the house like a boy. Up the steps he raced, three at a time, and burst into Noel's room with tears streaming down his face, speechless with emotion. Noel started up from the suit-case he was unpacking and stared at his friend in alarm. "For God's sake, Louis!" he cried. "What's the matter?" "Jacqueline--Jacqueline is alive!" In a bound Noel was across the room, with a grip on his friend's shoulder. "What do you mean?" he cried, shaking him fiercely. "Alive! Who told you?" In broken, gasping phrases Floriot told the story; and as Noel finally grasped the details, he clutched his friend's arms, and with a shout of joy hurled him on to the bed. Floriot bounded back to his feet and swung his fist into the other's back. Then these two gray-haired men threw each other around the room, rolled over together on the bed, knocked chairs over and tables upside down, shouting and laughing at the top of their lungs. "Day after to-morrow! Twenty years, old man! I knew we'd win out at last!" The uproar reached Raymond in his studio at the other end of the house and he ran up to see what was the matter. As he threw open the door of the disordered room he saw his father and M. Noel shaking hands as enthusiastically as if they had not met for years. "Why, father, what's the matter?" he cried. Floriot ran over and threw an arm across his son's shoulders. "Raymond, my boy!" he shouted, "A wonderful--an unbelievable happiness has come to your father! I can't tell you anything yet but, my God! I'm happy!" CHAPTER XX THE TRIAL BEGINS Although he had been up most of the night at work on his speech, Maître Raymond Floriot was among the early arrivals at court the next morning. His unlined, youthful face wore an expression of grave responsibility as incongruous as his black advocate's gown when he took his seat at his desk. The more he had hammered at his appeal to the jury the more he realized that in the strength of his speech lay his one hope of victory. All the evidence would be against him. He did not expect to profit much by cross-examination. The affair was too simple. He must move the jury to pity. There was not even a chance to instil a doubt into the minds of the men who would judge his case. That is usually the chief aim of a defending lawyer in a bad murder trial. He does not have to convince twelve men of conscience that his client is innocent If he can work one drop of the poison of uncertainty into their minds he is usually safe. For the man of average imagination would rather violate his duty to the state a dozen times and let a dozen murderers go free than send one to the gallows and risk the punishment of remorse. "Certainty beyond reasonable doubt," which is the formula of the law, is a farce with most jurors. If there exists, to them, any doubt at all, nothing can convince them that that doubt is unreasonable. With this powerful weapon taken from him, the young advocate had but one left--an appeal to the emotions. Had he had to face a jury of cold, law-worshipping Anglo-Saxons or stolid, virtue-loving Teutons his best move would have been a plea of guilty and an invocation to Mercy. On these a lawyer might wear out an oratorical rod of Moses without producing a drop of moisture in the way of a tear. But here were volatile, easily moved Latins, and Louis Floriot knew his people when he told his son to "shake them up." So the young man decided to ignore the evidence and build his whole speech on the statement that the woman made to the sergeant of gendarmes on her way to the prison after the shooting--that she had killed Laroque to prevent him from "doing an abominable act." He was very nervous when he took his seat at the table reserved for counsel for the defense, just in front of the dock. He felt himself growing more uneasy when the judges in their robes of red and black marched in from their room at the rear and the clerk solemnly proclaimed that court was in session. The great hall was crowded to the doors with men and women from every plane of the social scale. Dozens of lawyers came to watch their new brother break his first spear. A number of seats were reserved for municipal officers. Veiled society women sat among them. Banker, butcher and baker rubbed elbows and craned necks in the general throng, and women of all descriptions squeezed and jostled their way through them. Raymond ran his eye hurriedly over the first rows and caught a smile of pride on Helene's lovely face, gazing at him over the railing that cut off the spectators from the attorneys and court officials. M. Noel and Dr. Chennel gave him reassuring nods as they met his glance and Rose waved her hand. He turned hastily away and began busying himself with his papers as the prisoner was led in between two gendarmes. She was crying and held her handkerchief to her eyes as she took her seat in the dock. Raymond watched her nervously and tried to say a few encouraging words but he could only stammer. M. Valmorin, from his desk on the opposite side of the "bank," smiled at his future son-in-law's symptoms of panic and gave him a friendly nod. Raymond had watched court proceedings in criminal cases so often that he was as familiar with the routine as a practised lawyer but now that he was for the first time an actor it all seemed strange and overwhelming. He was conscious only that Helene and his father never took their eyes off him but he never looked their way again. The voice of the clerk reading the charge sounded far away and seemed to be no part of the present scene. "--In consequence of which the woman, Laraque, is accused of having, on April 3rd, 19--, at half-past five in the afternoon, committed an act of voluntary homicide in Room 24 of the Hotel of the Three Crowns in Bordeaux, on the person of her lover, Frederick Laroque, a crime punishable by Articles 295 and 304 of the Penal Code." The voice stopped amid absolute silence, and then Raymond heard the grave, gentle tones of the kindly old President of the Court. "Woman Laroque, you have heard the charge against you. You are accused of having committed an act of voluntary homicide on the person of your lover, Frederick Laroque. What have you to say in your defense? Do you admit that you are guilty of this crime?" He paused and Raymond, turning in his chair, locked up at his client. Every eye in the room was on her. She was dressed entirely in black and wore a black cloth shawl over her head that almost entirely concealed her face, excepting from those directly in front of her. Her profile was toward the judges. The black background made her pallor almost ghastly. Her features were set and hard--a hopeless mask of chalk. She gave no sign that she had heard the President's words. "You refuse to reply?" he went on. "You persist in keeping silent as you kept silent under examination? Let me beg of you, in your own interests, to speak. Your silence can only be harmful to your case. You refuse to speak?"--He paused again. "The matter is in the hands of the jury. You shall hear the evidence against you. Clerk of the court, call the first witness!" A stir and a murmur ran through the court as the President settled back in his chair and the clerk called, "Victor Chouquet! Victor Chouquet!" Perissard and Merivel had managed to secure seats well forward and watched the proceedings with the interest of experts. "What did I tell you, my dear Merivel!" whispered the senior partner. "It has all been arranged!" "Of course it has!" While they were awaiting the appearance of the boots of the Three Crowns, Raymond gazed curiously at his client. It was the first time he had ever seen her, and he was wondering what tragic story was masked behind her stony, inscrutable face. She did not seem to be aware that he was alive, and turning her head, glanced over the row of judges. Suddenly Raymond saw her eyes widen with horror and amazement Her bosom heaved and her lips worked as if she were trying to speaks He rose hastily and leaned over the dock. "What is the matter, madame? Are you ill?" he asked in quick undertone. She turned to him with the jerky, uncertain movements of an automaton, but kept her eyes fastened on the bench. "What--who--who is that gentleman--talking to the judges?" she whispered. The words could barely be heard. "President Floriot, from Toulouse," answered Raymond. He supposed that she had asked this apparently idle question to conceal the real thought that had caused her agitation, and so went on earnestly: "Believe me, madame, your silence may lose your case for you. I beg you to speak!" She drew the cloth more closely about her face and stared out over his head with wild eyes. With a shrug of his shoulders Raymond dropped back into his chair and turned to listen to the examination of Chouquet. He was beginning to feel more master of himself and more certain that his case was hopeless. "State your name, age, and profession!" commanded the President as Victor took his stand behind the witness railing. "Victor Emmanuel Chouquet, twenty-nine years of age, boots of the Hotel of the Three Crowns," replied Victor in his high-pitched drawl. "Where do you live?" "At the hotel, M. the President." "You are no relation of the prisoner, are you, or in any way connected with her service?" "No, M. the President." "Raise your right hand!--Do you swear to speak without hatred or fear, to tell the whole truth? Say, 'I swear it.'" "I swear it!" repeated the witness. "Put down your hand. Give your evidence!" Victor shuffled uneasily up against the railing and turned to the jury. "On April 3d," he began, "a man and woman came to the hotel----" "What time was it?" interrupted the President. "It was a short time after lunch." "Go on!" "They had a trunk and a bag. I took them up to Room 24 on the top floor, and the man said, as he went into the room, 'Not a palace, is it?' And the woman said, 'Oh, what does it matter--this room or another one!' to which the man replied, 'Well, I don't suppose we will be here long.' Then they asked me for absinthe and cigarettes which I got for them, and the man asked me to leave the bottle." "Did they drink much?" interrupted the President. "I didn't notice." "What was the attitude of the woman?" "She didn't have any," replied Victor, and a titter ran over the benches. The court usher frowned and rapped on his desk. "Did she look happy, sad, calm or nervous?" explained the President, irritably. Victor considered for several moments. "She looked very tired," he replied. "Go on!" "Some time afterward my wife went up to their room for the police form and took down their names--M. and Mme. Laroque, from Buenos Ayres on their way to Paris." "Your wife was at the hotel?" "Yes, she was chambermaid there." "Why has she not been called as a witness?" the judge demanded with a frown. Victor rubbed his hand across his eyes and snuffled. "Because she's not there any longer. On the evening after the murder she left me and I haven't seen her since. A few days after she had gone she wrote me a note, saying, 'Don't worry about me. I am very happy. Take care of the child.'" There was a quick shuffling of feet and exclamations of pity and sympathy swept across the court. The usher frowned and pounded his desk again. The President's face softened as he watched Victor wiping away his tears, and he gave him time to recover before requesting him to go on. "At about half-past five, as I was taking water to a room on the same floor," said Victor at last, "I heard a shot fired and a shriek in Room 24. I rushed in and found M. Laroque lying on the floor in front of his wife, who held a smoking revolver in her hand. I took the revolver away from her and held her tight." "Did she say anything?" "She said, 'There's no hurry. I shan't try to get away.' Then the police came and took her off." "That's all you know?" "Yes, M. the President." "The prisoner is the woman you call Madame Laroque, is she?" Victor gazed at the white face above Raymond's head. "Yes, M. the President," he said. The President looked in the same direction. "Prisoner, you have heard the evidence of this witness? Have you anything to say?" he asked, solemnly. Jacqueline had not heard the evidence. From the moment she recognized her husband a thousand mad thoughts had stormed through her mind in a bewildering phantasmagoria. Her fierce hatred had given birth to a hundred fantastic schemes of vengeance that the situation made possible. Should she wait until her character and her shame had been painted their blackest and then tell the crowded court that he was her husband? Should she go to the place of execution and denounce him from the scaffold? No! She could not do that because of her boy. She had killed Laroque to hide her shame from her son. How could she proclaim it now and make that terrible crime useless? But couldn't she tell just enough to show _him_--God! how she hated him! who she was and to what he had driven her? She could picture his face as he recognized her and listened to the horrible story of her degradation. She was glad that there was no vice so low that it had not soiled her; for thus the greater would be his anguish when she proclaimed it.... "You insist on remaining silent?" the President was saying. "Wait a little! Wait a little while!" she murmured, but so low that even Raymond could not catch the words. "Gentlemen of the Jury, have you any questions to ask the jury?" He paused and turned to M. Valmorin. "Thank you, no, M. the President," bowed the Prosecutor. "Has the counsel for the defense anything to ask the witness?" The instinct of the cross-examiner triumphed over the nervousness of youth. "The witness has mentioned that my client had been drinking absinthe," said Raymond, rising. His voice was sure and steady. "I should like to know whether he thinks she was intoxicated." The President nodded and turned to Victor. "You hear the question? Was the prisoner drunk or sober when you ran into the room and found her with the revolver in her hand?" Victor shifted uneasily and appeared to hesitate. "Well, she was very much excited," he said. "There's no doubt about that, M. the President Her eyes were like a crazy woman's and her face was red and she didn't seem to know what she was doing." A stir and murmur from the benches told Raymond that the audience credited him with a point scored. "Would you say she was drunk?" he insisted. "Well, some would say she was and some would say she wasn't," replied the witness, falling back on his never-failing formula. A titter ran through the court at this conservative answer, and the president frowned. "What would _you_ say?" demanded Raymond. Victor's confusion was complete. "I--I wouldn't say!" he stammered. Raymond turned back to his desk with a shrug of his shoulders. "Counsel for the defense, have you any more questions to ask the witness?" demanded the court. "No, M. the President," was the reply. "Stand down!" commanded the President "Clerk of the court, call the next witness!" The next witness was Sergeant Fontaine, the gendarme who had arrested Jacqueline. He talked in jerky, military tones, and gave his evidence as if he were dictating an official report He told of arresting her in the hotel and taking her to the prison. "Did she say anything while you were taking her off?" asked the court. "I did most of the talking," he replied. "I asked her why she had killed Laroque and she said she had done it to prevent him doing a disgraceful thing which would have brought unhappiness and despair to some one she loved. I tried to make her say more, but she wouldn't. She said that she wouldn't say another word to anybody, and she didn't." No one had any questions to ask the witness, though it was plain from the manner in which some of the jurors gazed at the prisoner that the policeman's testimony had made an impression. They were the usual run of jurors--plain middle-class tradesmen with a rather better than average intelligence; and, as Raymond looked them over, he felt that there was grim work ahead if he would upset their judgment and make them follow the impulse of emotion. He did not think he could do it. Victor and the sergeant were the only two witnesses, and the President turned to Jacqueline when the gendarme had taken a seat beside Victor on the bench reserved for witnesses. "Before calling on the Public Prosecutor," he said solemnly, "I ask you for the last time, prisoner, in your own interest, to tell the jury why you committed this crime. You told the policeman who arrested you, and who has just given his evidence, that you killed Laroque to prevent him from committing an infamous and abominable act which would have caused trouble to some one you loved. To what act did you allude? To whom would it have brought trouble? Knowledge of the reasons which caused you to commit the murder may have an important influence on the jury in reaching a verdict. You refuse, to speak? You have made up your mind to say nothing----" He paused; and then: "M. the Prosecutor!" he announced. M. Valmorin rose slowly and bowed to the President, and then to the jury. It was an old story with him--the murder of a degenerate man by a fallen woman. He had only to go over an old formula. "There you are!" whispered M. Perissard to his colleague. "It is practically over!" "Gentlemen of the jury, I shall not keep you long," began M. Valmorin, in a gentle, pleasant voice. "The crime on which you have to give your verdict is simple and baneful. The woman has killed her lover--but who is this woman? What is her real name? Where does she come from? Who is she? We do not know! Since her arrest the prisoner has refused to answer all questions that have been put to her. She has not spoken a syllable in reply to the Examining Magistrate, and you have seen for yourselves that here in court she has insisted on remaining obstinately silent, although her silence cannot but harm her case--if she has the slightest shred of defense! "There is sometimes an explanation of a murder--if not an excuse for it--to be found in the motives that inspired it. Murders are committed for reasons of money, for reasons of love, for reasons of jealousy, or to quench a thirst for vengeance. And the passion which arms the criminal's hand, which disturbs her power of reasoning and which makes her act without thinking--this, to some extent, diminishes her responsibility and the horror which the act of murder makes every man feel." The jurors were leaning forward, their eyes fastened on his face and their reasons hypnotized by the musical, confident voice. "When one or other of these reasons is brought forward, justice may be tempered with mercy. But how can you be asked to find excuses for an act, the motive of which the prisoner refuses to disclose? By this very refusal we may be forgiven for believing--nay, we are almost forced to believe that they are the worst possible motives. I distrust, for my part, the impenetrable mystery in which the prisoner has robed herself, and I can feel no pity for a guilty woman whose lips have not uttered a word of repentance!" A loud, clear voice rang suddenly and sharply through the court. "_I will speak presently_!" A burst of laughter would not have been more disconcerting! M. Valmorin stopped, and every eye in the court was on the prisoner. Half of the men in the great room had started to their feet. The attitude and the look of suffering and the dark, hunted eyes were not visibly changed, but it was undoubtedly the woman who had spoken. The prosecutor bit his lip. Ten seconds before he had read in every eye in the jury-box, and in nearly every face in the courtroom, a placid acquiescence. Now there was pity in the glance of more than one of the twelve who would judge his case, and he would have to win them away from it. This would be harder than gaining their confidence at the outset had been. The usher hammered the top of his desk until the excitement died away and there was order in court once more. Then M. Valmorin began the work of repairing the damage. "As I was saying, gentlemen of the jury, we know nothing about the woman Laroque," he continued, calmly, as if he considered of little importance the sensation that accompanied the dramatic interruption. "We have found no proof that she was ever a resident of France. "In Buenos Ayres it is not known where she came from. During her stay in South America she did not, so far as we can learn, offend any of the laws of the country. In the month of March she took passage on board the Amazon for Bordeaux. Nothing particular was remarked about her during the trip, excepting that she told the fortunes of the passengers with a deck of cards--that she said she was certain she would die before long, and that she was in a great hurry to get back to France. This is all we know about her past. "On the afternoon of April 3d she arrived at the Hotel of the Three Crowns, and at half-past five she killed her lover--a man whose past will not bear scrutiny, and who had been sentenced for theft on two occasions. You have heard the evidence of the servant with reference to the overexcitement of the prisoner. I will draw no conclusion from this evidence, nor is it necessary to go into the question of the prisoner's moral responsibility, which overexcitement--caused by drink--may have affected. I will leave this phase of the case to my friend, the counsel for the defense--Maître Raymond Floriot----" A frightful, unearthly shriek drowned the soothing voice of the prosecutor and brought every man and woman in the courtroom, pale-faced and startled, to their feet. Several women screamed, and the others stared, frightened at the prisoner. She was standing, rigid and swaying, head raised and eyes closed, her stiffened arms held close to her sides, her hands opening and closing convulsively. Two gendarmes seized her and tried to force her back into her chair. "My God! My God!" she shrieked again and again. Raymond was beside her in a moment, his hand on her arm, begging her to be calm. "For God's sake! Stop torturing that woman!" roared a man's voice from the audience. It was the signal for a pandemonium! The usher pounded on his desk until the boards cracked, but the crowd lurched forward against the railing in a terrific uproar. "Let her alone!" "She's dying!" "Great God! It's Jacqueline! It's Floriot's wife!" shouted Noel in Dr. Chennel's ear. And the next moment that elderly physician was over the railing like a boy. He burst through the gendarmes and rushed over to the dock. But Jacqueline was again in her seat and waved him back. He and Raymond bent over her. "Are you ill? Shall I ask for an adjournment?" they asked breathlessly. "No! No! No!" she panted, "I'm all right--all right!" Her eyes were still closed and her lips worked as if she were trying to speak. Dr. Chennel's fingers closed over her left wrist. He leaned over and whispered reassuring words in her ear and gently patted her shoulder. The subtle magnetism cf the physician seemed to have its effect at last and she slowly opened her eyes and sat up. The din in the courtroom died as suddenly as it had begun, and the spectators shamefacedly sought their seats under the blazing eyes of the President. He was livid with anger. "This is the most disgraceful scene that ever stained a French court!" he cried in a voice that trembled with suppressed rage. "If there is another sound from the benches during these proceedings I will order the gendarmes to clear the hall!" Noel glanced quickly at his friend in his seat behind the judges to see if he, too, had recognized "the woman, Laroque." Floriot's face was buried in his hands. He pressed a handkerchief so tightly to his eyes that Noel fancied he could see the whiteness of the nails. Any great blow--mental or physical--is immediately followed by a practically complete cessation of all activity of the senses. The mind --if it works at all--revolves around singular and ridiculous trifles, utterly foreign to the disaster or its effect. It was this condition that the recognition of Jacqueline left her husband. He was conscious that quiet had been restored and that Valmorin was continuing his speech, but the scene and its actors seemed remote from his life. "As for the reason of the crime," the prosecutor was saying, "I repeat that we do not know it. Now that the prisoner has promised to speak, we may learn what it was." Speak!--would she speak!--Raymond was standing half facing the prosecutor, his profile toward the woman. His right hand rested on the top of the railing in front of the dock. Jacqueline's eyes were on his handsome head, and in them there was unutterable love and unutterable dread. His delicate nostrils were quivering, and a touch of color came and went in his cheeks. He was watching Valmorin with eager, anxious eyes. Timidly, as a child, her hand crept out and closed softly over his fingers. He glanced up at her quickly, with what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but the early stage fright was returning. The prosecutor was nearing the end of his speech and in a few moments he must rise to reply. She drew her hand away, and he looked from it to the woman for a moment as if something remarkable had happened. ... An invisible band that has never been measured by our mortal standards binds mother and child together. It, alone of earthly ties, takes no count of Time or Space, and joy and degradation and wealth and want and woe alike are powerless to loosen. It has been called the only unselfish love, but it is not that. For, "damned in body and soul," the boy clings to his mother as to a promise of salvation; and a mother, dying in shame and despair, yet sees in her child--Immortality!... As if it had needed but that touch of the fingers to draw the cord tightly around his heart, Raymond felt for a moment that his soul was going out to the wretched woman that he had never seen until that day. Emotions that he had never known before were stirred to life. A desire to take her in his arms almost overpowered him. And what it meant to the mother only a mother may know. "Speak!" She would commit a thousand murders and go a thousand times to execution rather than utter a syllable now!... "You, gentlemen of the jury, will weigh in the balance her sincerity and repentance with her guilt, and let your conscience be the judge of what punishment is proportionate to the crime she has committed." There was a rustle and low murmur of whispered conversation as M. Valmorin resumed his seat. "I don't think much of M. the Public Prosecutor," muttered M. Perissard. M. Merivel nodded his acquiescence without taking his eyes off the scene beyond the railing. The prisoner was huddled over the front of the dock, sobbing violently The President gazed at her with pity in his eyes. "Woman Laroque, will you answer my questions now?" he asked, kindly. She did not seem to hear. "You said a few minutes ago that you would speak." Jacqueline raised her wet, anguish-stricken face and held out both hands, as if warding off a blow. "No! Never! Never!" she cried, wildly, and sank down again. "Take time for reflection, and let me, for the last time, advise you not to remain obstinate!" persisted the judge. There was no reply save a storm of weeping that shook the dock. Murmurs of pity rose again and the usher rapped sharply on his desk for attention. "Counsel for the defense!" called the President, CHAPTER XXI CHERCHEZ L'HOMME Raimond straightened up with an effort and turned to face the jury. His face was almost as white as the prisoner's. His lips trembled and his eyes burned. From the moment the woman had pressed his hand he had been struggling with an emotion more unnerving than stage fright. Hitherto he had known misery only as we who never stir from home know the suffering of an arctic explorer. For the first time in his life he had been thrown into actual contact with the raw reality, stripped of the veneer and varnish of the story-teller. When he looked at the crouching woman and felt the railing tremble with her sobs he dimly understood the despair that could welcome death as a friend. If he had only known--if he could only have felt this way when he had written his speech! What was his speech? How did it begin? His eye met his father's for a wavering instant and the frightened gaze and livid features of the stern magistrate completed the demoralization of his son. His father saw that he would fail and shame him, he thought! He dared not glance toward Helene. He must begin! He fixed his eyes on a light stain on the dark wood of the jury-box and tried to remember the opening words of his address. They would not come. The overwhelming sense of failure, the foreknowledge that he could not make the jury feel the flood of emotion that had paralyzed his tongue, brought team to his eyes! The courtroom was preternaturally still. A juryman coughed, and at the sound Raymond felt an Overmastering impulse to scream or run out. There was a long-drawn sob behind him and he straightened up--rigid. He raised his eyes and the jury-box was a gray-black blur. His lips felt stiff and his tongue dry--but he must begin! He bowed stiffly and hurriedly to the bench and quickly drew the back of his hand across his eyes to clear away the mist of tears.... "Gentlemen--of the jury!" His voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he leaned with both hands on the table. What were his opening words?--It was useless! But he must stumble on some way! "I cannot--I will not try--to conceal--the very great emotion that I feel! I hope--you must pardon me----" He met the eyes of one of the jurors, and instead of the contempt and amusement that he had expected he saw a gleam of sympathy. Oh, if he had only the power to play upon it! Why couldn't he remember his speech? He could only tell them how he felt, and plead for mercy for the woman. "My wish is to be cool--and to keep calm--but my eyes fill with tears in spite of all--my efforts." And again he quickly dashed his hand across his eyes. He looked up at the men, who must judge him and his speech, with almost piteous bravery. "My heart is beating--quicker than it should! My voice is trembling--and it is all that I can do to keep from breaking down and crying like a child instead of pleading for my client--here before you. I crave your indulgence for this weakness--but it does not make me blush!" He threw back his head, and at last he saw the jurors clearly before him. "It is the first time in my life that I have come close to the bitterness of a woman's grief and misery and--my heart is tom by the fear that I shall not be able to prove myself equal to the noble task that I have undertaken!" He paused and wet his dry lips with his tongue. "I can find none of the arguments that I had prepared for the purpose of moving and convincing you, and my ready-made phrases have vanished from my brain, dispersed by one glance at the suffering and distress of this poor woman! "Look at her, gentlemen! No words of mine can have the power of tears to move you to mercy!" There was a falter and piteous break in his voice as he half turned and laid his hand on the dock. There was not another sound save the woman's sobs. The faces of the jurors told him that they were listening with eager attention and the fear of being made ridiculous began to pass. Blindly, Instinctively, he had stumbled on to the greatest rule of the greatest orator that ever lived: "Be earnest!" In those few minutes the jurymen had felt the force of clean emotion, of noble purpose, behind the stumbling words, and they waited breathlessly. With the growing confidence some of the arguments that he had embodied in his written speech came back to him; but he could not remember the words. "And there is a mystery--a veil of mystery which has not been torn by the evidence and still surrounds this woman for whom I am pleading," he went on. "Who is this weeping and despairing woman? Where does she come from, and why did she kill the man with whom she lived? We do not know!" His voice was gaining a strong, commanding ring. "She alone can rend this veil that surrounds her life, and she refuses to do so! She alone knows the secret and keeps it! Why? So as to mislead the cause of justice? Certainly not! For if that were her object, she would speak. She would try to justify herself. She would lie, so as to appear innocent! "She could find a dozen plausible reasons for the murder of her lover! A quarrel, a violence on his part, a momentary madness--nobody could give her the lie. Nobody saw or heard what happened immediately before the murder; and Laroque, the only person in the room besides the prisoner, is dead! But my client has disdained all subterfuge! She knew perfectly well what the consequence of her act would be--_and--she--has not--tried--to--escape it_! "'There's no hurry,' she said to the boots of the hotel, who wrenched the revolver from her hand. 'I sha'n't try to getaway.' And since then she has been silent. Why? Her own words tell us why, gentlemen, and will lift a corner of the curtain which hides the truth from us! "The policeman who arrested her has told us that he asked the prisoner why she killed Laroque, and that she answered: 'I killed him to prevent him from doing an infamous and shameful thing which would have brought misfortune on some one I love!' "This, gentlemen," he cried, his voice rising, "tells us the secret of this poor creature! "She killed this man Laroque, of whose past--as my friend the Public Prosecutor rightly said--no good was known. She killed this man who has, on two occasions, undergone punishment for theft and was capable of anything. _She killed him, because taking his life was the only way she could prevent an infamy that would have brought shame land despair on some one she loved!_ "Does this not explain the insistency of her silence? This woman, this poor wreck, who has been beaten down to the lowest rungs of the ladder of physical and moral misery, this wretched creature--_loves_! Good women will sweep their skirts from her touch in the streets, but love is in her heart, and the happiness of him or her whom she loves is dearer to her than her own life! "One day she sees a menace to this happiness and kills--kills without hesitation the scoundrel who was about to destroy it!" Gone was the stage fright--gone the fear of failure! As the ear of a musician tells him when his hands have found a chord, so is there a psychic ear which tells the orator that the spirit of his audience is in harmony with his words. As this telepathic message reached his brain, Raymond felt at last within him the power to move the hearts of men. Words poured forth in a rushing flood! "Love was the motive that made her a criminal! Love, and love only! And whom does she love to the sacrifice of herself? Is it a father who is respected and honored by all in his old age? Is it a husband or lover to whom she has been false and whom she left long ago? Is it a child who knows nothing of his mother's shame and lives unconscious and happy? "We do not know! But some such love is the secret of my client and the reason of her silence. She cares nothing for what men may say of her, nor for man's judgment of her! She does not care for her own life, and sacrifices it with gladness! But she will not let herself be known! There is only one single being of importance to her, and she will not let her name be spoken lest the sentence stain her picture in the heart of the one she worships! "Gentlemen of the jury, a woman who can feel like this is no vulgar criminal! I feel sure that I shall prove to you that it is no mere criminal who stands before you! The police have moved heaven and earth to establish her identity, and they have failed. This is alone sufficient proof that this crime is her first; for had she been convicted before, the police would have found traces of her past! "And there is no doubt, gentlemen"--his voice was vibrant and his eyes flashed through the tears--"there is no doubt that a man was originally responsible for my client's fall. When a woman falls and rolls in the gutter, it is not with her that we should feel indignant--it is not against her breast that we should cast the stones! "A man has done this thing!" he shouted, his features quivering. "He has seduced or ill-treated her! He is a lover without scruple, or a husband with too little nobility of character and too much pride--a husband who has not known how to pity, and who sentenced her for a first fall to a life of sin! "The laws of man are powerless against such a lover or such a husband," he cried, stepping forward with clenched fist above his head, "but God sees him--and God judges him! "Such a man has made this woman what you see her to-day, and he alone is responsible!" He paused and gulped to swallow an imaginary something in his throat. Then he went on bitterly: "He, no doubt, lives happily--his name respected and his conscience calm! But in the eyes of Eternal Justice this man stands by this woman's side, or lower still! And in the name of a higher law, in the name of your mothers and sisters, I call upon you to do justice--with pity--to this woman whose life has been the plaything of the man who should stand in her place!" He paused again. His head felt hot and his; feet cold. He knew that he had not used a syllable of his original speech, but words and phrases that he had never dreamed of before leaped to his tongue in battalions. His voice, that had been hoarse and uncertain at the opening, was now true to every changing note of his heart. Without looking in their direction he was conscious that Helene and Rose were crying. From the audience he heard the strained coughing of "men and the muffled weeping of women. He glanced toward the bench and saw, with vague wonder, his father's bowed and shaking figure. His eloquence had even moved that iron judge, he thought! He could not know the agony of which he was the author! He could not dream that the generous wrath that flamed up from his pure heart had made his tongue a lash for his father's soul! Noel, watching and listening, his eyes shaded by his hand, felt the terrible torture of his friend, and twice he rose as if he would interrupt the boy's bitter arraignment of his father. But Raymond swept on with his speech. "In the course of the eloquent address for the prosecution my friend reminded us that murder might sometimes be worthy of forgiveness, and that the wave of passion which causes murder sometimes excuses it. "Gentlemen, I ask you on your consciences_--is this woman guilty_? Does she deserve punishment for wiping out of existence the pestilent criminal who was threatening the happiness of the one person she loved? Does this unfortunate woman deserve punishment for the silence she has kept heroically to save her name from scandal--and for whom? For the sake of another! "No, gentlemen, a thousand times--_No!_ Attire mere thought my heart cries out in protest! And you will, I know, gentlemen, share my emotion--and my conviction! "Gentlemen of the jury, my cause is just, and the verdict will bear witness to its justice! I await it without fear! Were you to find my client guilty--even with extenuating circumstances--your verdict would only prove that I have not been equal to my task! "And I should never cease to regret my lack of ability to make you feel those sentiments and convictions which bid me declare in a loud voice, with my hand upon my heart_--this woman is not guilty_!" CHAPTER XXII MADAME X SPEAKS The speech was over. For a moment there was an awed hush. Then Raymond dropped heavily into his chair--exhausted and limp. His body lay half-way across the table, his face buried in his arms. He did not know until it was all over what the effort had cost in nervous force. A listless indifference and the feeling that he had failed came as a reaction to the exaltation of a moment before. A quivering sigh swept through the room, followed by sounds of snuffling and the violent blowing of noses! And the spell was broken. The President drew a long breath and was turning to address the jury when there was an unexpected interruption. Victor Chouquet, who probably alone of those in the courtroom had been unmoved--for the reason that he couldn't understand--had had time to look around him with boorish curiosity. He had seen two men who, while they were dry-eyed, were listening with the appreciation of experts. "Excuse me, M. the President!" he cried, in his high drawl. The President started. "Who is speaking?" "I, M. the President!" And Victor rose. The judge glanced at him impatiently. "Have you anything else to say?" "Yes, M. the President." "Well? You may speak." Victor did not lose any time. It had taken his dull mind some fifteen or twenty minutes to connect cause and effect, and he was ready. He turned and pointed along the front of the benches to the spot where the partners in confidential missions were seated. "Those two over there came to the hotel and asked for M. Laroque before the boat came in," he said. "They came back and saw him after he arrived, and I took them up to his room. They went out with M. Laroque and stayed a long time. He came back about fifteen or twenty minutes before the murder was committed." The judges and court officers gazed sharply at the two men, who were trying to conceal themselves behind the other spectators. "This is important!" muttered the President "Have you anything else to say?" "No, monsieur," replied Victor, resuming his seat. "Usher, bring those two men to the bar!" commanded the President. "I have discretionary powers to question them as witnesses, although they have not previously been summoned--and I will use it." The "confidential agents" looked nervously around the room as if seeking some way of escape as the usher advanced on them. "For pity's sake, be careful!" whispered Perissard, anxiously. "Keep your mouth shut and leave it to me!" "Don't worry! I won't say a word!" replied his colleague in the same tone. "Gentlemen, if you please, this way!" cried the usher from the railing. As they came into the enclosure the President thought of something. "Let one of them step forward and the other be taken to the waiting-room," he ordered. With another quick warning look at his confrère, M. Perissard walked up to the witness-stand while a gendarme escorted the other out behind the dock. With one hand resting lightly on the railing in front of the witness-stand and the other nursing his immaculate silk hat, M. Perissard surveyed the judges and jury with an oily, benevolent smile. "Your name and surname?" demanded the President. "Perissard--Robert Henri!" replied the witness in his most unctuous tones, accompanying the answer with a half-bow. "Your age?" "Fifty-nine years, M. the President!" "Your profession," continued the judge. "Confidential missions," was the reply, with another bend. "Your address?" "No. 62 Rue Fribourg, Paris." "Tell us what you know about the murder of Laroque!" the President commanded, and leaned back in his chair. M. Perissard's manner had not deceived him in the slightest measure. He knew the breed; and, knowing that the witness was a shrewd man, he tried to put him at a disadvantage by making him tell the story without questions. But M. Perissard knew the danger of that system of examination as well as did the President. "I know nothing about it at all, M. the President!" he declared earnestly. "I know absolutely nothing! And I cannot understand----" "Did you know Laroque?" interrupted the judge, abruptly. M. Perissard shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "I used to know him years ago in Paris," he admitted, with a fine air of candor. "About six months ago I received a letter from him asking for work. I offered him a place in my office, and I went to see him when he arrived. That's all!" Something familiar in the sound of his voice brought Floriot out of the stupor that succeeded the agony he had suffered. He raised his haggard face from his hands and met M. Perissard's eyes fixed upon him. He recognized him at once. "Did you come from Paris to Bordeaux on purpose to see him?" pursued the examiner. "No, M. the President, I had to come to Bordeaux to start a branch of my Paris house here." "Is that the reason of your coming here to-day?" M. Perissard paused and fixed his glance slowly and meaningly on the President of the Toulouse Court, over the judge's shoulder. "No, M. the President," he said with deliberation. "I came to Bordeaux on a special matter of business, the business of one of my clients--a very delicate affair! It concerns the honor of a well-known family, and I hope to carry it through successfully. I am honorably known in my profession, and my clients know that they can always reckon_--always_ reckon, I repeat--on my entire discretion!" "What did you say to Laroque in the course of your conversation with him?" continued the President. "Nothing much, nothing much!" M. Perissard assured him, with an offhand gesture. "It was a business talk, in which I gave him a few general instructions about the work of my office. That is all!" "You do not know anything about the shooting?" "Not a thing, M. the President!" was the emphatic reply. "Do you know the prisoner?" M. Perissard turned and gave Jacqueline a long and careful scrutiny, as if he were not certain that he had ever seen her before. "I saw her with Laroque," he said at last, "but I do not know who she is." "You may----" began the President and stopped with a start. The prisoner was slowly rising. Her body was tense, and she leaned forward out of the dock with one rigid arm pointing at Perissard. With the black garb, livid face, and burning eyes and the clawlike hand pointing at the witness--whose fat pink cheeks had suddenly paled--she was like some uncanny sibyl about to launch a curse. "But _I_ know _you_!" she cried in a hoarse voice that carried to the farthest corner. "_You are the real cause of the murder!_" In a moment the audience was on its feet. "I! I!" cried the blackmailer, stepping back with well-feigned astonishment while the usher hammered at his desk and shouted for order. But even the President was too much absorbed in the sudden dramatic development to heed the excitement in the court. "Yes, _you_!" she repeated, stabbing at him with her stiff forefinger. "You found out that I was married and that I had left my husband, and you advised Laroque to find him and ask him for the money that I brought him on my marriage!" M. Perissard had been in many a tight place--in many a situation where self-possession and nerve had saved him--and he quickly recovered from the shock of the denunciation. Ignoring the excitement that had upset the decorum of the court he turned to the President and said suavely: "M. the President, Laroque told me during our conversation that his wife had had typhoid fever Hast year and that her brain had suffered." But the woman was not to be silenced by such a trick. "I nearly died last year, and my head was shaved," she said, slowly, turning and looking straight at Floriot, who was watching her with grief-stricken eyes. "That is why those who used to know me cannot recognize me now!" Floriot hid his face in his hands and shuddered. Noel, white-faced, was gripping the railing in front of him with both hands. "But I am not mad!" she cried, her voice rising to a shrill note as she faced Perissard once more. "I begged and prayed Laroque not to follow your hateful advice, and he refused to listen to me. As I would not run the risk of his seeing and speaking to my son, _I killed him_!" Muttered imprecations and half-smothered exclamations of anger swept through the court, and the throng heaved forward against the railings. Raymond sprang up into the dock and with one arm around the woman's waist and the other resting on the arm nearest him, he gently forced her down into her chair once more. The usher pounded his desk and the gendarmes struggled to push the crowd back from the railing. It was several minutes before order was restored, but the President, hastily consulting his confrères on the bench, paid no heed. "You may go!" he said, when the room had reached almost its normal semi-hush and the voices had dropped into excited whisperings. "Call the other witness!" M. Perissard started hurriedly for the door, but at a signal from M. Valmorin the gendarmes stopped him. "No, M. Perissard," said the prosecutor. "Do not leave the court, if you please. We may want you again." "The presiding judge said I could go, and I have important business!" protested the blackmailer. "And I ask you to stay!" repeated M. Valmorin, firmly. "Kindly sit down!" He was escorted, muttering and grumbling, to the witnesses' bench. "I really don't understand! It's disgraceful!" he fumed. "I was not regularly cited--Article 313 of the Code of Criminal Instruction. It's a shame!" But no one paid any further attention to him, excepting a few jurors and the nearest of the spectators, who favored him with curious and unpleasant glances. The usher brought M. Merivel to the stand. He came with mincing steps, and many bows, and a confident smirk on his fat, heavy face. The President eyed him with rather more dislike than he had shown for the other partner. "Your name and surname!" he commanded, curtly. "Merivel--Modiste Hyacinthe!" replied the junior partner, in his blandest professional tones. "Your age?" "Fifty-two years, M. the President!" "Your profession?" "Confidential missions!" replied M. Merivel, with an obsequious tow. "Your address!" demanded the judge. "No. 132 Rue St. Denis, Paris." "What do you know about the murder of Laroque?" M. Merivel threw open his hands and drew himself up. "Nothing. M. the President!" he declared. "Nothing?" questioned the judge with a frown. "Nothing whatever!" M. Merivel assured him with much earnestness. "Did you know Laroque?" was the next question. "No, M. the President," was the prompt reply. "Had you never seen him?" "Never!" exclaimed the witness, without hesitation. Some one tittered and M. Perissard cursed his colleague heartily under his breath. "You did not go to see him in his room at the Hotel of the Three Crowns on April 3d?" "No, M. the President!" replied M. Merivel, with a solemn shake of the head. A ripple of laughter ran along the benches and M. Merivel began to perspire. His glance wavered before the President's stern eye. "Be careful! The hotel people saw you!" he warned. M. Merivel glanced uneasily at his partner for a cue, but Perissard was afraid to give him a sign. "They must have made a mistake, M. the President!" he said, at last, with a great assumption of firmness. "Oh, what an ass!" growled his partner fiercely. M. Valmorin rose suddenly. "M. the President," he said, "the attitude of these two men is distinctly suspicious, and, by virtue of Article 330 of the Code of Criminal Instruction, I ask you to order their immediate arrest for perjury!" M. Perissard bounded up with agility that fitted strangely with his corpulent figure. "Look here!" he shouted angrily, "it isn't my fault if that fool----" "Who are you calling a fool?" demanded his partner, advancing belligerently. "Gendarmes, remove those two men!" commanded the President. "I protest----" began M. Merivel, loudly, holding up his hand. "You have no right to do this! It is perfectly----" stormed the other. "Take them away!" interrupted the judge. "I'll have my revenge!" foamed M. Merivel, in a voice that made the chairs tremble, as the gendarmes laid hold of him. "Shut your mouth, you d----d idiot!" roared the other. "I'll write to the papers! I'll----" And struggling, and threatening, cursing the court and each other, they were dragged off to be held on charges of perjury, while the crowd hissed them out. And this, it may be remarked here, ended their long careers of crookedness. Merivel was convicted of perjury, but the case against the senior partner could not be made to hold. Merivel was so enraged when the other was acquitted that he turned State's evidence and gave M. Valmorin the history of some of Perissard's "deals," with the result that both were sent to prison for long terms. When the excitement attending the exit of the pair had subsided the President made one last appeal to the prisoner before giving the case to the jury. "Woman Laroque," he said, gently, with a slight hesitation at the name, "have you anything to say in your defense? Tell the truth and the whole truth!" To his astonishment, the woman slowly rose. A hush of eager expectancy fell over the room. Looking straight before her into the dead wall she began in a low, uncertain tone. "My counsel has said all that could be said. I shall never forget his words, and I thank him from my heart!" The voice trembled and stopped. "He was right!" she went on, unsteadily, her hands tightly clutching the desk as she struggled for control. "I was not naturally bad! A coward broke my life and made me what I have become!" The President heard a muffled groan behind him where his guest was sitting, but he did not take; his eyes off the woman's face. "I had wronged him, I admit, but I was sorry--and hated myself for my fault. I begged his pardon--begged for it on my knees! And he told me to go--threw me out into the streets! Me! His wife--the mother of his child! "Thanks to him I rolled in the gutter! Thanks to him I have suffered a thousand deaths_--and I have killed_! I hate him! I hate him!" she cried wildly, her voice shaking with passion. "And with my last breath I will curse his name!" She paused with a gasp and swallowed hard. Floriot sat with his face in his hands and his heaving shoulders told the story of his agony. Rose and Helene, their heads close together, were openly crying, and there were sounds of sobbing and snuffling from all over the room. The jury sat; like twelve men hypnotized. Raymond stood looking up into her face, while a hundred emotions swept him. The feeling of pity, the desire to comfort, that had moved him when she pressed his hand, returned with reawakened force. He could not know it--but she dared not glance down at him. "And yet I do not complain," she went on, with a strange note of tenderness. "No, I do not complain! I have a son--a son whom I love, whom I love more than I can say!" Once more she paused, and when she spoke again some of the excitement under which she had labored returned. "But he does not know me!" she cried. "The sound of my voice--thank God!--can awaken no echo in his heart! He will never see me again--know nothing of my shame and," she faltered, "his memory of me will be vague and sweet and beautiful; for--when I became--lost to him--he was a child! He is so far--from me--now! But I love him! I worship him! All my heart is his. My one wish--is that he--should be happy--that--ah!" The words ended in a long-drawn sob and she sank into her chair, huddled over the desk. CHAPTER XXIII THE VERDICT Eloquent and earnest as had been Raymond's impassioned outburst it hardly moved the throng as did the woman's short and broken confession. In the hearts of all men and women who are worthy of the name there is ever pity for a fallen woman; but in this case there was something more than that. Pity for the wrecks of vice is often tempered by the instinctive feeling that the lost are mercifully drugged by their own excesses until they are incapable of realizing fully that they have fallen beyond the reach of redemption. But here there was none of that. In that prayer for her son, every mother in the room heard a mother crying out to her across an unbridgeable gulf--every man knew that the woman's soul was writhing under the torture of seeing herself as she was; and the soft weeping and the pressed lips and shining eyes were eloquent of their emotion. Even the old President felt the spell, and it was with an effort that he took his eyes off the bowed figure with Raymond bending over it and turned to address the jury. At his first words--delivered tin a matter-of-fact "legal" tone--a rustle and stir ran over the benches. It was over. "Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "you have to answer this question: Is the prisoner guilty of the murder committed on April 3d, on the body of her lover, Frederick Laroque? If the majority of you believe that the prisoner is guilty or not guilty, your verdict will be worded accordingly. "If the majority of you believe, on the other hand, that there are extenuating circumstances, you are to give your verdict in these words: "'The majority of the jurors believe that there are extenuating circumstances in favor of the prisoner.' "I point out to you that your vote must be a secret one. Kindly withdraw to the jury-room. The court is rising!" As he spoke he rose, accompanied by the ether' judges and moved toward the door of his private room, opening off the "bank." The usher pounded his desk. "The court is rising!" he repeated in a loud tone. With the shuffling of many feet the throng rose and the hum of conversation filled the room. Escorted by two gendarmes, Jacqueline was taken out to the prisoner's room to await the verdict. Floriot, walking like a drunken man, went out with M. Valmorin to the latter's little office. Noel tried to reach him, but he disappeared before he could cross the court. Dr. Chennel followed him and Raymond suddenly stopped them, returning from the door of the prisoner's room, where he had accompanied the woman. The big hall was practically deserted. Helene had quickly recovered from her emotion in her pride in Raymond, but Rose wept inconsolably, and the girl led her out to the open air. Raymond eagerly seized the hands of his father's friends. "Do you think she will get off, doctor?" he asked, quickly. "I hope so," responded the surgeon with an affectionate smile; "and if she does, she may I thank you, my boy!" "Is that so?" he exclaimed, with a pleased little laugh and nervous toss of his head. "I thought I was awfully bad!" "And I thought you were marvelous!" rejoined Noel, with unmistakable meaning. He was looking curiously at the young man's flushed and handsome face. "Oh, come now!" protested Raymond. "I mean it. You reached me--and not only me!" he added half to himself. Raymond shook his hand with hearty gratitude. "It's awfully good of you to tell me these things," he said, "and I'm mighty proud of one thing! Do you know that I made my father cry? I did, for a fact! 'The Man of Bronze,' some one told me they call him! I managed to glance at him a couple of times, and I'm sure he was crying! "Now, that's a success, you know! For a young fellow like me to make the presiding judge of another criminal court cry over his first speech is pretty good, whether the young lawyer is the judge's son or not! "My, but I was nervous! That poor woman completely upset me. You remember when she called out and nearly fainted?" The others nodded. "Yes," said Noel. "You turned around and looked up and spoke to her, I think." "Exactly!" Raymond rattled on, excitedly. "I put my hand on the edge of the rail and she took hold of it, and pressed it, and--do you know, I forgot all about my speech, and everything else? It's a fact! She looked at me in the most extraordinary way!" He paused a moment and then went on soberly, with a vague, puzzled look in his dark eyes. "She drew me toward her, somehow. I don't know how to explain it to you. I wanted to take her in my arms and console her and kiss her--yes, kiss her! Kind of foolish, eh?" he added, with a quick smile. "Queer sort of a lawyer who'd want to kiss his clients, isn't it? But I swear that's what I did want! It was one of the most extraordinary sensations I have ever felt, and it upset me so that I caught myself talking for a full minute without knowing what I was saying. Luckily, I sort of got hold of myself, and--and--I'm almighty glad it's all over. Ah, here comes the President of the Toulouse court!" His few minutes in M. Valmorin's office had partially restored Floriot's steel nerves. He took a drink of water and gently put aside the prosecutor's solicitous questions, and then he hurried out to find his son, knowing that the boy would feel hurt if he was not among the first to congratulate him. But his white, lined face and haggard eyes bore witness to the terrible suffering of the recent ordeal. Raymond hastened forward a few steps to meet him. "Thank you, my boy, thank you!" said Floriot unsteadily, as he gripped his son's hand. "It was a noble speech!" Then he dropped wearily into a chair. Raymond stared at him, startled. "Why, is anything the matter, father?" he cried, stepping quickly over to his side. Floriot raised his hand as if to motion him away. "No! Nothing, nothing!" he replied. "I think Mademoiselle Valmorin wants to speak to you, Raymond," interrupted Noel, hurriedly. The young man threw a quick look up toward the benches and saw that Helene had returned and was trying to telegraph him with her eyes. A father's claims must always yield to a lover's, and with a lingering glance at the figure in the chair, Raymond hurried off to his sweetheart's, side. Noel put his hand under Floriot's arm and drew him off to a corner by the bench, where they were partially hidden, while Dr. Chennel did sentry duty in the background. "You recognized her, of course?" said Floriot, in a low broken voice, without meeting his friend's eye. Noel nodded, but did not speak. "There's no doubt about it!" went on his friend. "It is Jacqueline, and this is what she has become! This is my work! Jacqueline! Jacqueline!" he groaned, piteously. "What are you going to do?" demanded Noel. The effort to control himself made his voice sound hard. Floriot shook his head miserably. "I don't know!" he groaned. "What do you think?" "It doesn't seem to me," retorted Noel, bitterly, "that this is exactly a time for thinking! If she should be convicted, maybe it would be better to let things take their natural course and never let Raymond know who she was. But if she is acquitted, you will have to tell him, and we will have to do what we can to--to--wipe out twenty years!" Floriot's only reply for a moment was a dry sob. Then: "How can I tell him--_now_! God!" he cried, "he will add his curses to hers! I will lose him! I----" The sharp clang of a bell broke in. Noel started, it was the signal that the court was coming in. "Already!" he exclaimed. "The jury didn't take long!" He hastily gripped his friend's hand as the door of the President's room opened, and pushed him toward his seat. "Keep your heart, old man!" he added, kindly. "We'll come through all right!" Raymond brushed against him as he walked back to his seat. His ears were singing with Helene's whispers. "It's a good sign, isn't it?" he said in low, eager tones. Noel nodded and passed outside the railing. The crowd was swarming in from both doors, and by the time the judges had comfortably settled themselves the hall was packed once more. The jury filed slowly into the box and sat down. The usher rapped for silence. There was not a sound in the court when the President solemnly commanded: "Gentlemen of the jury, give your verdict!" The foreman, a round-faced, dry-goods salesman, plainly oppressed by the importance of his position, rose, and, with his right hand over his heart, declared, in husky tones: "On my honor and on my conscience, before God and before men, the declaration of the jury is: "No, the prisoner is not guilty!" A gasp swept across the hall, and then the great throng burst into a cheer. Men sprang up and slapped each other on the back, and women, with tear-stained faces, frantically waved their limp handkerchiefs. Rose gave Helene a convulsive hug, and it was returned with interest. Sergeant Fontaine so far forgot his official reserve as to seize Victor's hand and shake it with enthusiasm, while he twisted his mustache violently with the other. Raymond was trying to combine the dignity of an advocate with an expression of rapturous delight. The usher hammered his desk and the gendarmes shouted for order. Only Floriot sat with bowed head, and Noel watched him under the hand that shaded his eyes. Evidently feeling that the shortest way was the quickest, the President ordered the usher to bring in the prisoner. As soon as the door opened and the woman walked slowly in between the gendarmes, the din fell away to a tense hush. There was a spot of color in her cheeks that had not been there before, and her eyes were wilder. Dr. Chennel gazed at her with close scrutiny. "She has a very high fever!" he whispered to Noel. The latter nodded, without turning his head. "Clerk of the court, read the declaration of the jury!" commanded the President. The clerk, who had been busily writing out that document in the form prescribed, rose with the paper in his hand and read, in a droning monotone: "The declaration of the jury is: No, the prisoner is not guilty. In consequence whereof the court proclaims the prisoner's innocence of the crime of which she is accused, orders her acquittal, and orders that she be immediately set at liberty, unless there be other reason for her detention. The court is risen!" The last words were lost in a frightful shriek from the prisoner. "_No! No! No_!" she screamed, struggling in the grip of the two guards as she tried to throw herself out of the dock. "_Let me die! I want to, die! I want to die!_" In an instant the court was again in an uproar with oaths, cries of anger, and shrieks of women. The crowd swept forward to the railing. "Clear the court!" roared the President; and the gendarmes threw themselves into the press, driving the packed men and women toward the exits. The din was terrific, and above it all rose Jacqueline's screams. "_I want to die! I want to die!_" Raymond was the first to reach her, closely fol lowed by Dr. Chennel and Noel, and then Floriot "_For God's sake_! _doctor! Help her_!" he cried. CHAPTER XXIV THE GUTTERING FLAME As the rear of the hysterical mob was driven from the hall and the doors locked, Jacqueline collapsed into her chair, unconscious. At the same moment the President hurried up, pulling on his street coat. "Carry her into my room!" he commanded. The two muscular gendarmes picked her up, chair and all, and carried her into the little dressing-room. Then, with a sign, he dismissed them and immediately followed himself, leaving the little party alone. Leaving Helene in her father's care, Rose followed the solemn little procession into the President's room. Dr. Chennel met her at the door and gave her a few hasty orders as to medicine, and she hurried away. Then he turned to the patient. In a moment he had Noel administering smelling salts and Raymond moistening her temples with cologne, which he produced from his emergency tag. Floriot, with white, compressed lips and frightened eyes, stood watching as the doctor felt her pulse, listened with ear to her heart, and turned back the lids of the sightless eyes. Floriot was the first to speak. "Is she--in danger?" he whispered, brokenly. The doctor slowly shook his head. "I can't tell yet," he replied, without taking his eyes off her face. "Her heart is undoubtedly badly affected. It is worn out--like the rest of her. My great fear is that she may die of utter exhaustion." Floriot turned away with an inarticulate groan. "Doctor! I think she moved just now!" exclaimed Noel. The doctor was watching her face keenly. "Yes, she's coming around all right," he nodded. "This crisis is over, but----" He shrugged his shoulders. The dark eyelids trembled and slowly opened. There was a long, fluttering sigh. Dr. Chennel bent over. "How do you feel now?" he asked. She swallowed slowly once or twice, and looked listlessly at the circle of faces around her. Floriot was standing where he could not be seen. "Not well," she murmured, feebly. "I'm all broken up. I--don't--seem to have--any strength. Where am I?" "In the law courts--in the President's room," replied Chennel. She started, as if to rise. "The President's!" she gasped. Her brain was still hazy, but she could think of only one President. Noel seemed to divine something of what was in her mind, for he threw Floriot in the background a look that said: "Leave this to me!" Floriot opened the door and stumbled out. At an imperative gesture from Noel, Raymond followed him. When the door had closed behind them, Noel bent over until his lips all but touched the woman's ear. "Jacqueline!" he murmured. She looked up at him with dull eyes. "Who are you?" she asked, indifferently. "You seem to know my name--who are you?" He looked steadily and tenderly into her eyes. "Don't you remember me?" She shook her head. "But I'm sure you haven't altogether forgotten me!" he insisted, gently. She studied his face for several moments and then recognition slowly dawned in her eyes. "Wait a minute! But--no, it's impossible! It can't be!" she cried, excitedly. Dr. Chennel tactfully stepped back to the opposite side of the little room. "Little Jenny Wren!" whispered Noel. "_Noel! Noel! You!_" she cried, clutching his arm and looking hungrily up into his face. "Yes, it's Noel!" he smiled. She seized his hand and pressed it again and again to her cheek. "Oh, thank God! Thank God!" she sobbed. "I'm no longer alone! Noel! Noel! Noel!" "Are you really as glad as all that to see me again, Jennie Wren?" he whispered, tenderly. He sat on the arm of the chair and she clung to him as if she were afraid he might disappear as suddenly as he had come. "Noel! Noel! Pity me! Pity me!" she sobbed. He gently laid his fingers across her lips. "Don't talk of pity!" he whispered. "Everything is forgotten!" "Ah! As if I could ever forget!" she moaned. "Of course, you can!" he cried, cuddling her up close to him. "It was all a nightmare, and you're awake now. Don't cry, Jacqueline, don't cry! We're all together again, and we'll all be happy together and your son----" Jacqueline tore herself away from him with a frightened cry and tried to rise. "Raymond!" she gasped. "Has any one told him? Does he know?" "No! No! He doesn't know anything yet!" Noel assured her hastily. But the dread of meeting her son and having him know her was too strong. She still struggled to rise, but was too weak. "Is he here?" she panted. "He mustn't see me! Oh, let me go away! Let me go away!" She got half-way out of her chair, but fell back exhausted. Dr. Chennel stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. "You will be able to go presently, madame," he said, quietly. "Your strength will come back to you shortly." Jacqueline glanced at him eagerly. "You are a doctor, aren't you?" she panted. "Yes," he replied, with a nod. "Don't excite yourself and I'll cure you in a few minutes, for can have perfect confidence in me. I am a friend of your son--a friend of Raymond!" "Oh! Then--you know----" "Yes, I know everything," he interrupted, gravely. "But he will never know, doctor, will he?" she asked, feverishly, gripping his hand. "No, he shall know nothing at all," he assured. "Promise me! Promise me!" she cried. "I promise!" he repeated. She released his hand and sank back with a piteous sob. "I have nothing left--to me now--but my memories of him," she wept, "and his thoughts of what he believes me to have been. I want him to love me always! Always!--Ah--h--h!" She closed her eyes and hid her face as the door opened; but it was only Rose with the medicine, on a little tray with a tumbler of water and a teaspoon. "Quick, Rose, here!" ordered the doctor, sharply. He quickly mixed some of the stimulant with the water and held the tumbler to her lips. She drank a little and presently revived. "Doctor," she said, faintly. "I believe I'm going to die!" "Nonsense! Don't be foolish!" laughed the doctor. Rose broke into sobs and Jacqueline recognized her, and the next moment mistress and maid were in each other's arms. They kissed and wept over each other for a minute or two and then Noel cried lightly: "There you are! Now let's not have any more nonsense about dying!" While Noel kept up a running fire of pleasant chat in an effort to revive Jacqueline's spirits, Dr. Chennel drew Rose off to one side of the room. "Where is M. Floriot?" he asked, in a low undertone. "Just outside--with M. Raymond," replied Rose. "Tell him not to go away!" Rose looked up at him quickly and her cheeks paled. "Do you--think that----" she stopped short. The expression of his eyes gave her the answer. "Hush!" he whispered. "It is only a question of time--and a short time!" Rose slipped out and he returned to his patient in time to hear Noel reorganizing her wardrobe, with much laughter, and making plans for a trip to the country. She was smiling faintly, but the smile faded when he made her take some more of the bitter medicine. "Tastes rather horrible, eh?" he said with a smile, "but you feel better, don't you?" "Yes, thank you," answered Jacqueline, weakly. "I don't suffer at all. It's my strength--I feel so--weak!" "Your strength will come back fast enough!" he assured her heartily. "I'll tell you what we'll do! I shall take you to my house in Biarritz! There I can look after you comfortably and easily, and you'll be around in no time!" "Oh, doctor!" she cried, a grateful catch in her voice. "You are too kind! But it's impossible. I should be in the way." "Not the least bit in the world!" he replied briskly. "The house is a big comfortable sort of a barn. I live there all alone, excepting an elderly sister, and she will be only too happy to have you. You'll be with friends there; for, although you don't know it, my sister and I have been your friends for a long time." "My friends?" she repeated, with a little questioning smile. "He saved Raymond's life, you know," explained Noel, quickly. The expression of Jacqueline's face altered in a moment to one of unutterable gratitude. She seized his hand and kissed it passionately. "Doctor, I--I--cannot thank you!" she murmured brokenly. The doctor gently disengaged his hand and stepped back, turning his face away. The pity of the scene had all but overcome the well-schooled emotions of the man of medicine. "He and his sister did all they could to console Floriot," whispered Noel; "the poor chap was broken-hearted." Noel felt the limp figure stiffen at the mention of the hated name. "Not as broken-hearted as I was!" she exclaimed, bitterly. "How do you know, Jacqueline? 'Judge not, lest ye be judged,'" he quoted softly. "I have been judged!" she replied in the same hard undertone. "He drove me out of his house like a dog!" Noel was silent for a moment; and when he spoke his voice was vibrant with the emotion that the memory of that terrible night awoke. "I was there that day, Jacqueline, after you had gone," he said. "I saw his grief--and his repentance. I heard him curse his anger and his pride. And since then he--we have searched the world for you. For twenty years he has not had a thought that was not of you, and in those twenty years he has never known peace or happiness. Ah! Jacqueline, dearest, I believe he has suffered even more than you have!" "He had his son and I had nobody!" was the bitter reply. And as if her words had been a call to him, the door was thrown violently open and Raymond dashed headlong into the room. CHAPTER XXV "WHILE THE LAMP HOLDS OUT TO BURN----" When Floriot and Raymond passed out of the little room, the former dropped heavily into one of the big empty armchairs on the bank where the judges had sat a short time before. Raymond gazed at him anxiously. His face was buried in his hands and he made no sound. "What's the matter, father?" asked the young man, laying his hand on the quivering shoulder. But still his father did not speak. He was trying to nerve himself up to meet the hour that he had dreaded for years. The time for delay was past. He believed that Jacqueline would live only a few hours and he dared not let Raymond's mother die and have him learn afterward that he had been! robbed of his one chance to speak to her and know. He felt that Raymond might possibly forgive anything but that. With an effort he raised his haggard eyes to his son's and took the boy's hand in his. "My boy," he said, his voice hoarse and trembling with emotion, "I must tell you something unbelievably terrible. I know--how you have loved me and looked up to me--as the sort of man you want to be. When you've heard--what I must tell you now--you will curse God for making me your father!" "Father!" cried the boy in horror, throwing his arm around his neck. "Father! What----" But Floriot gently pushed him away and silenced him with a gesture. "Your mother--is not dead!" he faltered. The words struck the color from Raymond's face and he almost staggered back and stared at his father with terrified eyes. "Not dead!" he repeated in a dull whisper. Floriot shook his head. "When you were hardly a year old she left--me!" he said. The boy started forward with a cry that was something between a choke and a sob. "Wait!" commanded his father, hoarsely. "It was my fault! I didn't know her--I didn't understand her! My neglect drove her to it. She went off with a lover!" Raymond pressed his hands to his face and crouched against the broad desk as if the blow had physically crushed him. "But there is worse than that!" cried Floriot, rising. "She came back to me and begged for forgiveness. She groveled at my feet and pleaded for mercy! She made me see that I shared the blame of her fall! But my cheap, foolish pride conquered every other feeling--every instinct of pity, every impulse of nobility! And I threw her out into the street!" The boy straightened up with a sob of anguish. "And--and--what became--of her?" he panted. Floriot's left hand went up to his throat as if he felt himself choking. He turned his head away, and with a terrible effort raised his other hand, pointed to the door of the President's room and gasped brokenly: "_She is there! That woman--is--your mother_!" Raymond swayed on his feet and his father's rigid figure swam in a haze before his eyes. His, mother! That woman his mother! In the hundred emotions that swept him in the ghost of a second only one was missing--shame for her stained body and blackened soul. His heart--starved all its life--quivered with a joy that was almost pain at the thought at last it would feel the love of even such a mother, as the lost and parched wanderer in the desert falls with a prayer of thanksgiving at the edge of a brackish pool. With a choking cry of _"Mother_!" he stumbled blindly to the door. The instant he rushed into the room, Dr. Chennel and Noel saw what had happened, and the former was in front of him in a stride. "Be careful!" he warned, in a stern whisper that brought the boy to his senses like a dash of cold water. "Any strong excitement may be too? much for her!" He gripped Raymond's arm and held him until he saw that he had nearly recovered control of himself, and then, with another whisper of "Remember!" he released him. "Yes, yes! I understand!" exclaimed Raymond in the same tone, holding himself with a mighty effort. "I'll control myself! She sha'n't know!" Noel was administering a little more of the stimulant as he advanced. He gave Raymond a warning look as, with a gasp of terror, Jacqueline attempted to rise. The young man seemed not to notice her agitation, and with a bright smile he cried: "Well, my dear client, are you better?" "Oh, it's nothing!" Dr. Chennel answered for her. "Just a little fit of the nerves which, after all, is quite natural!" "That's all right!" cried Raymond, heartily. "I didn't want to leave the court without asking' how you were." Her eyes ran hungrily over his graceful but muscular figure, and the pale, handsome face. "You--are--very good!" she murmured, uncertainly. Noel signalled the doctor with his eyes, and they went out softly, leaving the door ajar. Raymond briskly pulled a chair up close beside his mother's and went on in the same light tone. "And I couldn't go without thanking you!" he said. She smiled into his face, but there was still a trace of alarm in her eyes. "Thanking _me_?" she repeated. "Of course!" replied Raymond. "Why, I owe my first success to you! To-day has brought me the greatest joy of my life!" "But if you thank me, what can I say to you?" she asked, her voice trembling with tenderness. He smiled back at her. "Tell me that you are glad," he suggested She gazed into his eyes with her heart in hers. "Yes, I am glad--very glad--almost happy!" she said, in a low, vibrant voice. "But I did not dare hope for the happiness that has come to me to-day!" Her strength did, indeed, seem to be returned rapidly. Her voice was surer, her eyes sparkled, and there was a fleck of color in her cheeks. Raymond felt his lips tremble and he fought with a desire to throw himself into her arms. It was several seconds before he trusted himself to speak. Then: "I hope I won't tire you," he said, politely. "Before I go, don't you think we might have a little chat? You haven't spoiled me much in that respect, have you?" he added, with a sudden smile. "You are my first client and I hardly know you!" She reached out and touched his arm in quick apology. "You must forgive me for having received you so rudely," she said. Raymond laughed. "You didn't receive me at all, as a matter of fact," he declared. "But I wasn't angry. I said to myself, 'She probably finds me too young, or has no confidence in me, or--or----'" His eyes dropped and in a lower tone he added, "or she doesn't think--she would like me." He felt a sudden, almost painful pressure on his arm. "Ah! Don't think that!" she pleaded, quickly. "But I was so sad--so despairingly sad!" Raymond raised his eyes to her face. "And now?" he half whispered. "And now--thanks to you!--I am almost happy!" "It makes me happy to hear you say so! Do you know," he went on, hitching up his chair in a confidential manner, "I felt the deepest sympathy for you from the first!" "Really?" she smiled. "It's a fact!" he declared, with an energetic nod. "From the start; for I was sure you were unhappy, and surer still that you should not have been unhappy. I wanted to console you--to tell you to pluck up your courage--to convince you that I was not only your counsel but your friend--a true and sincere friend!" "If I had only known--if I had only known!" murmured the woman, with a sharp catch in her voice. It cost Raymond an effort to continue in his bright, boyish tones; but he succeeded. "I made myself a promise that I would win your case for you," he went on; "that I would work it out with all my might! As you wouldn't give me your secret, I made up my mind I would guess it, and you see--I succeeded! I made the truth clear, and every heart in the court felt for you. Now you are free!--free to go to the son you love so dearly! Promise me," his voice trembled, "promise me that you will not forget me altogether!" Her eyes were misty with tears and her face quivered. "Forget you! Forget you!" she cried, brokenly. Raymond turned his face away. "I know I shall always remember you!" he said in a low voice, as one making a sacred vow. With a half-cry, half-sob she struggled to her feet. He had promised to spare her the pain of knowing that he knew her to be a mother, but even that paled beside the agony of feeling his presence within touch of her hands, and knowing that she must never clasp him to her heart. "I must go--I must go away!" she panted feverishly. But before Raymond could rise, her weakened limbs had collapsed and she sank back into her chair. "And I cannot!" she moaned, her hands pressed to her eyes. "Please don't go!" he pleaded, laying his hand lightly on her arm. At the touch of his fingers she straightened up with a gasp. "Before you go," she said, in a piteous half-whisper, "I should like to give you some little trifle as a keepsake, but I have absolutely nothing. But you can be sure that as long as I live--as long--as my heart beats and--my breath lasts--I will never forget you!" An impulse that he could not resist moved Raymond to reach out and take her fingers in his. "Give me your hand!" he said. His voice quivered and the woman could feel him tremble. "Do you remember during the trial just now," he went on unsteadily as he slowly bent toward her, "when I turned toward you, you took my hand and pressed it? I--I could feel your eyes--looking into my very heart! I--I--wanted then--to take you in my arms--and press you to my heart!" Her wild eyes closed and her body was rigid and tense. "Will you--won't you--won't you kiss me--_mother_?" The words rushed out in a sob as he slid from the chair to his knees by her side. With a cry that was more than human and strength that was more than a woman's, she flung her arms around his neck, crushed his dark head to her bosom and rained kisses on his eyes and hair and lips and brow.... "Oh, my Raymond! My darling! My darling boy!" she sobbed again and again, and his face was wet with her tears.... "It is too much! Ah, God! I can't stand this joy! My Raymond! My little laddie!..." Minute after minute passed and there was no sound but Jacqueline's quick breathing. "Are you in pain, mother?" he murmured tenderly, trying to lift his head. He could feel against his cheek that the tumultuous beating of her heart suddenly died away to an unsteady flutter. "No, no, dear!" she whispered, faintly. "Don't go! Don't move! How--did you--know----?" "Father just told me, mother mine!" he replied, softly, nestling his head into the hollow where it had not lain for twenty-three years. "He told me all that you had suffered. But it is over now. We'll forget those long years of separation--together!" Her reply was a long, delicious hug and a dozer? soft kisses. There was another silence. Then Raymond spoke, a little timidly: "Fath--my father is waiting, mother. Won't you see him?" She smiled down into his upturned face, but there was a strange dimness in her eyes and his voice sounded far away. "Yes, yes!" came in a faint whisper. "Tell him--to come--quickly!" He gave her a long kiss, sprang up and ran out into the courtroom. She half-rose and stretched out her hand for the glass of medicine but could not reach it. "Raymond!" she tried to call, but her lips barely framed the word. There was a roaring in her ears that might have been the roar of the unknown sea, and a mist before her eyes that might have been the mist upon its waters.... Raymond ran in, closely followed by the three older men. "Hurry, father! She is waiting!" He stopped. Something in the position of the still figure in the chair wiped the words from his lips. Dr. Chennel advanced quickly, touched the limp hand and stepped back with bowed head. Raymond threw himself at her feet with a cry of anguish! "_Mother! Mother_!" * * * * * In a little churchyard in the valley of Vienne, not far from the birthplace of the Blessed Maid, you may find a slender column of white marble marked with the name "Floriot" in large letters. Beneath is an inscription which begins: "Here lies the body of Jacqueline Claire Gilberte Lefevre, the beloved mother of Raymond ----." "Madame X" had found in death what she had lost in life--love and a name. 
41002	----	If Sinners Entice Thee, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. CHAPTER ONE. ZERTHO. "No, Zertho. You forget that Liane is my daughter, the daughter of Brooker of the Guards, once an officer, and still, I hope, a gentleman." "Gentleman!" sneered the other with a curl of his lip. Erle Brooker shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply. "Yet many women would be eager enough to become Princess d'Auzac if they had the chance," observed the tall, dark-bearded, handsome man, speaking English with a slight accent as he leaned easily against the edge of the table, and glanced around the shabby, cheaply-furnished little dining-room. Sallow-faced, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, he was aged about forty--with full lips and long tapering hands, white as a woman's. "Both of us know the world, my dear fellow," answered Captain Erle Brooker at last, standing astride before the fireplace in which a gaudy Japanese umbrella had been placed to hide its ugliness. "Surely the five years we spent together were sufficient to show us that there are women--and women?" "Of course, as I expected," the other cried cynically. "Now that you're back again in England, buried in this sleepy country village, you are becoming sentimental. I suppose it is respectable to be so; but it's hardly like you." "You've prospered. I've fallen upon evil days." "And you could have had similar luck if only you would have continued to run with me that snug little place in Nice, instead of showing the white feather," he said. "It was entirely against my grain to fleece those beardless boys. I'll play fair, or not at all." "Sentiment again! It's your curse, Brooker." "The speculation no doubt proved a veritable gold mine, as of course it must. But I had a second reason in dissolving our partnership." "Liane urged you?" "Yes." "And you took her advice, the advice of a mere girl!" he laughed contemptuously. "Luck is always with her," the Captain answered. "She sat beside me and prompted me on the occasion of my last big coup at roulette." "A sort of sorceress, eh?" Brooker smiled coldly, but again made no reply. "Well," continued his companion. "Do you intend to accept my proposal?" "Certainly not," replied the luckless gamester. "I'll never sacrifice my daughter's happiness." "Rubbish!" "I have already decided." Zertho was silent; his features became fierce and authoritative. His was an arrestive face, indicating rare, possibly prodigious, mental and also bodily activity, an activity that, unless curbed and restrained by carefully cultivated habits, might become distorted, and thus become injurious to himself as well as to others. Two rows of strong white teeth redeemed a large mouth from the commonplace, but those teeth were seldom seen--never, indeed, unless their owner laughed, and if smiles were rare, laughter still more rarely disturbed the steady composure of that saturnine countenance. Yet there was an individuality about the man which produced interest, though not always an agreeable interest, much less liking. He made an impression; he produced an effect upon the imagination that was not easily forgotten. Again, regarding the Captain keenly, he asked: "Don't you think I'm straight?" "As straight as you ever were, Zertho," the other answered ambiguously, with a light laugh. "But if you want a wife, surely you can fancy some other girl besides Liane. I'm afraid we know a little too much of each other to trust one another very far." There was another long silence. The golden sunset streamed in at the open window, which revealed an old-fashioned garden filled with fragrant roses, and a tiny lawn bounded by a hedgerow beyond. Through the garden ran a paved path to the white dusty road. The afternoon had been hot and drowsy. Upon the warm wind was borne in the sound of children at play in the village street of Stratfield Mortimer, while somewhere in the vicinity the shoe-smith's hammer fell upon his anvil with musical clang. The house stood at the east end of the long straggling village, towards Reading, a small, old-fashioned cottage, picturesque in its ivy mantle, with deep mullions, diamond panes, and oaken doors. A year ago an old maiden lady, who had resided there for a quarter of a century, had died, and the village had been thrown into a state of commotion, as villages are wont to be, by the arrival of new comers--Captain Erle Brooker, his daughter Liane, and Nellie Bridson, her companion. The latter was daughter of Jack Bridson, a brother officer of Brooker's. Left an orphan at nine years of age she had been brought up by the Captain, and throughout her whole life had been Liane's inseparable friend. Soon, however, the village gossips found food for talk. The furniture they brought with them bore the distinct impress of having been purchased secondhand, the maid-of-all-work was a buxom Frenchwoman who bought stuff, for soups and salads, and the two girls habitually spoke French when together, in preference to English. Hence they were at once dubbed "fine, finnikin' foreigners," and regarded with suspicion by all the country folk from Beech Hill away to Silchester. The thin-faced vicar made a formal call, as vicars will, but, as might be expected, received but a cold welcome from the ex-cavalry officer, and this fact spreading rapidly throughout the district, no one else ever crossed their threshold. This social ostracism annoyed Brooker, not for his own sake, but for that of the girls. The reason he had decided to live in the country in preference to London, was, first because it was cheaper, and secondly, because he had a vague idea that both girls would enter a pleasant and inexpensive circle where the dissipations would be mainly in the form of tea and tennis. In this, however, he and they had been sorely disappointed. Zertho had spoken the truth. Stratfield Mortimer was indeed deadly dull after Ostend or the Riviera. He was getting already tired of posing as a half-pay officer, and speaking to nobody except the postmistress or the garrulous father of the local inn-keeper. Yet the one thing needful was money, and since he had renounced gambling, he had had scarcely sufficient to live from hand to mouth. Yet, although he had hardly a sou in his pocket, his imperturbable good humour never deserted him. His career had, indeed, been full of strange vicissitudes; of feast and fast, of long nights and heavy play, of huge stakes won and lost with smile or curse, of fair game and sharping, of fleecing youngsters and bluffing his elders in nearly every health-resort in Europe. Easy-going to a fault, he bore his fifty years merrily, with scarcely a grey hair in his head, and although his ruddy, well-shaven face bore no sign of anxiety it was a trifle blotchy, caused by high living and long nights of play, while twenty years of an existence on his wits, had so sharpened his intelligence that in his steel-grey eyes was a keen penetrating look that had long become habitual. As careless and indolent now as he had ever been, he nevertheless dressed just as carefully, walked as lightly, and held his head just as high as in the days of his prosperity when a smart cavalry officer, younger son of a well-known peer, he could draw a cheque for thirty thousand. When he reflected upon his present position, hampered by the two girls dependent upon him, he merely laughed a strange cynical laugh, the same that he had laughed across the roulette-table when he had flung down and lost his last louis. "What's your game, burying yourself in this abominable hole?" inquired his whilom partner, presently. "I called at the National Sporting Club as soon as I got to London, expecting to see something of you, but the hall-porter told me that you lived down in this Sleepy-Hollow, and never came to town. So I resolved to run down and look you up." "Can't afford to live in London," the Captain answered, rolling a cigarette carefully between his fingers, before lighting it. "Hard up! yet you refuse my offer!" observed Zertho, laughing. "You're an enigma, Brooker. Money would put you on your legs again, my dear fellow." "I don't doubt it," the other replied. "But I have reasons." Zertho d'Auzac knit his dark brows, glancing at the Captain with a look of quick suspicion. "You have expectations for Liane--eh?" No reply escaped Brooker's lips. He was thinking deeply. "Any other man wouldn't make you such an offer," the other continued, in a tone of contempt. Instantly there was an angry glint in the Captain's eyes. "I tell you, Zertho, I'll never let my daughter marry you. You, of all men, shall not have her--no, by Heaven! not for a hundred thousand pounds." The other's face darkened in anger. But he turned away, giving vent to a short, harsh laugh, and with feigned good humour advanced towards the window, and whistling softly, took out his cigarette-case, a plain silver one, whereon his coronet and monogram were engraved. At that moment two graceful, bright-faced girls entered the gate from the road, sauntering leisurely up the path towards the house. Dressed alike in dark well-made skirts, cool-looking blouses of cream crepon and straw sailor hats with black bands, they walked together, the sound of their laughter ringing through the room. The taller of the pair was Liane Brooker, slim, with infinite grace, a face undeniably beautiful, a pair of clear grey eyes the depths of which seemed unfathomable, nose and mouth that denoted buoyancy of spirits and sincerity of heart, hair dressed neatly in the latest mode, and that easy swing about her carriage peculiar alone to Frenchwomen. Her warmth of Southern blood and large expressive eyes she inherited from her mother, who came from St Tropez in the Var, and her strange cosmopolitan education had already made her a thorough woman of the world. Her character was altogether a curiously complex one. Though fresh, bright and happy, she, the daughter of an adventurer, had seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, where the women were declasse, and the men rogues and outsiders; yet, in fairness to her father, it must be admitted that, even in his most reckless moments, he had always exerted towards both girls keen solicitude. Her beauty was peerless. Hundreds of men had said so among themselves. Such a face as hers would have made a fortune on the stage; therefore it was little wonder that she should be desired as wife by Prince Zertho d'Auzac, the man who under the plain cognomen of Zertho d'Auzac was once a fellow blackleg with her father, and now a wealthy personage by reason of his inheritance of the great family estates in Luxembourg. Well he knew what a sensation her beauty would create in Berlin or St Petersburg, and with the object of obtaining her he had travelled to England. Pure and good, full of high thoughts and refined feeling, Liane Brooker existed amid strangely incongruous surroundings. She had been reared in the worst atmosphere of vice and temptation to be found in the whole of Europe, yet had passed through unscathed and uncorrupted. Her companion was fair, with bright pink-and-white complexion, rosy, delicate cheeks, and merry blue eyes. Nelly was scarcely as handsome perhaps as Liane, yet hers was an almost perfect type of English beauty. Her hands were not quite so small or refined as her friend's, and in contrast with the latter's carriage hers was not quite so graceful, nor was her figure so supple; yet the mass of fluffy blond curls that peeped beneath her hat, straying across her brow, gave softness to her features, and her delicate pointed chin added a decided piquancy to a face that was uncommonly pretty and winning. Both girls, catching sight at the same moment of Zertho's heavy watch-chain at the window, muttered together in an undertone. That day the Prince had arrived unexpectedly to lunch, sat down to their meagre dish of cold mutton, as he had often done in the old days when funds had been low, and having indicated his desire to talk business alone with the Captain, they had gone out together to post a letter at the little grocery store at the opposite end of the village. When they discovered him still there, both pulled wry faces. He had never been a favourite of either. Liane had always instinctively disliked this man, who was the scapegrace of a noble family. His cynical look and sly manner had caused her to distrust him, and it had been mainly on this account that her father had dissolved his partnership in the private gaming-house they had carried on during the previous winter in Nice, an institution remembered with regret by many a young man who had gone to the Riviera for health and pleasure, only to return ruined. Zertho was not entirely unconscious of Liane's antipathy towards him; he well knew that without her father's aid his cause must be foredoomed to failure. But he never on any single occasion acted in undue haste. It was his proud boast that if ever he set his heart upon doing a thing he could quietly possess his soul in patience, for years if necessary, till the right moment arrived when he could execute his plans with success. Judging from the light, pleasant greeting he gave both girls as they entered, it was the tactics of craft and cunning he now intended to follow. He chaffed Liane upon becoming a village belle, whereupon she, quick at repartee, tossed her handsome head, her heart beating fast, almost tumultuously, as she answered: "Better that than the old life, M'sieur." "Oh, so you, too, have settled and become puritanical!" he laughed. "You English, you are always utterly incomprehensible. Have you yet joined the Anti-Gambling League?" "We are very happy here," she replied, heedless of his taunt. "I have no desire to return to the Continent, to that old life of feast one day and fast the next." "Nor I," chimed in Nellie, full of fun and vivacity. "This place is sometimes horribly dull, it's true; but we always get our dinner, which we didn't on many occasions when we were abroad. Look at our house! Surely this place, with its little English garden, is better than those dingy rooms on the third floor in the Rue Dalpozzo in Nice. Besides, the Captain never swears now." "Very soon he'll become a teacher in the local Sunday School, I suppose," sneered Zertho. "I cannot understand your reason for coming here to jeer at our poverty," Liane exclaimed angrily, drawing herself up quickly. "At least my father lives honestly." "I sincerely beg your pardon, and your father's also, mademoiselle," answered the Prince, bowing stiffly in foreign manner. "If my remarks have annoyed you I'm sure I will at once withdraw them with a thousand apologies. I had no intention, I assure you, of causing one instant's pain. I was merely joking. It all seems so droll." "I know you well enough, Zertho, not to be annoyed at anything you may say," the Captain interrupted, good-humouredly as always. "However, speak what you have to say to me alone, not before the girls." "The ladies will, I know, forgive me if I promise not to again offend," the Prince said. His eager eyes scanned Liane with such intense anxiety that they seemed to burn in their sockets, yet mingled with this fiery admiration, there was a strange covered menace in their expression. Taking out his watch a second later he added, "But I'm late, I see. Ten minutes only to catch my train back to London, and I don't know the way. Who'll guide me to the station? You, Liane?" "No," answered her father. "Nelly shall go. I want Liane to deliver a message for me." Prince d'Auzac bit his lip. But next instant he laughed gaily and saying: "Then come along Nelly," shook hands with Liane and her father, bade them "Au revoir" with a well-feigned bonhomie, and lounged out of the room. Meanwhile, Nelly wheeled out her cycle, and announcing her intention of piloting their visitor to the station, and afterwards riding over to Burghfield village to make some purchase, mounted her machine and rode slowly on besides the Prince, chatting merrily. As soon as they had left, Liane inquired of her father what she should do; but he told her briefly that it had been merely an excuse to prevent her going to the station, as he knew she disliked Zertho's society. "Yes, father," she answered with a slight sigh, "I think him simply hateful. I'm convinced that he's neither your friend, nor mine." Then glancing at the clock, she passed out of the house humming to herself as she walked slowly down the garden path, into the white dusty high road. For a long time Brooker stood twirling his moustache, gazing aimlessly out into the crimson blaze of the dying day. "I can't think why Zertho should have taken this trouble to look me up again," he murmured to himself. "I had hoped that he had cut me entirely, and believed that terrible incident was forgotten. The excuse about Liane is all very well. But I know him. He means mischief--he means mischief." And his face grew ashen pale as his eyes were lost in deep and serious contemplation. A sudden thought had flashed across his mind. It held him petrified, for he half-feared that he had guessed the bitter, ghastly truth. CHAPTER TWO. A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK. Sir John Stratfield, of Stratfield Court, lay dying on that afternoon. For years he had been a confirmed invalid, and in the morning the two renowned doctors who had been telegraphed for from London had declared his recovery impossible. The Court, a fine old pile with grey time-worn walls half-hidden by ivy, stood in its spacious park about a mile from Stratfield Mortimer, on the hill between that village and Burghfield. As the rays of crimson sunset slanted in through the one unshaded window there was a profound stillness in the sick-room. At the bedside stood four solemn-faced men, patiently watching for the end. The spark of life flickered on, and now and then the dying man uttered words low and indistinct. Two of the men were doctors, the third Richard Harrison, of the firm of Harrison and James, solicitors, of Bedford Row, and the fourth George Stratfield, the Baronet's younger son. The haggard man had spoken once or twice, giving certain instructions to his solicitor, but at last there was a long silence, unbroken save by the rustling of the stiff grey gown of the nurse, who entered for an instant, then left again in silence. The eccentric old man, whose reputation throughout Berkshire was that of a tyrannical landlord, a bigoted magistrate and a miserly father, at last opened his dull filmy eyes. The white bony fingers lying on the coverlet twitched uneasily, as, glancing at his son, he beckoned him forward. Obediently the young man approached. "Promise me one thing, George," the dying man exclaimed with an effort, in a voice so low as to be almost indistinguishable. "Promise me that you will never marry that woman." "Why, father? Why are you so bitterly prejudiced against Liane?" "I have my reasons," was the answer. "But I love her," the young man urged. "I can marry no one else." "Then go abroad, forget her, and remain a bachelor. Erle Brooker's daughter shall never become a Stratfield," was the harsh reply, uttered with considerable difficulty. George, a tall well-built young fellow, with fair hair, a fair moustache and blue eyes, was a typical specimen of the English gentleman, still in his well-worn riding breeches and tweed coat, for that morning before the arrival of the doctors he had, in order to get a prescription made up, ridden hard into Reading. He made no reply to his father's words, he did not wish to offend the Baronet, yet he could not give a pledge which he intended to break. "Will you not promise?" Sir John again demanded, a strange look overspreading his haggard ashen features. Again a deep silence fell. "No," answered his son at last. "I cannot promise to give up Liane, for I love her." "Love! Bah. I tell you that woman shall never be your wife. If John were here, instead of with his regiment in India, he would fully endorse every word I say. Brooker's girl shall never enter our family." "What do you know against her?" the son asked dismayed. "Why, you have never set your eyes upon either father or daughter! Some confounded eavesdropper must have been telling you of our clandestine meetings, and this has annoyed you." "I am aware of more than you imagine," the dying man answered. "Will you, or will you not, promise to obey my wish?" There was a look of firm determination in the old man's countenance; a look which the son did not fail to notice. "No, father," he answered. "Once for all, I decline." "Then if such be your decision you must take the consequences. You are an unworthy son." "In the matter of my marriage I shall follow my own inclinations entirely," the young man said calmly. "Very well," the Baronet answered, and making a sign to his solicitor, Harrison, commanded his son to leave the room. At first George demurred; but in accordance with the suggestion of the doctors that the wishes of their patient should be respected at that crisis-time, he went out, and passing downstairs to the library threw himself back in one of the roomy leather chairs. Yes, he loved Liane. With her vivacious half-English, half-French mannerisms, her sweet musical accent, her dark beauty and grey trusting eyes, she was unlike any other woman he had ever beheld. They had met by chance on Mortimer Common a few months before. One morning, while riding towards Ufton, he had found her at the roadside endeavouring to re-adjust her cycle, which had met with a slight accident. His proffered services were gratefully accepted, and from that moment their friendship had ripened into passionate and devoted love. Almost daily they took long walks and rides together, but so secret had been their meetings that until half-an-hour ago he had no idea that his father was aware of the truth. He had purposely kept the matter from Sir John because of his severe illness, yet someone, whom he knew not, must have watched him and gone to the Baronet with some foul libellous story. As he lay back in the chair, his gaitered legs crossed, his sun-browned hands clasped behind his head, gazing up to the old panelled ceiling, he reflected that in a few hours the Court would no longer be his home. His elder brother, Major Stratfield, who for the past five years had been in India with his regiment, the East Surrey, had been telegraphed for, and in a few weeks would arrive and become Sir John Stratfield, while he, dogged by the misfortune attendant on being a younger son, would go forth from the old place with an income the extent of which he could not know until after the will had been read. George's life had certainly not been a happy one. Since his mother's death a few months after his birth, his father had become a hard man, irritable and misanthropic. He kept no company, begrudged every penny his son cost him at college, and appeared to take a delight in obtaining the ill-will of all his neighbours. He knew that scarcely a person in the parish would regret his decease, and used frequently to comment with self-satisfaction upon the unenviable reputation he had gained. This was merely eccentricity, people said; but for George it was decidedly unpleasant, for while he was welcomed in every house, his father was never invited. Sometimes this fact impressed itself forcibly on the old man's mind, but on such occasions he would only laugh contemptuously, saying: "Ah, the Stratfields of Stratfield can afford to treat with contempt these mushroom merchants without breeding, and without pedigree." At whatever George had achieved the baronet had never shown the slightest sign of satisfaction. His career at Balliol had been brilliant, he had eaten his dinners at Lincoln's Inn and been duly called to the Bar, but all to no purpose, for almost as soon as he had been "called," his father, strangely enough, refused to grant him any further allowance unless he gave up his chambers and returned to live at Stratfield. This he had been forced to do, although much against his inclination, for he preferred his friends of the Common Room to the society of his eccentric parent. However, it had after all turned out for the best, he reflected, because a month after he had come back he had met the grey-eyed girl whose beauty held him entranced, and whom he intended to ask to become his wife. From the very first it had been arranged between them that they should keep their acquaintance secret, only Nelly Bridson being aware of it, and it was she who met George with notes from Liane when, on rare occasions, the latter was unable to keep her appointments. He had found both girls extremely pleasant companions, and through the sunny months the bright, halcyon days had passed happily. In obedience to Liane's wish he had refrained from calling upon Captain Brooker. Truth to tell, the refined, ingenuous girl, with her French chic and charming manner, was ashamed of their shabby home, of her father's frayed but well-cut clothes, of the distinct evidences of their poverty, and feared lest her lover should discover the secret of her father's rather ignominious past. She had told him that the Captain was a half-pay officer, and that her mother had been French; but she had been careful never to refer to the polyglot society in which they had moved on the Continent, nor to the fact that she was daughter of a man well-known in all the gaming establishments in Europe. All that was of the past, she had assured herself. If George knew the truth, then certainly he would forsake her. And she loved him no less than he adored her. Hence her lover had been puzzled not a little by her steadfast refusal to tell him anything definite regarding her earlier life, and the equal reticence of her foster sister. Of course, he could not fail to recognise behind this veil of mystery some family secret, yet in his buoyant frame of mind, happy in his new-found love, it troubled him but little. Liane, his enchantress, loved him; that was sufficient. For more than half-an-hour he sat in the old brown library in the same position, plunged deep in gloomy reflection. The sunset streamed in through the big windows of stained glass whereon were the arms of the Stratfields with the motto, "Non vi, sed voluntate," which his ancestors had borne through six centuries. The ancient room, lined from floor to ceiling with the books of past generations, seemed in that calm silent hour aglow with many colours. The suddenness with which the storm-cloud had broken away, and the sun's last rays again shone forth, aroused him. He glanced at his watch. It was already seven o'clock, and Liane was awaiting him beneath the railway bridge in Cross Lane, fully a mile away. He made a movement to rise, but next moment, reflecting that he could not leave the house while his father lay dying, sank back into his chair again. Liane knew of his father's illness, and would undoubtedly wait, as she had often waited before. Yet why was he sitting there inactive and patient? The bitter truth recurred to him. He had refused to give his pledge, and had therefore been banished from his father's presence. And this because he loved her! He rose, and gazed out down the long shady avenue of chestnuts, that led across the broad Park towards the village. Yes, he loved Liane, and come what might he would marry her. Soon his father would pass away; then he would be free to act as he chose. After all, he was pleased that he had not given a false pledge to a dying man. At least he had been frank. His brother John had never been his friend, therefore he knew that soon he must leave Stratfield. One thing he regretted to part from was the library, that fine old room in which he now stood, where he had spent so many long and studious days, and where he had sought refuge almost daily from his father's ill-temper. With hands deep in his pockets, he gazed slowly around the old place with its cosy armchairs and big writing-table, then sighed heavily. He was thinking of his father's angry declaration, "Erle Brooker's daughter shall never become a Stratfield." What did he mean? Were those words uttered because of some absurd prejudice, or was he actually aware of something which both Liane and Nelly had carefully striven to conceal? Again he glanced at his watch. The hour was fleeting. Soon his well-beloved would weary of waiting and return home. He pressed the electric button, and at once his summons was answered by a neat maid. "Tell Morton to saddle the bay mare and hold her ready. I may want to ride," he said. "Yes, sir," the girl answered, surprised at his unusual brusqueness. The door closed, and again he was alone. "At least I'll try and overtake her," he murmured. "I must see her to-night at all hazards," and as the sunlight faded he paced the room from door to window, his chin resting upon his breast. Soon the door again slowly opened, and the old solicitor entering, closed it after him. "It is my painful duty to tell you, Mr George, that your father has passed quietly away," he said, with that professionally solemn air that lawyers can assume when occasion demands. The young man standing with his back turned, gazing out upon the Park, made no response. "Before he drew his last breath I asked him three times whether he would see you again, but he firmly declined. You caused him the most intense displeasure by your refusal to grant his request," the solicitor continued. "Am I not my own master, Harrison?" the young man snapped, turning to him sharply. "Certainly," the other answered, raising his grey eyebrows. "I admit that I have no right whatever to interfere with your private affairs, but I certainly cannot regard your attitude and your father's subsequent action without considerable regret." "What do you mean?" "Apart from my professional connection with the Stratfield estate I have been, you will remember, a friend of your father's through many years, therefore it pains me to think that in Sir John's dying moments you should have done this." George Stratfield glanced quickly at the white-haired lawyer. Then he said,-- "I suppose my father has treated me badly at his death, as he did throughout his life." "Yes." "Well, let me know the worst," the young man exclaimed, sighing; "Heaven knows, I don't expect very much." "When the will is formally read you will know everything," the other answered drily. "A moment ago you said you were a friend of my father's. Surely if you are you will not keep me in suspense regarding my future." "Suspense is entirely unnecessary," answered the lawyer, his sphinx-like face relaxing into a cold smile. "Why?" "Well, unfortunately, you need not expect anything." "Not anything?" gasped the young man, blankly. "Then am I penniless?" The solicitor nodded, and opening a paper he had held behind him on entering, said,-- "When you had left the room half-an-hour ago Sir John expressed a desire to make an addition to his will, and entirely against my inclination made me write what you see here. He signed it while still in his right mind, the two doctors witnessing it. It is scarcely a professional proceeding to show it to you at this early stage, nevertheless, perhaps, as you are the son of my old friend, and it so closely concerns your future welfare, you may as well know the truth at once. Read for yourself." George took the paper in his trembling fingers and read the six long lines of writing, the ink of which was scarcely yet dry. Three times he read them ere he could understand their exact purport. The cold formal words crushed all joy from his heart, for he knew, alas! that the woman he loved could never be his. It was the death-warrant to all his hopes and aspirations. He could not now ask Liane to be his wife. With set teeth he sighed, flung down the will upon the table with an angry gesture, and casting himself again into his armchair, sat staring straight before him without uttering a word. In addition to being cruel and unjust the codicil was certainly of a most extraordinary character. By it there was bequeathed to "my son George Basil Stratfield" the sum of one hundred thousand pounds on one condition only, namely, that within two years he married Mariette, daughter of a certain Madame Lepage, whose address was given as 89, Rue Toullier, Paris. If, however, it was discovered that Mariette was already married, or if she refused to accept the twenty thousand pounds that were to be offered her on condition that she consented to marry his son, then one-half the amount, namely, 50,000 pounds, was to be paid by the executors to George, and the remaining 50,000 pounds, together with the 20,000 pounds, was to revert to his elder brother. "It certainly is a most extraordinary disposition," old Mr Harrison reflected aloud, taking up the will again, and re-reading the words he had written at his dead client's dictation. "How does my father think I can marry a woman I've never seen?" cried the son. "Why, the thing's absolutely absurd. He must have been insane when he ordered you to write such a preposterous proposal." "No, he was entirely in his right mind," answered the elder man, calmly. "I must confess myself quite as surprised as you are; nevertheless, it is certain that unless you offer marriage to this mysterious young person you will obtain nothing." "It is my father's vengeance," the son cried, in a tone full of bitterness and disappointment. "I desire to marry Liane, the woman I adore, and in order to prevent me he seeks to bind me to some unknown Frenchwoman." "Well, in any case, effort must be made to find her," Harrison observed. "You surely will not let fifty thousand pounds slip through your fingers. There is a chance that she is already married, or that she will refuse the twenty thousand pounds which I shall be compelled to offer her." "But I will only marry Liane," George cried, impetuously. "My dear young man, yours is a mere foolish fancy. You cannot, nay you must not, render yourself a pauper merely because of this girl, who happens to have attracted you just for the moment. In a year's time you will regard the matter from a common-sense point of view. Your proper course is to give up all thought of the young lady, and unite with me in the search for this mysterious Mariette Lepage." "I decline to abandon Liane," George answered with promptness. "If I am a pauper, well, I must bear it. My ruin is, I suppose, the last of my father's eccentricities. I'm the scapegoat of the family." "It is, nevertheless, my duty to advise you," the elder man went on, standing before the empty fireplace with his arms folded. "In any case I shall be compelled to find this woman. Have you never heard your late father speak of any family of the name of Lepage?" "Never. He has not been out of England for twenty years, therefore I suppose it's someone he knew long ago. What could have been his object?" "As far as I could glean it was twofold. First, he believed that the fact of having left this sum just beyond your reach would cause you intense chagrin; and, secondly, that if you did not marry this unknown woman, you will still be unable to marry the girl against whom he held such a strange deep-rooted objection." "Why did he object to her, Harrison? Tell me confidentially what you know," urged the young man earnestly. "I only know what he told me a few days ago," the solicitor replied. "He said he had ascertained that you had taken many clandestine walks and rides with Liane Brooker, and he declared that such a woman was no fitting wife for you." "Did he give any further reason?" the other demanded. "None. He merely said that if you declined to abandon all thought of her you should not have a penny." "And he has kept his word," observed George, gloomily. "Unfortunately it appears so." "He was unjust--cruelly unjust!" George protested. "I strove hard at the Bar, and had already obtained a few briefs when he recalled me here to be his companion. He would not allow me to follow my profession, yet he has now cast me adrift without resources." "You certainly have my entire sympathy," the old lawyer declared, kindly. "But don't take the matter too much to heart. The woman may be already married. In this case you will receive fifty thousand." George's face relaxed into a faint smile. "I have no desire to hear of or see the woman at all," he answered. "Act as you think fit, but remember that I shall never offer her marriage--never." "She may be a pretty girl," suggested the elder man. "And she may be some blear-eyed old hag," snapped the dead man's son. "It is evident from the wording of the clause that my father has heard nothing of either mother or daughter for some years." "That's all the more in your favour; because if she is thirty or so, the chances are that she is married. At all costs we must discover her." "The whole thing is a confounded mystery," George observed. "Who these people are is an enigma." "Entirely so," the solicitor acquiesced. "There is something exceedingly mysterious about the affair. The combined circumstances are bewildering in the extreme. First, the lady you admire bears a French name, next your father hates her because of some fact of which he is aware regarding her family, and thirdly, in order to prevent you marrying her, he endeavours by an ingenious and apparently carefully-planned device, to induce you to wed a woman whose existence is unknown to us all. He was not a man who acted without strong motives, therefore I cannot help suspecting that behind all this lies some deep mystery." "Mystery! Of what character?" "I have no idea. We must first find Mariette Lepage." "My future wife," laughed George bitterly, rising wearily from his chair. "Yes, the woman who is to receive twenty thousand pounds for marrying you," repeated the solicitor smiling. "No, Harrison," declined the young man as he moved slowly across the room with head slightly bent. "I'll never marry her, however fascinating she may be. Liane is pure and good; I shall marry only her." And opening the door impatiently he snatched up his cap, strode along the hall, and out to where his man held the bay mare in readiness. "Ah, well!" Harrison muttered aloud when he was alone. "We shall see, young man. We shall see. I thought myself as shrewd as most men, but if I'm not mistaken there's a mystery, strange and inexplicable, somewhere; a mystery which seems likely to lead to some amazing developments. It's hard upon poor George, very hard; but if my client was so foolish as to desire the family skeleton to be dragged from its chest his kith and kin must of necessity bear the consequences." With a word to Morton, most exemplary of servants, George sprang into the saddle, and a moment later was galloping down the long straight avenue. The brilliant afterglow had now faded, dusk had fallen, and he feared that Liane, having kept the appointment, would have left disappointed and returned home. Therefore he spurred the mare onward, and was soon riding hard towards the unfrequented by-road known as Cross Lane. With a heavy heart he told himself that he must say good-bye to love, good-bye to hope, good-bye to ambition, good-bye to all of life except the dull monotonous routine of empty days, and a restless empty heart. "I can't tell her I'm a pauper," he murmured aloud, after galloping a long way in dogged silence. "She'll know, alas! soon enough. Then, when the truth is out, she'll perhaps discard me; while I suppose I shall go to the bad as so many fellows have done before me. Of what use am I without the means to marry? To love her now is only to befool her. Henceforth I'm sailing under false colours. Yet I love her better than life; better than anything on earth. I'm indeed a beggar on horseback!" And he laughed a hollow bitter laugh as he rode along beneath the oaks where the leafy unfrequented lane dipped suddenly to pass below the railway, the quiet lonely spot where, unobserved, he so often met his well-beloved. So engrossed had he been in his own sad thoughts that the stumbling of the mare alone brought him back to a consciousness of things around. The light had paled suddenly out of the evening atmosphere; the gloom was complete. Eagerly he looked ahead, half expecting to catch a glimpse of her well-known neat figure, but in disappointment he saw her not. It was too late he knew. She had evidently waited in vain, and afterwards returned to the village when the dusk had deepened. Still he rode forward, the mare's hoofs sounding loudly as they clattered beneath the archway, until suddenly, as he emerged on the other side, a sight met his gaze which caused him to pull up quickly with a loud cry of dismay. In the centre of the road, hidden from view until that instant, by reason of the sudden bend, a girl was lying flat with arms outstretched, her face in the thick white dust, while beside her was her cycle, left where it had fallen. Instantly he swung himself from the saddle, dashed towards her, and lifted her up. Her straw hat had fallen off, her fair hair was dishevelled, and her dark skirt covered with dust. But there was yet another thing which held him transfixed with horror. In the dim fast-fading light he noticed that her blouse bore at the neck a small stain of bright crimson. It was Nelly Bridson. She was rigid in death. The pallor of her refined, delicate face was rendered the more ghastly by the blood that had oozed from the corners of her arched mouth. Her small gloved hands were tightly clenched, her features haggard, convulsed and drawn by a last paroxysm of excruciating agony. In her soft white neck was an ugly bullet wound. She had been shot by an unknown hand. CHAPTER THREE. "WE MUST NOT MARRY!" George Stratfield stood aghast and horrified. It was nearly dark, but there still remained sufficient light to reveal the terrible truth that Nelly Bridson, his gay, vivacious friend, had been foully murdered. Tenderly he lifted her, and placed his hand upon her heart. But there was no movement. It had ceased its beating. Her face, with its hard drawn features so unlike hers, was absolutely hideous in death. Her hair was whitened by the dust, while her blue eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into space with a look of inexpressible horror. For some moments, still kneeling beside her inanimate form, George hesitated. Suddenly his eager eyes caught sight of some round flat object lying in the dust within his reach. He stretched forth his hand and picked it up, finding to his surprise that it was an exquisitely-painted old miniature of a beautiful woman, set round with fine brilliants. He held it close to his eyes, examining it minutely until convinced of a fact most amazing. This miniature was the very valuable portrait by Cosway of Lady Anne Stratfield, a noted beauty of her time, which for many years had been missing from the collection at Stratfield Court. It corresponded exactly in every particular with the description his father had so often given him of the missing portrait, the disappearance of which had always been a mystery. He remained speechless, dumbfounded at the discovery. At length a thought flashed across his mind, that by prompt action the assassin might perhaps be discovered. He could not bear the appalled agonised gaze of those glazed, stony eyes which seemed fixed despairingly upon him, therefore he closed them and prepared to move the body to the roadside. Suddenly he recollected that such action would be unwise. The police should view the victim where she had fallen. Therefore in breathless haste he sprang again into the saddle, and tore down into Stratfield Mortimer, a distance of a mile and a half, as hard as the mare could gallop. Quickly he summoned the village constable and the doctor. The former, before leaving for the scene scribbled a telegram to Reading requesting the assistance of detectives; then both returned with him to the spot. When they reached it they found the body still undisturbed, and a cursory examination made by the doctor by aid of the constable's lantern quickly corroborated George's belief that the unfortunate girl had been shot through the throat. Nearly an hour the three men waited impatiently for the arrival of the detectives, speaking in hushed tones, examining the recovered miniature and discussing the tragedy, until at last the lights of a trap were seen in the distance, and very soon two plain-clothes officers joined them, inspected the body and the tiny portrait, and made a close examination of the road in every direction. In the dust they found the mark of her tyre, and followed it back beneath the railway arch and up upon the road towards Burghfield. With the rays of their lanterns upon the dust they all followed the track, winding sometimes but distinct, for about three hundred yards, when suddenly, instead of proceeding along the lane, it turned into a gateway leading into a field. This fact puzzled them; but soon, on examining the rank grass growing between the gate and the road, they found it had been recently trodden down. There were other marks too, in the thick dust close by, but, strangely enough, these were not footprints. It seemed as if some object about a foot wide had been dragged along from the gate into the lane. Long and earnestly the detectives searched over the spot while the others stood aside, but they found nothing to serve as a clue. It was, however, evident that the unfortunate girl had approached, on her return from Burghfield, and dismounting, had wheeled her cycle up to the gate and placed it there while she rested. Here she had undoubtedly been joined by someone--as the grass and weeds bore distinct traces of having been trodden upon by two different persons--and then, having remounted, she rode down beneath the railway bridge, and while ascending towards Stratfield Mortimer, had been foully shot. The position in which both the body and the cycle were found pointed to the conclusion that she was riding her machine when fired at, but dismounting instantly she had staggered a few uneven steps, and then sank dying. From the gateway the mark of the cycle could be traced with ease away towards Burghfield; indeed, a few yards from where the unknown person had apparently met her there were marks of her quick footsteps where she had dismounted. For fully a quarter of an hour the detectives searched both inside and outside the gate trying to distinguish accurately the footprints of the stranger whom she had met, and in this they were actively assisted by the village constable and George, all being careful not to tread upon the weeds and dust themselves. But to distinguish traces of footprints at night is exceedingly difficult; therefore they searched long and earnestly without any success, until at last something half-hidden in some long rank weeds caught George's eye. "Why, what's this?" he cried, excitedly, as putting out his hand he drew forth a purely feminine object--an ordinary black hairpin. The detectives, eager for anything which might lead to the discovery of the identity of the assassin, took it, examining it closely beneath the light of one of their bull's-eyes. It was a pin of a common kind, and what at first seemed like a clue was quickly discarded, for on taking it back to where the body was lying and taking one of the pins that held the unfortunate girl's wealth of fair hair, it was at once seen in comparison to be of the same thickness and make, although of a slightly different length. Half a dozen pins were taken one by one from her hair and compared, but strangely enough all were about half an inch shorter than the one discovered by George. "Anything in this, do you think?" one of the detectives asked the other, evidently his superior. "No," the man answered promptly. "Women often use hairpins of different lengths. If you buy a box they are often of assorted sizes. No, that pin evidently fell from her hair when she put up her hands to tidy it, after dismounting." So the vague theory that the person who joined her was a woman was dismissed. George had said nothing of his appointment with Liane at that spot, deeming it wiser to keep his secret, yet he was sorely puzzled by the fact that Nelly should have been there at the same hour that Liane had arranged to meet him. Perhaps his well-beloved had sent her with a message, as she had on previous occasions. If not, why had she returned from Burghfield by that lonely lane instead of riding direct along the high road, which was in so much better condition for cycling? He had only known her to ride along Cross Lane once before. Indeed, both she and Liane had always denounced that road with its flints and ruts as extremely injurious to cycles. The assassin had got clean away without leaving the slightest trace. Even his footsteps were indistinguishable where all others were plainly marked, for during the day the dust had been blowing in clouds, carpeting the unfrequented lane to the depth of nearly half an inch, so that every imprint had been faithfully retained. The detectives, after spending nearly two hours in futile search, were compelled at length to acknowledge themselves baffled, and preparations were made to acquaint Captain Brooker with the sad news, and to remove the body of Nelly Bridson to his house. At first it was suggested that George should go and break the sad tidings to the Captain, but he at once declined. He had never yet met Captain Brooker, and shrank from the unpleasantness of such a first interview with the man whose daughter he intended marrying. The duty therefore devolved upon the police, and the village constable was despatched with strict injunctions from George not to tell Miss Liane, but request to see the Captain himself alone. He knew what a blow it must prove to his well-beloved to thus lose under such terrible circumstances the fair-faced girl who had been her most intimate companion and confidante through so many years; therefore he endeavoured to spare her any unnecessary pain. Her father would, no doubt, break to her the sad truth best of all. George thought it useless to seek her that night, therefore when the constable had left he took a long farewell glance at the white upturned face, and mounting, turned the mare's head towards the Court. Onward he rode in the darkness across the open country to Broomfield Hatch, then turning to the right into the Grazely Road, cantered down the hill towards the lodge gates of Stratfield Court. "It's a strange affair," he muttered aloud. "Strange indeed, that Nelly should have ridden along that bad road if not with the intention of meeting someone by appointment. Yet she would scarcely make an appointment at that spot, knowing that I had arranged to meet Liane there. No, poor girl, I can't help feeling convinced that she was awaiting me to tell me of Liane's inability to be there. Again, how came she possessed of the missing miniature? What motive could anyone possibly have in murdering her? Ah! what motive, I wonder?" Deep in thought, he allowed his mare to jog onward beneath the beeches which at that point nearly met overhead, rendering the road almost pitch dark. Once he thought he detected a slight movement in the impenetrable gloom, and pulling up, strained his eyes into the high bushes at the roadside. For a few moments he sat perfectly still in the saddle listening intently. Then, hearing nothing, he started forth again muttering: "I could have sworn I saw something white fluttering over there; but bah! I'm unnerved, I suppose, to-night, and after all it was mere fancy." Once he turned to glance back; then resolutely set his face along the dark avenue of chestnuts, homeward. Little sleep came to his eyes that night. He was thinking of his own future, of Liane's love, and of her sad bereavement. Times without number he tried to formulate some theory to account for the miniature being in Nelly's possession, and the foul assassination of the bright, happy girl, whose merry laughter had so often charmed him. Yet it was a mystery, absolute and complete. The great house was quiet, for its irascible master was dead, and its son, held in esteem by all the servants from butler to stable lad, was ruined. The very clocks seemed to tick with unaccustomed solemnity, and the bell in the turret over the stables chimed slowly and ominously as each long hour passed towards the dawn. At last, however, still in his clothes, George slept, and it was not until the morning sun was streaming full into his room that he awoke. Then, finding that the two doctors had returned to London, he went to the library and wrote a brief note to Liane, asking her to meet him at the lodge gates at eleven o'clock. Sir John was now no more, therefore in the Park they might walk together unobserved. At first he hesitated to invite her there so quickly, but on reflection he saw that he must see her at once and endeavour to console her, and that the leafy glades of his dead father's domain were preferable to the highways, where they would probably be noticed by the village gossips. At nine he sent the note down to the village by one of the stable lads, who brought back two hastily scribbled lines, and at the hour appointed she came slowly along the dusty road, looking cool and fresh beneath her white sunshade. Their greeting was formal while within sight of the windows of the lodge, but presently, when they had entered the Park by the winding path which led through a thick copse, he halted, took her in his arms and imprinted upon her soft cheek a long passionate kiss. Her own full lips met his in a fierce affectionate caress, but their hearts were too full for words. They stood together in silence, locked in each other's arms. Then he noticed for the first time that her eyes were swollen, and that she wore a white tulle veil to conceal their redness. She had no doubt spent the night in tears. The tiny gloved hand trembled in his grasp, and her lips quivered. At last he spoke softly, first lifting her hand reverently to his lips. "Both of us have experienced bereavement since last we met, two days ago, Liane. You have my sincerest sympathy, my darling." "Is Sir John dead?" she inquired in a low husky voice. He nodded. "Then our losses are both hard to bear," she said, sighing. "Poor Nelly! I--I cannot bear to think of it. I cannot yet realise the terrible truth." "Nor I, dearest," he answered, echoing her sigh. "But we must nevertheless face the facts if we desire to discover the assassin." "They told me that it was you who first discovered her," she said falteringly, her eyes overflowing with tears. "Tell me how it all happened." "There is very little to tell," he responded. "I found her lying on the road dead, and went at once for the doctor and the police." "But what were you doing in Cross Lane?" she inquired. "I went out to meet you as we had arranged." "But surely you knew that I could not meet you," she exclaimed, looking at him quickly. "How could I?" "I sent you a letter telling you that my father had an unexpected visitor, and that we must therefore postpone our meeting until this evening." "A letter!" he cried, puzzled. "I have only this moment left the Court, and no letter has yet arrived." "But I gave it to Nelly to post before half-past twelve yesterday morning, therefore you should have received it at five. She must have forgotten to post it." "Evidently," he said. "But have you yet ascertained why she went down Cross Lane? To the police the fact of her having ridden down there in preference to the high road is an enigma." "No. According to the inquiries already made it has been ascertained that she went to Talmey's at Burghfield, purchased some silk, and had returned nearly to Stratfield Mortimer when she suddenly turned, went back about half a mile, and then entered Cross Lane. She was seen to turn by two labourers coming home from their work on Sim's Farm." "She was alone, I suppose?" "Entirely," Liane answered. "Like myself, she had no horror of tramps. I've ridden along these roads at all hours of the day and night, and have never been once molested." "The tragedy was no doubt enacted in broad daylight, for the sun had not quite set when, according to the doctor, she must have been shot while riding. Have you any idea that she had incurred the animosity of anybody?" "No; as you well know, she was of a most amicable disposition. As far as I am aware, she had not a single enemy in the world." "A secret lover perhaps," George suggested. "No, not that I am aware of. She had no secrets from me. Since we came to England she has never spoken of any man with admiration." "Then abroad she had an admirer? Where?" "In Nice. Charles Holroyde, a rich young Englishman, who was staying last winter at the Grand Hotel, admired her very much." "And you were also living in Nice at the time?" "Yes." "Do you know his address in England?" he inquired. "No. Nelly may have done, but I did not. I met him with her on the Promenade several times, and he seemed very pleasant and amusing. The diamond brooch she wore he gave her as a present last carnival." "Now that I recollect," George exclaimed, "she was not wearing that brooch when I discovered her." "No," answered his well-beloved. "Strangely enough, that has been stolen, although no attempt was made to take the watch and bunch of charms she wore in her blouse." "Are the police aware of that?" "Yes," Liane answered. "I told one of the detectives this morning, and gave him a minute description of the brooch. At the back are engraved Nelly's initials, together with his, therefore it is likely it may be traced." "If so, it will be easy to find the murderer," George observed, as they strolled slowly along together beneath the welcome shade, for the morning was perfect, with bright warm sun and a cloudless sky into which the larks were everywhere soaring, filling the air with their shrill, joyous songs. "Have you any idea whether poor Nelly has corresponded with this man Holroyde since leaving Nice?" he inquired, after a pause. "I think not." "Why?" "Well, they had a slight quarrel--I have never exactly known the cause-- they parted, and although he wrote several times, she did not answer." George scented suspicion in this circumstance. The fact that this brooch, one of considerable value, should alone have been stolen was, to say the least, curious; but discarded lovers sometimes avenge themselves, and this might perchance be a case of murder through jealousy. As he strolled on beside the handsome girl, with her pale, veiled face, he reflected deeply, trying in vain to form some theory as to the motive of the crime. "Did the police tell you that beside her I discovered an old miniature of Lady Anne which has been missing from the Court for twenty years or more?" he asked. "Yes, they showed it to my father and myself. We have, however, never seen it before. How it came into her possession we are utterly at a loss to imagine," she answered. "It is a heavy blow to lose her," she continued, in a low, intense voice. "We have always been as sisters, and now the fate that has overtaken her is enshrouded in a mystery which seems inexplicable. Father is dreadfully upset. I fear he will never be as happy as before." "But you have me, Liane," her lover said, suddenly halting and drawing her towards him. "I love you, my darling. I told you nearly two months ago that I loved you. I don't know that I can add anything to what I said then." She was silent, looking straight before her. His breath came more quickly. The colour rose to his cheeks. At this decisive moment the words died in his throat, as they must for every honest lover who would fain ask the momentous question of her whom he loves. He remembered that he now had no right to ask her to be his wife. "Do you know," he said at last, again grasping her hand impetuously, "that I think you the sweetest, most charming woman in the world? I want you to be my wife, and help me to make my life all it should be, only--only I dare not ask you." Liane did not withdraw her fingers. She remained perfectly still without meeting his glance. Yet, strangely enough, she shuddered. "I have not the power to say all I feel. My words sound so harsh and cold; but, Liane, Liane, I love you! God made not the heart of man to be silent, but has promised him eternity with the intention that he should not be alone. There is for me but one woman upon earth. It is you." He looked imploringly into her face. "Yes, George, I feel that you love me," she said, with a sweet smile behind her veil. "It is very nice to be loved." He covered her hand with eager kisses; but she withdrew it softly, her lips compressed. "My darling!" His arm was about her waist, and he kissed her lips. He spoke in strong suppressed agitation; his voice trembled. He recollected he was penniless. She freed herself from his embrace. "No, no," she murmured. "We may love, but we must not marry. There are so many other girls who would make you far happier than I should." He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal of what a woman ought to be. Slowly she shook her head. "That shows you know so little of me, George." "I know only what you have told me, dearest," he answered. Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve and exercised more self-control. Was he not without means? Yet he had asked her to marry him! Could he tell her in the same breath that he was penniless? No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside. Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes, her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving. He could resist his own passion--he could keep back what he felt--no longer. "I love you!" cried he. She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart, and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor the will to withstand. He wished to marry her! Was it possible? And she loved him. With that thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to those protecting arms. He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob. "My darling--my darling--my own darling!" he cried, triumph in his voice, and passionate joy in his eyes. "You love me--you love me!" But again she drew herself away from him, then turned aside, held her breath, and shuddered. The lace ruffles on her bosom slowly rose and fell. The movement was as though she were shrinking from him with repulsion. But it was only momentary, and he did not notice it. Next instant she again turned, lifting her clear grey eyes to his with their frank innocent gaze. "Yes," she said, almost in a whisper, "I love you." CHAPTER FOUR. HAIRPINS. The tragedy caused the greatest excitement in the neighbourhood. Journalistic artists, those industrious gentlemen who produce such terribly distorted portraits, came from London and sketched the spot in Cross Lane and the exterior of Captain Brooker's house. One had the audacity to call and request him to lend them a photograph of the murdered girl. This he declined, with a few remarks more forcible than polite, for he had been greatly annoyed by the continual stream of interviewers, who continually rang his bell. Hundreds of persons walked or drove over from Reading to view the spot where Nelly had been found, and in addition to the local detectives, Inspector Swayne, a well-known officer from Scotland Yard, had been sent down to direct the inquiries. At the inquest, held at the King's Head, two days later, it was expected by everybody that some interesting facts would be brought to light. Erle Brooker had never troubled to earn the good will of his neighbours, therefore they were now spitefully eager for any scandal that might be elicited, and long before the hour for which the jury had been summoned, congregated around the village inn. It was known that on the day following the tragedy the Captain had paid a mysterious visit to London, and the object of this trip had been a subject of much discussion everywhere. The murder of his adopted daughter had been a terrible blow to him, and when seen on his way to the station it was noticed that his face, usually smiling and good-humoured, wore a heavy, preoccupied look. As he walked with Liane from his cottage to the inn, the crowd, gaping and hushed, opened a way for them to pass in; then, when they had entered, there was an outburst of sympathy and sneers, many of the latter reaching the ears of George Stratfield when, a few moments later, he followed them. After a long wait, the Coroner at length took his seat, the jury were duly sworn, and the witnesses, ordered out of the crowded room, were ushered into a small ante-room, the table of which had recently been polished with stale beer. Here Liane introduced her lover to her father, and the men exchanged greetings. George, however, did not fail to notice the rustiness of the Captain's shabby frock-coat, nor the fact that his black trousers were shiny at the knees; yet as they grasped hands, the ring of genuine bonhomie about his voice favourably impressed him. By his tone and manner George instinctively knew that Erle Brooker, the man against whom his dead father entertained such an intense dislike, was a gentleman. "Our meeting is in very tragic circumstances, Mr Stratfield," the Captain observed huskily, his grave face unusually pale. "They told me that you had discovered poor Nelly, but I had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, although I had, of course, heard of you often from the villagers." Liane and George looked at one another significantly. "I must regret your sad bereavement, and both you and Liane have my sincerest sympathy," the young man answered. The Captain glanced quickly at the Baronet's son with a strange, puzzled expression. He had spoken of his daughter familiarly by her Christian name, and evidently knew her well. He had not before suspected this. At that moment, however, the door opened, and a constable putting his head inside called his name. In obedience to the policeman's request he rose and followed him into the room wherein the court of inquiry had assembled. Having advanced to the table and been sworn, the Coroner addressing him, said,-- "Your name is Captain Erle Brooker, late of the Guards, I believe?" "Yes." "And you identify the body of the deceased. Who was she?" "Helen Mary Bridson, daughter of a brother officer, Captain Bridson. She was left an orphan eleven years ago, and I brought her up." "Did her father die in London?" "No, on the Continent." "Had she no relatives on her mother's side?" The Captain slowly stroked his moustache, then answered. "I knew of none." "Were you acquainted with her mother?" "No, I was not," he replied after a moment's reflection. "And you have no suggestion to make, I suppose, regarding any person who might have entertained ill-will towards the unfortunate girl?" inquired the grey-haired Coroner. "None whatever." "When did you last see her alive?" "On Monday evening, when she accompanied a visitor to the station to see him off on his return to London. She rode her cycle, and announced her intention of going on to Burghfield to make a purchase. She was found later on," he added, hoarsely. "Who was this visitor? What was his name?" "He was a friend, but I decline to give his name publicly," the Captain replied firmly. "I will, however, write it for your information, if you desire," and taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote the name of Prince Zertho d'Auzac and handed it to the Coroner. The eager onlookers were disappointed. They had expected some sensational developments, but it seemed as though the crime was too enshrouded in mystery to prove of any very real interest. They did not, however, fail to notice that when the Coroner read what the Captain had written, an expression of astonishment crossed his face. "Are you certain that the--this gentleman--left by the train he went to catch?" he asked. "Quite," answered Brooker. "Not only have the police made inquiry at my instigation, but I have also accompanied a detective to London, where we found my visitor. Inspector Swayne, as a result of his investigations, was entirely satisfied." "Had the unfortunate young lady any admirer?" "I think not." "Then you can tell us absolutely nothing further?" observed the Coroner, toying with his quill. "Unfortunately I cannot." The Captain, after signing his depositions, was directed to one of a row of empty chairs near the Coroner's table, and his daughter was called. Liane, pale and nervous, neatly dressed in black, entered quietly, removed her right glove, and took the oath. Having given her name, the Coroner asked,-- "When did you last see the deceased, Miss Brooker?" "When she set out to go to the railway station," she answered, in a low faltering voice. "Have you any idea why she should have gone to Cross Lane? It was entirely out of her way home from Burghfield to Stratfield Mortimer, was it not?" "I cannot tell," Liane replied. "We went along that road on our cycles only on one occasion, and found it so rough that we agreed never to attempt it again." "I presume, Miss Brooker, that the deceased was your most intimate friend?" observed the Coroner. "She would therefore be likely to tell you if she had a lover. Were you aware of the existence of any such person?" "No," she replied, flushing slightly and glancing slowly around the hot, crowded room. "You had a visitor whose name your father has just given me upon this paper," observed the Coroner. "Was that visitor known to the deceased?" The eyes of the father and daughter met for a single instant as she glanced around upon the long lines of expectant countenances. "Oh, yes," she replied. "The gentleman who came unexpectedly to see us has been known to us all for fully five or six years." "And has always been very friendly towards the unfortunate girl?" "Always." "The only thing taken from the young lady appears to have been a diamond brooch. Do you know anything of it?" "Of what?" gasped Liane nervously, her face paling almost imperceptibly behind her black veil. "Of the brooch, of course." "I only know that she prized it very much, as it was a present from a gentleman she had met while on the Riviera eighteen months ago." "He was not her lover?" inquired the grave-faced man, without looking up from the sheet of blue foolscap whereon he was writing her statement. "Not exactly. I have no knowledge of her possessing any admirer." The Coroner at last paused and put down his quill. "And this miniature, which was discovered beside the body, have you ever before seen it in the possession of the deceased?" he asked, holding it up to her gaze. "No," she answered. "Never." The jury not desiring to ask any questions, Liane was then allowed to retire to a chair next her father, and the doctor was called. "Will you kindly tell us the result of the _post mortem_, Dr Lewis?" the Coroner requested, when the medical man had been sworn. At once the doctor explained in technical language the injuries he had discovered, and described the exact position in which he had found the body when he reached the spot. "And what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?" asked the Coroner in dry, business-like tones. "She was shot at close quarters while ascending the incline leading from the railway arch towards Stratfield Mortimer. The weapon used was an Army revolver. I produce the bullet I have extracted," he answered, taking it from his vest-pocket and handing it across the table. "The deceased's assailant stood on her left-hand side, and must have shot her as she rode along. She evidently mounted her cycle at the commencement of the incline, and having run down swiftly and passed beneath the arch, was again descending when the shot was fired." "Was death instantaneous?" inquired the foreman of the jury. "Scarcely," answered the doctor. "Such a wound must, however, cause death. Immediate attention could not have saved her." A thrill of horror ran through the crowded court. Nearly everyone present had seen Nelly Bridson, with her smiling happy face, riding about the village and roads in the vicinity, and the knowledge that she had met with an end so terrible yet mysterious, appalled them. Some further questions were put to the doctor, after which George Stratfield entered. As he raised the greasy copy of Holy Writ to his lips, his eyes fell upon Liane. She was sitting, pale and rigid, with a strange haggard expression upon her beautiful countenance such as he had never before beheld. He gazed upon her in alarm and surprise. The Coroner's questions, however, compelled him to turn towards the jury, and in reply he explained how, on that fateful evening after his father's death, he was riding along Cross Lane, and was horrified by discovering the body of Nelly Bridson. In detail he described every incident, how he had lifted her up, and finding her quite dead, had ridden on into the village to obtain assistance. Liane listened to his story open-mouthed. Her hands were closed tightly, and once or twice, when questions were put to him by Coroner or jury, she held her breath until he had answered. She was as one paralysed by some unknown fear. Their gaze met more than once, and on each occasion he fancied he detected, even through her veil, that her eyes were dark and haggard, like one consumed by some terrible dread. "You have, I believe, some knowledge of this miniature," the Coroner observed, again taking the small oval bejewelled portrait in his hand. "Yes," he answered. "It is undoubtedly the one which has been missing from my late father's collection for more than twenty years. It was supposed to have been stolen, but by whom could never be ascertained. My father had several times offered handsome rewards for its recovery, as it is a family portrait." "You have no idea, I suppose, by what means it could have come into the unfortunate girl's possession?" "None whatever. The unexpected discovery amazed me." "You have not told us what caused you to ride along Cross Lane on that evening," the foreman of the jury observed presently. Again Liane held her breath. "I had an appointment," he answered, not without considerable hesitation, "and was proceeding to keep it." "Did you know Miss Bridson?" "We had met on several occasions." The detective from Scotland Yard bent across the table and uttered some words, after which the Coroner, addressing George, said,-- "Inspector Swayne desires to ascertain whether it was with the deceased you had an appointment?" "No," he replied promptly. Again the Coroner and the inspector exchanged some hurried words. "Who was the person you intended to meet?" the Coroner asked, looking inquiringly at the witness. "A lady." "Am I right in presuming that it was Miss Brooker?" George paused for an instant, bit his lip in displeasure at being thus compelled to publicly acknowledge his clandestine meetings with Liane, and then nodded in the affirmative. "Then you were about to meet Miss Brooker, but instead, found Miss Bridson lying in the roadway dead?" the Coroner observed. "I did." "Are you aware that Miss Brooker wrote to you expressing her inability to keep the appointment?" the Coroner asked. "She has told me so," he answered. "The letter was given, I believe, to the unfortunate young lady to post, but I have not received it." "There appears to be some mystery about that letter," the Coroner said, turning to the jury. "I have it here. It was discovered in fragments yesterday by the police, thrown into a ditch at the roadside not far from where the body was found;" and taking from among his papers a sheet of foolscap whereon the pieces of Liane's letter had been pasted together, he handed it to the jury for their inspection. At that instant a sudden thought occurred to George. This last fact pointed alone to one conclusion, namely, that Nelly being given the letter by Liane, and knowing its contents, kept the appointment herself, desiring to speak to him alone upon some subject the nature of which he could not, of course, guess. This would not only account for her presence at the spot where he found her, but also for her dismounting and resting at the gateway where they had discovered the curious marks in the dust, and for the fragments of the letter being recovered near. A similar theory appeared to suggest itself to the minds of the jury, for a moment later the foreman asked-- "Would the deceased have any definite object in seeking an interview with you?" "None whatever," he promptly replied, puzzled nevertheless that the remains of Liane's note should have been recovered in Cross Lane. "You assisted the police to search the road for any traces of the assassin, I believe, Mr Stratfield," continued the Coroner. "Did you discover anything?" George raised his eyes and met the curious gaze of the woman he loved. At that moment her veil failed to hide the strange look of dread and apprehension in her face, so intense it was. Her lips, slightly parted, quivered, the pallor of her cheeks was deathlike, and her whole attitude was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible truth. "During my search I discovered a lady's hairpin lying in the grass at the roadside," George replied, after a silence, brief but complete. He was not thinking of the question, but was sorely puzzled at the extraordinary change in the woman who had promised to become his wife. The transformation was amazing. "That pin is here," the Coroner explained to the jury, passing it across for their inspection. "I will call Henry Fawcett, hairdresser, of Reading, who will give evidence regarding it." The man referred to was called in, and in reply to a formal question, took the hairpin in his hand, saying,-- "I have, at the instigation of the police, minutely compared this pin with those worn by the young lady at the time of her death, and also those found upon her dressing-table. I find that although apparently the same make it is nevertheless entirely different. Some of them found upon her dressing-table were of similar length and size, but while the pins she used were of the ordinary kind, such as may be purchased at any draper's, this one is of very superior quality. By the shape of its points, together with its curve, I can distinguish that this is the pin manufactured solely by Clark and Lister, of Birmingham, and sold by first-class hairdressers." "Your theory is that this pin was never worn by the deceased?" the Coroner said, thoughtfully stroking his grey beard. "I feel confident it never was, for the pin is quite new, and they are sold in large boxes," was the reply. "In that case it seems probable that another woman was with her immediately before her death," observed the foreman to his brother jurors. George looked again at Liane. Her eyes were still staring into space, her lips were trembling, her face was ashen pale. She started at the ominous words which fell upon her ear, then feigned to busy herself in re-buttoning the black glove she had removed before taking the oath. "It, of course, remains for the police to prosecute further inquiries and to discover the owner of that hairpin," the Coroner said. "Most of us are aware that ladies frequently use various kinds of pins in dressing their hair, but in this case not a single one of the peculiar sort found on the spot was discovered in the deceased's possession; and this fact in itself certainly lends colour to a suggestion that immediately prior to the tragedy Miss Bridson was not alone." George having concluded his evidence, had taken a seat beside his well-beloved. Only once she glanced at him, then evaded his gaze, for in her grey eyes was an expression as though she were still haunted by some unknown yet terrible dread. His statement regarding the hairpin had unnerved her. Did she, he wondered, wear similar pins in her own dark, deftly-coiled tresses? Instantly, however, he laughed the wild, absurd idea to scorn. That she feared lest some startling truth should be elucidated was apparent; but the suspicion that a pin from her own hair had fallen unheeded upon the grass he dismissed as utterly preposterous. Was she not his enchantress? Surely he had no right to suspect her of all women, for he loved her with all his soul. Yet neither police, jury, nor he himself had inquired where she had been at the hour the tragedy was enacted. The thought held him appalled. While these and similar reflections passed through his mind some words of the Coroner suddenly arrested his attention. The court was at once hushed in expectation, every word being listened to with eager attention. "In the dress-pocket of the deceased has been found this letter, of a somewhat extraordinary character. As it is written in French it may be best if I read an English translation," he said, spreading out the missive before him. "It is on superior note-paper of English make, bears traces of having been written by an educated person, and was sent to the post office, Stratfield Mortimer, where the police have ascertained that the deceased called for it about ten days ago. No address is given, and the envelope is missing, but the communication is to the following effect:--`Dear Nelly,--The cord is now drawn so tight that it must snap ere long. England is safer than the south, no doubt, but it will not be so much longer. Therefore I remain here, but fortunately not "en convalescence." Do not tell Liane anything, but remember that the matter must be kept a profound secret, or one or other of us must pay the penalty. That would mean the end. For myself, I do not care, but for you it is, of course, entirely different. We are widely separated, yet our interests are entirely identical. Remember me, and be always on your guard against any surprise. Au revoir.' It will be noticed, gentlemen, by those of you who know French," the Coroner added, "that the words `en convalescence' occur here in a rather curious sense. It is, in fact, nothing less than thieves' argot, meaning under police surveillance; and it is strange that it should be written by one who otherwise writes well and grammatically. The name of the dead girl's mysterious correspondent is a rather uncommon one-- Mariette Lepage." "Mariette Lepage!" George cried aloud in a tone of dismay, causing not a little consternation among those assembled. The strange-sounding foreign name was only too deeply impressed upon his memory. The writer of that curious letter, with its well-guarded expression in the argot of the Paris slums, was the unknown woman to whom, under his father's will, he was compelled to offer marriage. CHAPTER FIVE. CAPTAIN BROOKER'S OBJECTION. As everyone expected, the Coroner's jury, after hearing Zertho's evidence at the adjourned inquest, returned the usual verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown." It was the only conclusion possible in such a case, the mystery being left for the police to solve. Later that afternoon Inspector Swayne was closeted with George and Mr Harrison at Stratfield Court, and after an hour's consultation regarding the curious letter found in Nelly's pocket, the detective left for London. While that conversation was taking place Liane and her father, having returned from the inquest, were sitting together in the little dining-room. Brooker had cast off his shiny frock-coat with a sigh of genuine relief, assumed his old well-cut tweed jacket, easy and reminiscent of the past, while his daughter, having removed her gloves and veil, sat in the armchair by the fireplace still in her large black hat that gave a picturesque setting to her face. The windows were open, the blinds down, and the room, cool in the half-light, was filled with the sweet perfume of the wealth of old-world flowers outside. "Our ill-luck seems to follow us, even now, my dear," he observed, thrusting his hands deep into his empty pockets and lazily stretching out his legs. "That inquisitive old chap, the Coroner, was within an ace of raking up all the past. I was afraid they intended to adjourn again." "Why afraid?" asked Liane in surprise. "You surely do not fear anything?" "Well, no, not exactly," her father answered, with a quick glance at her. "But some facts might have been then elicited which are best kept secret." Liane looked at the Captain, long and steadily, with eyes full of sadness, then said, earnestly,-- "What caused you to suspect Zertho, father?" "Suspect him. I never suspected him!" "Do not deny the truth," she answered, in a tone of mild reproach. "I know that before you went to London you sent him a message which, had he been guilty, would have allowed him time to escape." "But he was entirely unaware of the tragedy," her father answered, rolling a cigarette with infinite care. "Zertho could have had no object in murdering Nelly. Besides, it had already been proved by the station-master that he had left by the train he saw him enter." "Then why did you take the trouble to go to London?" she inquired. "My motive was a secret one," he replied. "One that even I must not know?" she inquired, in genuine surprise. "Yes, even you must not know, Liane," he answered. "Women are apt to grow confidential towards their lovers, and if the secret were once out, then my plans would be thwarted." "You suspect someone?" she asked, in a low, harsh voice. "Well," he answered, regarding his unlit cigarette intently, "I will not say that I actually suspect someone, but I have a theory, strange though it may be, which I believe will turn out to be the correct one." Liane started. Father and daughter again exchanged quick glances. She fancied she saw suspicion in his eyes. "May I not assist you?" she asked. "You know that in the past I've many times brought you luck at the tables." "No," he said, shaking his head. "In this I must act entirely alone. George Stratfield no doubt occupies all your thoughts." She thought she detected a touch of sarcasm in his tone. The girl blushed deeply, but did not answer. Her father, inveterate smoker that he was, lit his cigarette and sat silent and self-absorbed for a long time. He was thinking of the bright happy girl who, cold and dead in her tiny room upstairs, was the victim of a foul, terrible, and mysterious crime. "How long have you known this man?" the Captain inquired at last. "Three months." "And has he proposed to you?" "He has," she faltered, blushing more deeply. He drew a long breath, rose slowly, and pulling aside the white blind, looked out as if in search of something. In truth, he was hesitating whether he should speak to her at once, or wait for some other opportunity. Turning to her at last, however, he said briefly, in a low, pained tone,-- "You must break off the engagement, Liane. You cannot marry him." "Cannot!" she gasped, her face turning pale. "Why?" "Listen," he continued huskily, coming closer to her, laying his big hand upon her shoulder, and looking down upon her tenderly. "Through all these years of prosperity and adversity you alone have been the one bright joy of my life. Your existence has kept me from going to the bad altogether; your influence has prevented me from sinking lower in degradation than I have already sunk. For me the facile pleasures of a stray man have ceased, because, for your sake, Liane, I gave up the old life and returned here to settle and become respectable. I admit that our life in England is a trifle tame after what we've been used to, but it will not, perhaps, be always so. At present my luck's against me and we must wait in patience; therefore do not accept the first man's offer of marriage. Life's merely a game of _rouge-et-noir_. Sometimes you may win by waiting. Reflect well upon all the chances before you stake the maximum." "But George loves me, dad, and his family are wealthy," she protested, meeting her father's earnest gaze with her large grey eyes, in which stood unshed tears. "I don't doubt it, my girl," he answered huskily. "I was young once. I, too, thought I loved a woman--your mother. I foolishly believed that she loved me better than anyone on earth. Ah! You wring from me my confession, because--because it should serve you as a lesson." And he paused with bent head, while Liane held his strong but trembling hand. "It is a wretched story," he went on in a low, harsh voice, "yet you should know it, you who would bind yourself to this man irrevocably. At the time this woman came into my life I was on leave down in the South of France, with wealth, happiness and bright prospects. I loved her and made her my wife. Then I went with my regiment to India, but already my future was blasted, for within a year of my marriage the glamour fell from my eyes and I knew that I had been duped. A fault committed by her threw such opprobrium upon me that I was compelled to throw up my commission, leave her and go back to England. I could not return to my friends in London, because she would discover and annoy me; therefore I have drifted hither and thither, falling lower and lower in the social scale, until, ruined and without means, I became a common blackleg and swindler. But it belongs to the past. It is dead, gone--gone for ever. Those years have gone and my youth has gone. I've lived like other men since then. Heaven knows it has not been a life to boast of, Liane. There have been days and years in it when I dared not trust myself to remember what had been--days of madness and folly, and months of useless apathy. Ah!" he sighed, "I was straight enough before my marriage, but my life was wrecked solely by that woman." His daughter listened intently, and when he had finished she echoed his deep sigh. Her father had never before told her the tragic story. She had always believed that her mother died of fever in India a year after marriage. "Then my mother is not dead?" she observed reflectively. "I do not know. To me she has been dead these eighteen years," he answered, with a stern look upon his hard-set features. A lump rose in his throat, and in his eye there was a suspicion of a tear. "Was she like me?" Liane asked softly, still holding her father's hand and looking up at him. "Yes, darling," he replied. "Sometimes when you look at me I shrink from you because your eyes are so like hers. She was just your age when I married her." There was a long and painful silence. The hearts of father and daughter were too full for words. They were indeed an incongruous pair. He was a reckless gamester, a cunning adventurer, whose career had more than once brought him within an ace of arrest, while she, although prematurely versed in the evil ways of a polyglot world, where the laws of rectitude and morality were lax, was nevertheless pure, honest and good. "But, dear old dad, why may I not marry George?" she asked when, after thinking deeply over the truth regarding her parentage, her mind reverted to thoughts of the man she loved. "I cannot sufficiently explain the reason now," he answered vaguely. "Some day, when I am aware of all the facts, you shall know." "But I can love no other man," she exclaimed decisively, with eyes downcast. "You know my wish, Liane," her father answered rather coldly. "I feel sure you will endeavour to respect it." "I cannot, father! I really cannot!" she cried starting up. "Besides, you give me no reason why I should not marry." "I am unable to explain facts of which I am as yet unaware," he said, withdrawing his hand. "We love each other, therefore I cannot see why you should object." "I do not doubt that there is affection between you, but my objection is well based, I assure you, as some day you will be convinced." "Have you any antipathy against George personally?" "None whatever; I rather like him," he said. "I only tell you in plain, straightforward terms that your marriage with him is impossible, therefore the sooner you part the better;" and opening the door, he slowly left the room. Deep in thought, Liane stood leaning against the table, in the same position as Zertho had stood when he had asked the captain for her hand. Evidently her father entertained some deep-rooted prejudice against the Stratfields; nevertheless, after calm reflection, she felt confident that sooner or later she could over-rule his objection, and persuade him to adopt her view, as she had done on previous occasions without number. On the following afternoon a double funeral attracted hundreds of persons to the churchyard of Stratfield Mortimer, where Nelly Bridson was laid to rest in a plain grave, beneath a drooping willow, and the body of Sir John Stratfield, fourteenth baronet, was placed in the family vault, among his ancestors. When the interments were over, George met Liane and managed to whisper a few words to her. It was an appointment, and in accordance with his request, she went at sundown along the chestnut avenue to the Court, and was at once shown to the library, where her lover awaited her. Her mourning became her well. His quick eyes detected that her black dress, though not new, bore the unmistakable cut of the fashionable dressmaker. Her figure, perfect in symmetry, was shown to advantage by her short, French corset, and the narrow band of black satin that begirt her slim waist. "I have to offer my apologies to you, dearest," he said, when the servant had closed the door. "At the inquest I was bound to openly confess that we had met clandestinely." "What apology is needed?" she asked, smiling. "We love each other, and care nothing for what the world may think." "That is true," he answered, deep in thought. "But I--I have an announcement to make to you, which I fear must cause you pain." "An announcement! What?" "I must leave you." She stood before him, looked quickly into his face, and turned pale. "Leave me!" she gasped. "Yes. I find, alas, I am compelled to go." "And only the day before yesterday you asked me to become your wife!" she cried, reproachfully. "What have I done that you should treat me thus?" "Nothing. You have done nothing, Liane, only to fascinate me and hold me irrevocably to you," he answered, looking earnestly into her clear, beautiful eyes. He paused. His soul was too full for utterance. Then at length he said, "I have asked you here this evening to tell you everything, for when I leave here, I fear it will be never to return." "Why?" she asked, looking him full in the face, with a puzzled expression. "Because I am not wealthy, as is generally believed," he replied, colouring deeply as he met her searching gaze. "It is useless to deceive you, therefore I must tell you the hideous truth. My father has thought fit to leave his whole fortune to my brother, and allow me to go penniless. I am therefore unable to marry." Liane's lips had grown white with fear and astonishment. "And that is the reason you now intend to forsake me!" she gasped. He bowed his head. She passed her hand over her eyes. Her soul was in a tumult. She, too, fondly wished to believe that he actually loved her, to trust the evidence of what she saw. His words were a trifle ambiguous, and that was sufficient to fill her with uncertainty. Jealous of that delicacy which is the parent of love, and its best preserver, she checked the overflowings of her heart, and while her face streamed with tears, placed her hand protestingly upon his arm. "Forgive me!" he cried with increased earnestness. "I know I have wronged you. Forgive me, in justice to your own virtues, Liane. In what has passed between us I feel I ought to have only expressed thanks for your goodness to me; but if my words or manner have obeyed the more fervid impulse of my soul, and declared aloud what should have been kept secret, blame my nature, not my presumption. I am ruined, and I dare not look steadily on any aim higher than your esteem." "Ah! do not speak to me so coldly," the girl burst forth passionately. "I cannot bear it. You said you loved me," and she sobbed bitterly. "I have loved you, dear one, ever since we first met," he answered quickly. "I love you now, even better than my life. But alas! a mysterious fate seems to govern both of us, and we are compelled to part." "To part!" she wailed. "Why?" "Ere long my brother will come to take possession of this place, for it is no longer my home," he answered, in a low, pained tone. "I shall go away to London and try to eke out a living at the Bar. For a young man without means the legal profession is but a poor one at best," he sighed; "therefore marriage being out of the question, I am compelled to tell you the plain honest truth, and release you." "Release me!" she echoed wildly. "I do not desire release. I love you, George." "But you do not love me sufficiently to wait through the long, dark days that are at hand?" he cried, surprised at her passionate declaration! "Remember, I am penniless, without hope, without prospects, without anything save my great affection for you!" The slanting rays of the sunset streaming through the stained glass fell upon her, gilded her hair, and illumined her anxious face with a halo of light. She looked lovely, with her dark eyelashes trembling, her soft eyes full of love, and the colour of clear sunrise mounting on her cheeks and brow. "Wealthy or poor," she answered, in a low, sweet tone, "it matters not, because I love you, George." "And although we must part; although I must go to London and exchange this free, open, happy life with you daily beside me for the dusty dinginess of chambers wherein the sun never penetrates, yet you will still remain mine?" he cried half doubtingly. "Do you really mean it, Liane?" "I do," she answered, in a voice trembling with emotion, and with a look all tenderness and benignity. "It is no fault of yours that you are poor, therefore be of stout heart, and when you return to London remember that one woman alone thinks ever of you, because--because she loves you." With the large tears in her beautiful eyes--tears which seemed to him to rise partly from her desire to love him with the power of his love--she put her pure, bright lips, half-smiling, half-prone to reply to tears, against his brow, lined with doubt and eager longing. "Dearest darling, love of my life," he whispered through her clouds of soft, silky hair. "I know I, an Englishman, with my blunt manners, must grate upon you sometimes, with your delicate, high-strung feelings. We are as different as the day is from the night. But, Liane, if truth and honesty, and a will so to use my life as to become one of the real workers and helpers in the world--a wish to be manly and upright, strong of heart, and clean of conscience before God and man--if these can atone for lack of culture and refinement, then I hope you will not find me wanting. When I am absent there will be plenty besides me to love you, but I will not believe that any can love you better than I do, or few as truly." She hesitated for a single instant as he spoke. She lifted her face from her hands and looked up at him. He was not much taller than she; it was not far. But as she looked another face came between them--a pale, refined face: a face with more poetry, more romance, more passion. Its sight was to her as a spectre of the past. It held her dumb in terror and dismay. George saw her hesitation, and the strange horrified look in her eyes. Puzzled, he uttered not a word, but watched her breathlessly. Liane opened her pale lips, but they closed and tightened upon each other; from beneath her narrowed brows her eyes sent short flashes out upon his, and her breath came and went long and deep, without sound. "Why are you silent?" he whispered at last. Her lips relaxed, her form drooped, she lifted her face to reply, but her mouth twitched; she could not speak. "If you truly love me and are prepared to wait, I will do my best," he declared passionately, surprised at her change of manner, but little dreaming of its cause. Suddenly, however, as quickly as the heavy, preoccupied expression had settled upon her countenance it was succeeded by a smile. She was a strange, unique, incomparable girl, for the next second she laughed at him in sweetest manner with a come and go of glances, saying in a tone of low, deep tenderness,-- "Yes, George, you are the only man I love. If it is necessary that you should go to follow your profession, then go, and take with you the blessing of the woman who has promised to become your wife." An instant later George held her slight graceful form in fond embrace, while she hid her forehead and wet eyelashes on his shoulder, murmuring,-- "I shall be yours always." His burning kisses fell upon her hair, but neither of them spoke for a while. The sunlight faded, and the old brown room with its shelves of dusty tomes became dark and gloomy. Each felt the other's heart beat; and the unlucky son of the Stratfields drank that ecstasy of silent, delicious bliss which comes to great hearts only once in a life. Later that night, after he had walked with her to her father's door, she went to her room and sat alone for a long time in silence. A noise aroused her. It was her father retiring to rest. She listened intently, until, hearing his door closed, she paced her room with fevered steps. Her face was ashen pale, and from time to time low, strange words escaped her, as, lifting her hands, she pushed back her hair, which seemed to press too heavily upon her hot brow. "I love him!" she gasped in a low, strained whisper. "Yet, if he only knew--if he only knew!" And she shuddered. Thrice she moved slowly backwards and forwards across her room. Suddenly pulling aside the dimity curtains, she gazed out into the brilliant night. The moon was shining full upon her windows, revealing the trees and stretch of undulating meadows beyond. For an instant she hesitated. Her clenched hands trembled; she held her breath, listening. Reassured, she crossed noiselessly to her little dressing-table, opened one of the drawers, and took therefrom a small jewel-case. Only a few cheap trinkets were revealed when she unlocked it, but from it she drew forth a small oblong box of white cardboard. Then cautiously she crept from her room downstairs, and out into the small orchard behind the house. Crossing it, still in the deep shadow of the apple trees, she searched for some moments until she found a spade, and making her way to a bed that had been newly dug, she deftly removed several shovelfuls of earth, panting the while. Taking the small box hastily from her pocket, she glanced round to assure herself she was unobserved, then bent, and placing it carefully in the hole she had made, an instant later proceeded to fill it in and rearrange the surface, so that no trace should remain of it having been removed. Then replacing the spade where she had found it, she crept noiselessly back to her room, locked the door and stood rigid, her hand pressed upon her wildly-beating heart. CHAPTER SIX. OUTSIDERS. Many weeks went by. To Liane the days were long, weary and monotonous, for George had left, and the Court had passed into the possession of Major Stratfield, a proud, pompous, red-faced man, who often rode through the village, but spoke to nobody. Since her lover had gone she had remained dull and apathetic, taking scarcely any interest in anything, and never riding her cycle because of the tragic memories its sight always aroused within her. Her life was, indeed, grey and colourless, for she noticed that of late even her father's manner had changed strangely towards her, and instead of being uniformly courteous and solicitous regarding her welfare, he now seemed to treat her with studied indifference, and she even thought she detected within him a kind of repulsion, as if her presence annoyed and distressed him. He had never been the same towards her since that memorable evening when he had forbidden her to accept George's offer. Yet her mind was full of thoughts of her absent lover, and she sent him by post boxes of flowers from the garden, that their sweet perfume should remind him of her. Another fact also caused her most intense anxiety and apprehension. The secret which she believed locked securely within her own bosom was undoubtedly in possession of some unknown person, for having gone into the garden one morning, a week after that night when she had buried the small box from her jewel-case, she fancied that the ground had been freshly disturbed, and that someone had searched the spot. If so, her actions had been watched. Thus she lived from day to day, filled by a constant dread that gripped her heart and paralysed her senses. She knew that the most expert officers from Scotland Yard were actively endeavouring to discover the identity of Nelly's assassin, and was convinced that sooner or later the terrible truth must be elicited. Twice each week George wrote to her, and she read and re-read his letters many times, sending him in return all the gossip of the old-world village that he loved so well. Thanks to the generosity of the Major, who had decided to give him a small property bringing in some two hundred a year, he was not so badly off as he had anticipated; nevertheless, were it not for that he must have been in serious straits, for, according to his letters, work at the Bar was absolutely unobtainable, and for a whole month he had been without a single brief. Old Mr Harrison sometimes gave him one, but beyond that he could pick up scarcely anything. One evening in late autumn, when the air was damp and chilly, the orchard covered with leaves and the walnuts were rattling down upon the out-house roof with every gust of wind that blew across the hills, the Captain received a telegram, and briefly observed that it was necessary he should go to London on the morrow. He threw the piece of pink paper into the fire without saying who was the sender, and next morning rose an hour earlier and caught the train to Paddington, whence he drove in a hansom to an address in Cork Street, Piccadilly. A man-servant admitted him, and he was at once ushered upstairs to a small, well-furnished drawing-room, which, however, still retained the odour of overnight cigars. He had scarcely time to fling himself into a chair when a door on the opposite side of the room opened, and Zertho entered, well-dressed, gay and smiling, with a carnation in the lappel of his coat. "Well, Brooker, old chap," he cried, extending his white hand heartily, "I'm back again, you see." "Yes," answered the other, smiling and grasping the proffered hand. "The dignity of Prince appears to suit you, judging from your healthful look." "It does, Brooker; it does," he answered laughing. "One takes more interest in life when one has a plentiful supply of the needful than when one has to depend upon Fortune for a dinner." "I wonder that no one has yet spotted you," Brooker observed, leaning back in the silken armchair, stretching out his feet upon the hearthrug, regarding the Prince with a critical look from head to toe, and lighting the cigar the other had offered him. "If they did, it might certainly be a bit awkward," Zertho acquiesced. "But many people are ready to forgive the little peccadilloes of anybody with a title." "Ah! that's so. It's money, money always," the luckless gamester observed with a sigh. "Well, hang it, you can't grumble. You've won and lost a bit in your time," his friend said, casting himself upon a couch near, stroking his dark beard, and blowing a cloud of smoke from his full lips. "If you're such an idiot as not to play any more, well you, of course, have to suffer." "Play, be hanged!" cried Brooker, impetuously. "My luck's gone. The last time I played trente-et-quarante, I lost a couple of ponies." "But the system is--" "Oh, the system is all rot. The Johnnie who invented it ought to have gone and played it himself. He'd have been a candidate for the nearest workhouse within three days." "Well, we brought it off all right more than once," Zertho observed, with a slight accent. "Mere flukes, all of them." "You won at one coup thirty-six thousand francs, I remember. Surely that wasn't bad?" "Ah! that was because Liane was sitting beside me. It's wonderful what luck that girl has." "Then why not take her back again this season?" his companion suggested. "She wouldn't go," he answered, after a slight pause. "Wouldn't go!" cried the Prince, raising his dark, well-defined brows. "You are her father. Surely she obeys you?" "Of late she's very wilful; different entirely from the child as you knew her. Since poor Nelly's death she seems to have been seized with a sudden desire to go to church on Sunday, and is getting altogether a bluestocking," the Captain said. "Poor Nelly!" sighed the Prince. "I have never ceased to think of that sad evening when she grasped my hand through the carriage-window as the train was moving, and with a merry mischievous laugh waved me farewell. She was bright and happy then, as she always was; yet an hour later she was shot dead by some villainous hand. I wonder whether the mystery will ever be explained," he added, reflectively. The Captain made no reply, but smoked on steadily, his head thrown back, gazing fixedly at the opposite wall. "The police have done their best," he answered at length. "At present, however, they have no clue." "And I don't believe they ever will have," answered Zertho, slowly. "What makes you think that?" Brooker inquired, turning and looking at him. "Well, I've read all that the papers say about the affair," he answered, "and to me the mystery seems at present one that may never be solved." "Unless the crime is brought home to the assassin by some unexpected means." "Of course, of course," he answered. "You're a confounded fool to remain down in that wretched, dismal hole, Brooker. How you can stand it after what you've been used to I really can't think." "My dear fellow, I've grown quite bucolic," he assured his companion, laughing a trifle bitterly. "The few pounds I've still got suffice to keep up the half-pay wheeze, and although I'm in a chronic state of hard-up, yet I manage to rub along somehow and just pay the butcher and baker. Hang it! Why, I'm so infernally respectable that a chap came round last week with a yellow paper on which he wanted me to declare my income. Fancy me paying an income-tax!" The Prince laughed at his friend's grim humour. In the old days at Monte Carlo, Erle Brooker had been full of fun. He was the life and soul of the Hotel de Paris. No reverse ever struck him seriously, for he would laugh when "broke" just as heartily as when, with pockets bulky with greasy banknotes, he would descend the steps from the Casino, and crack a bottle of "fizz" at the cafe opposite. "If I were you I'd declare my income at eight hundred a year, pay up, and look big," Zertho laughed. "It would inspire confidence, and you could get a bit of credit here and there. Then when that's exhausted, clear out." "The old game, eh? No, I'm straight now," the other answered, his face suddenly growing grave. "Honesty is starvation. That used to be our motto, didn't it? Yet here you are with only just enough to keep a roof over your head, living in a dreary out-of-the-way hole, and posing as the model father. The thing's too absurd." "I don't see it. Surely I can please myself?" "Of course. But is it just to Liane?" "What do you mean?" "It is essential for a young girl of her temperament to have life and gaiety," he said, exhibiting his palms with a quick, expressive movement. "By vegetating in Stratfield Mortimer, amid surroundings which must necessarily possess exceedingly painful memories, she will soon become prematurely old. It's nothing short of an infernal shame that she should be allowed to remain there." Brooker did not reply. He had on more than one occasion lately reflected that a change of surroundings would do her good, for he had noticed with no little alarm how highly strung had been her nerves of late, and how pale and wan were her cheeks. Zertho spoke the truth. "I don't deny that what you say is correct," he replied thoughtfully. "But what's the use of talking of gaiety? How can any one have life without either money or friends?" "Easily enough. Both you and Liane know the Riviera well enough to find plenty of amusement there." "No, she wouldn't go. She hates it." "Bah!" cried the prince, impatiently. "If, as you say, she's turned a bit religious, she of course regards the old life as altogether dreadful. But you can easily overcome those prejudices--or I will." "How?" "In December I'm going to Nice for the season," Zertho explained. "We shall have plenty of fun there, so at my expense you'll come." "I think not," was the brief reply. "My dear fellow, why not," he cried. "Surely you can have no qualms about accepting my hospitality. You will remember that when I was laid up with typhoid in Ostend I lived for months on your generosity. And heaven knows, you had then but little to spare! It is my intention now to recompense you." "And to endeavour to win Liane's love," added the Captain, curtly. Zertho's brows narrowed slightly. He paused, gazing at the fine diamond glittering upon his white finger. "Well, yes," he answered at last. "I don't see why there should be anything underhand between us." "I gave you my answer when you came down to Stratfield Mortimer," the other responded in a harsh, dry tone, rising slowly. "I still adhere to my decision." "Why?" protested his whilom partner, looking up at him intently, and sticking his hands into his pockets in lazy, indolent attitude. "Because I'm confident she will never marry you." "Has she a lover?" His companion gave an affirmative nod. Zertho frowned and bit his lip. "Who is he?" he asked. "Some uncouth countryman or other, I'll be bound." "The son of Sir John Stratfield." The prince sprang to his feet, and faced his visitor with a look of amazement. "Sir John's son! Never!" he gasped. "Yes. Strange how such unexpected events occur, isn't it?" Brooker observed, slowly, with emphasis. "But, my dear fellow, you can't allow it. You must not!" he cried wildly. "I've already told her that marriage is entirely out of the question. Yet she will not heed me," her father observed, twirling the moustaches which he kept as well trained now as in the days when he rode at the head of his troop on Hounslow Heath, and was the pet of certain London drawing-rooms. "Then take her abroad, so that they cannot meet. Come to Nice in December." "I am to bring her, so that you may endeavour to take George Stratfield's place in her heart--eh?" observed the Captain shrewdly. "Marriage with George Stratfield is agreed between us both to be impossible, whereas marriage with me is not improbable," was the reply. Erle Brooker shrugged his shoulders as he again puffed vigorously at his cigar. He now saw plainly Zertho's object in asking him to call. "Well," continued his friend, "even I, with all my faults, am preferable to any Stratfield as Liane's husband, am I not?" "I don't see why we need discuss it further," said Brooker quietly. "Liane will never become Princess d'Auzac." "Will you allow me to pay my attentions to her?" "If you are together I cannot prevent it, Zertho. But, candidly speaking, you are not the man I would choose as husband for my daughter." "I know I'm not, old fellow," the other said, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "And you're not exactly the man that, in ordinary circumstances, I'd choose as my father-in-law. But I have money, and if the man's a bit decent-looking, and sound of wind and limb, it's about all a woman wants nowadays." "Ah! I don't think you yet understand Liane. She's not eager for money and position, like most girls." "Well, let me have a fair innings, Brooker, and she'll consent to become Princess d'Auzac, I feel convinced. You fancy I only admire her; but I swear it's a bit more than mere admiration. For Heaven's sake take her out of that dismal hole where you are living, and make her break it all off with Stratfield's son. She must do that at once. Take her to the seaside--to Paris--anywhere, for a month or two until we can all meet in the South." Brooker, leaning against the mantelshelf, slowly flicked the ash from his cigar, meditated deeply for a few moments, then asked-- "Why do you wish to take me back to the old spot?" "Because only there can you pick up a living. The police have nothing against either of us, so what have we to fear?" "Recognition by one or other of our dupes. Play wasn't all straight, you'll remember." "Bah!" cried Zertho with impatience. "What's the use of meeting trouble half-way? You never used to have a thought for the morrow in the old days. But, there, you're respectable now," he added, with a slight sneer. "If I go South I shall not play," Brooker said, decisively. "I've given it up." "Because you've had a long run of ill-luck--eh?" the other laughed. "Surely this is the first time you've adopted such a course. I might have been in the same unenviable plight as yourself by now if my respected parent had not taken it into his head to drop out of this sick hurry of life just at a moment when my funds were exhausted. One day I was an adventurer with a light heart and much lighter pocket, and on the next wealthy beyond my wildest expectations. Such is one's fortune. Even your bad luck may have changed during these months." "I think not," Brooker answered gravely. "Well, you shall have a thousand on loan to venture again," his old partner said good-naturedly. "I appreciate your kindness, Zertho," he answered, in a low tone, smiling sadly, "but my days are over. I've lost, and gone under." The prince glanced at him for an instant. There was a strange glint in his dark eyes. "As you wish," he answered, then walking to a small rosewood escritoire which stood in the window, he sat down and scribbled a cheque, payable to his friend for five hundred pounds. Brooker, still smoking, watched him in silence, unaware of his intention. Slowly the prince blotted it, folded it, and placing it in an envelope, returned to where his visitor was standing. "I asked you to take Liane from all the painful memories of Stratfield Mortimer. Do so for her sake, and accept this as some slight contribution towards the expense. Only don't let her know that it comes from me." Brooker took the envelope mechanically, regarding his friend steadily, with fixed gaze. At first there was indecision in his countenance, but next instant his face went white with fierce anger and resentment. His hand closed convulsively upon the envelope, crushing it into a shapeless mass, and with a fierce imprecation he cast it from him upon the floor. "No, I'll never touch your money!" he cried, with a gesture, as if shrinking from its contact. "You fear lest Liane should know that you are attempting to buy her just as you would some chattel or other which, for the moment, takes your fancy. But she shall know; and she shall never be your wife." "Very well," answered Zertho, with a contemptuous smile, facing the Captain quickly. "Act as you please, but I tell you plainly, once and for all, that Liane will many me." "She shall not." "She shall!" declared the other, determinedly, looking into his face intently, his black eyes flashing. "And you will use that cheque for her benefit, and in the manner I direct, without telling her anything. You will also bring her to Nice, and stand aside that I may win her, and--" "I'll do nothing of the sort. I'd rather see her dead." Zertho's fingers twitched, as was his habit when excited. Upon his dark sallow face was an expression of cruel, relentless revenge; an evil look which his companion had only seen once before. "Listen, Brooker," he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone, as advancing close to him he bent and uttered some rapid words in his ear, so low that none might hear them save himself. "Good God! Zertho!" cried the unhappy man, turning white to the lips, and glaring at him. "Surely you don't intend to give me away?" he gasped, in a hoarse, terrified whisper. "I do," was the firm reply. "My silence is only in exchange for your assistance. Now you thoroughly understand." "Then you want Liane, my child, as the price of my secret! My God!" he groaned, in a husky, broken voice, sinking back into his chair in an attitude of abject dejection, covering his blanched, haggard face with trembling hands. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE MISSING MARIETTE. In London the January afternoon was wet and cheerless. Alone in his dingy chambers on the third floor of an ancient smoke-begrimed house in Clifford's Inn, one of the old bits of New Babylon now sadly fallen from its once distinguished estate, George Stratfield sat gazing moodily into the fire. In his hand was a letter he had just received from Liane; a strange letter which caused him to ponder deeply, and vaguely wonder, whether after all he had not acted unwisely in sacrificing his fortune for her sake. She had been nearly three months abroad, and although she had written weekly there was an increasing coldness about her letters which sorely puzzled him. Twice only had they met since he left the Court--on the two evenings she and her father had spent in London on their way to the Continent. He often looked back upon those hours, remembering every tender word she had uttered, and recalling the unmistakable light of love that lit up her face when he was nigh. Yet since she had been _en sejour_ on the Riviera her letters were no longer long and gossipy, but brief, hurriedly-written scribbles which bore evidence that she wrote more for the fulfilment of her promise than from a desire to tell of her daily doings, as lovers will. A dozen times he had read and re-read the letter, then lifting his eyes from it his gaze wandered around the shabby room with its ragged leather chairs, its carpet so faded that the original pattern had been lost, its two well-filled bookcases which had stood there and been used by various tenants for close upon a century, its panelled walls painted a dull drab, and its deep-set windows grimy with the soot of London. The two rooms which comprised this bachelor abode were decidedly depressing even on the brightest day, for the view from the windows was upon a small paved court, beyond which stood the small ancient Hall, the same in which Sir Matthew Hale and the seventeen judges sat after the Great Fire in 1666, to adjudicate on the claims of landlords and tenants of burned houses, so as to prevent lawsuits. An ocean of chimneys belched around, while inside the furniture had seen its best days fully twenty years before, and the tablecloth of faded green was full of brown holes burnt by some previous resident who had evidently been a careless cigarette smoker. George drew his hand wearily across his brow, sighed, replaced the letter slowly in its envelope, examined the post-mark, then placed it in his pocket. "No," he said aloud, "I won't believe it. She said she loved me, and she loves me still." And he poked the fire vigorously until it blazed and threw a welcome light over the gloomy, dismal room. Suddenly a loud rapping sounded on the outer door, and rising unwillingly, expecting it to be one of his many friends of the "briefless brigade," he went and opened it, confronting to his surprise his father's solicitor, Harrison. "Well, George," exclaimed his visitor, thrusting his wet umbrella into the stand in the tiny cupboard-like space which served as hall, and walking on uninvited into the apartment which served as office and sitting-room. "Alone I see. I'm glad, for I want ten minutes' chat with you." "At your service, Harrison," Stratfield answered, in expectation of a five-guinea brief. "What is it? Something for opinion?" "Yes," answered the elder man, taking a chair. "It is for opinion, but it concerns yourself." George flung himself into the armchair from which he had just risen, placed his feet upon the fender and his hands at the back of his head, as was his habit when desiring to listen attentively. "Well," he said, sighing, "about that absurd provision of the old man's will, I suppose? I'm comfortable enough, so what's the use of worrying over it?" "But it is necessary. You see, I'm bound to try and find this woman," the other answered, taking from his pocket some blue foolscap whereon were some memoranda. "Besides, the first stage of the inquiry is complete." "And what have you discovered?" he asked eagerly. "I placed the matter in the hands of Rutter, the private inquiry agent, whose report I have here," answered the solicitor. "It states that no such person as Madame Lepage is living at 89 Rue Toullier, Paris, but the concierge remembers that an elderly lady, believed to be a widow, once occupied with her daughter a flat on the fourth floor. The man, however forgets their name, as they only resided there a few months. During that time the daughter, whom he describes as young and of prepossessing appearance, mysteriously disappeared, and although a search was instituted, she was never found. There was no suspicion of suicide or foul play, but the police at the time inclined to the belief that, possessing a voice above the average, she had, like so many other girls who tire of the monotony of home life, forsaken it and obtained an engagement at some obscure cafe-concert under an assumed name. Rutter, following up this theory, then visited all the impressarios he could find in an endeavour to discover an artist whose real name was Lepage. But from the first this search was foredoomed to failure, for girls who desire to exchange home life for the stage seldom give their impressarios their correct names, hence no such person as Mariette Lepage could be traced." "Then, after all, we are as far off discovering who this mysterious woman is as we ever were," George observed, glancing at his visitor with a half-amused smile. "Well, not exactly," the solicitor answered. "Undoubtedly the girl who disappeared from the house in the Rue Toullier was the woman for whom we are searching." "The letter found on Nelly Bridson is sufficient proof that she's still alive," said the younger man. "Exactly; and from its tone it would appear that she is in the lower strata of society," Harrison remarked. "Whoever she is I shall, I suppose, be required to offer her marriage, even if she's a hideous old hag! My father was certainly determined that I should be sufficiently punished for my refusal to comply with his desire," George observed, smiling bitterly. "Why regret the past?" Harrison asked slowly, referring again to the blue foolscap by the fitful light of the fire. "The inquiry has, up to the present, resulted in the elucidation of only one definite fact; nevertheless, Rutter is certainly on the right scent, and as he is now extensively advertising in the principal papers throughout France, I hope to be able ere long to report something more satisfactory." "It will be no satisfaction whatever to me if she is found," observed the young man, grimly. "But it is imperative that the matter should be cleared up," the solicitor protested. "When we have discovered her you will, of course, be at liberty to offer her marriage, or not, just as you please." "It is a most remarkable phase of the affair that the only person acquainted with this mysterious woman was poor Nelly," the young barrister exclaimed at last. "You will remember that in the letter, with its slang of the slums, Liane's name was mentioned. Well, I have written asking her whether she is acquainted with any woman of the same name with which the curious letter is signed, but she has replied saying that neither herself nor her father ever knew any such person, and they had been quite at a loss to know how Nelly should have become acquainted with her. Here is her reply; read for yourself," and from his pocket he took several letters, and selecting one, handed it to the keen-faced, grey-haired man, at the same time striking a vesta and lighting the lamp standing upon the table. "You don't seem to mind other people reading your love-letters," the old solicitor said, laughing and turning towards the light. "When I was young I kept them tied up with pink tape in a box carefully locked." George smiled. "The pink tape was owing to the legal instinct, I suppose," he said. Then he added, with a slight touch of sorrow, "There are not many secrets in Liane's letters." The shrewd old man detected disappointment in his voice, and after glancing at the letter, looked up at him again, saying, "The course of true love is not running smooth, eh? This lady is in Nice, I see." "Yes, Harrison," he answered gravely, leaning against the table with head slightly bent. "We are parted, and I fear that, after all, I have acted foolishly." "You will, no doubt, remember my advice on the day of your father's death." "I do," George answered, huskily. "At that time I fondly believed she loved me, and was prepared to sacrifice everything in order that she should be mine. But now--" "Well?" "Her letters have grown colder, and I have a distinct and painful belief that she loves me no longer, that she has, amid the mad whirl of gaiety on the Riviera, met some man who has the means to provide her with the pleasures to which she has been accustomed, and upon whom she looks with favour. Her letters now are little more than the formal correspondence of a friend. She has grown tired of waiting." "And are you surprised?" Harrison asked. "I ought not to be, I suppose," he said gloomily. "I can never hope to marry her." "Why despair?" the old solicitor exclaimed kindly. "You have youth, talent, and many influential friends, therefore there is no reason why your success at the Bar should not be as great as other men's." "Or as small as most men's," he laughed bitterly. "No, Harrison, without good spirits it is impossible for one to do one's best. Those I don't possess just now." "Well, if, because you are parted a few months, the lady pleases to forsake you, as you suspect, then all I can say is that you are very fortunate in becoming aware of the truth ere it is too late," the elder man argued. "But I love her," he blurted forth. "I can't help it." "Then, under the circumstances, I would, if I were you, stick to my profession and try and forget all that's past. Bitter memories shorten life and do nobody any good." "Ah! I only wish I could get rid of all thought of the past," he sighed, gazing fixedly into the fire. "You are my friend and adviser, Harrison, or I should not have spoken thus to you." The old man, with his blue foolscap still in his thin, bony hand, paused, regarded his client's son with a look of sympathy for a few moments, and sighed. "Your case," he said at last, "is only one of many thousands. All of us, in whatever station, have our little romances in life. We have at some time or another adored a woman who, after the first few months, has cast us aside for a newer and perhaps richer lover. There are few among us who cannot remember a sweet face of long ago, a voice that thrilled us, a soft, caressing hand that was smooth as satin to our lips. We sigh when we recollect those long-past days, and wonder where she is, who she married, and whether, in her little debauches of melancholy, she ever recollects the man who once vowed he would love her his whole life through. Years have gone since then, yet her memory clings to us as vividly as if she were still a reality in our lives. We still love her and revere her, even though she cast us aside, even though we are not certain whether she still exists. The reason of all this is because when we are young we are more impressionable than when we are older, with wider and more mature experience of the world. The woman we at twenty thought adorable we should pass by unnoticed if we were forty. Thus it is that almost all men cherish in their hearts a secret affection for some woman who has long ago gone out of their lives, passed on, and forgotten them." George smiled bitterly at the old man's philosophy. "Are you, then, one of those with a romance within you?" he asked, his face suddenly becoming grave again. "Yes," the old lawyer answered, his features hard and cold. "I, dry-as-dust, matter-of-fact man that I am, I also have my romance. Years ago, how many I do not care to count, I loved a woman just as madly as you love Liane Brooker. She was of good family, wealthy, and so handsome that a well-known artist painted her portrait, which was hung at one of the Galleries as one of a collection of types of English beauty. That she loved me I could not doubt, and the first six months of our acquaintance in the quaint old cathedral town where we lived was a dream of sunny, never-ending days. At evening, when the office at which I was articled was closed, she met me, and we walked together in the sunset by the river. I see her now, as if it were but yesterday, in her simple white dress and large hat trimmed with roses. The years that have passed have not dimmed my memory." And the old man, pausing, sat with his steely eyes gazing into the fire, a hardness in the corners of his mouth as if the recollection of the past was painful. "Months went by," he continued in a harsh voice, quite unlike the tone habitual to him. "She knew that I was poor, yet against the wishes of her parents, purse-proud county people, she had announced her intention of waiting a year or two, and then marrying me. At length there came a day when I found it necessary to exchange the quiet respectability of Durham for the bustle of a London office, and left. Ours was a sad farewell, one night beneath the moon. She took my ring from my finger, kissed it and replaced it, while I kissed her hair, and we exchanged vows of undying love. Then we parted. Well, you may guess the rest. Within three months she was a wife, but I was not her husband. From the moment when we said farewell on that memorable night I never saw her nor heard from her again. Times without number I wrote, but my letters remained unanswered, until I saw in the papers the announcement of her marriage with some man who I ascertained later had amassed a fortune at the Cape and had taken her out there with him. Though I have grown old, I have never ceased to remember her, because she was the one woman I adored, the woman who comes once into the life of every man to lighten it, but who, alas! too often forsakes him for reasons incomprehensible and leaves him solitary and forgotten, with only a deep-cherished memory as consolation. So it is with you, George," he added. "It may be, as you fear, that Liane Brooker has grown weary, yet remember the old adage that a woman's mind and winter wind change oft, and reflect that if after her solemn vow to you she breaks her pledge, she is unworthy." "I know," he answered. "Nevertheless she is my well-beloved." "So to me was the woman of whom I have just spoken," he answered. "Nevertheless, that did not prevent me marrying ten years later and living in perfect happiness with my wife till her death six years ago. No, the thought of the past is the privilege of all men. I admit that it is doubly hard in your case that, having sacrificed your fortune for sake of her, you should now find yourself being slowly replaced in her heart by some other man. Nevertheless, I repeat I am not surprised." "But you sympathise with me, although I speak so foolishly," he said, half apologetically. "It is no foolish talk," Harrison replied. "There is surely no foolishness in discussing a matter that so closely concerns a man's future," he said. "Of course you have my most sincere sympathy, and if at any time I can offer advice or render assistance, then command me." "You are extremely good," the young man replied. "The mystery surrounding Liane, the tragic death of Nelly Bridson, the discovery of the missing miniature, and the unfortunate girl's acquaintance with this unknown woman whom my father designated as my wife, form an enigma of which, try how I will, I am unable to obtain any elucidation. Through all these months not a single important fact has come to light." "True. It's an extraordinary affair altogether," Harrison acquiesced, replacing the inquiry agent's report in his breast-pocket. "But I still hope we may discover Mariette Lepage, and through her we shall certainly be able to learn something. Until then, we must remain patient." The pained, thoughtful expression that had rested upon his face, while he had been telling George the romance of his life, had been succeeded by that keen business-like air he always wore. He was again the plain, matter-of-fact lawyer, with his clean-shaven aquiline face, his cold steel-blue eyes and thin lips that gave those who did not know him an impression of almost ascetic austerity. George Stratfield made no answer, but when a few minutes later his visitor had gone, after placing his hand sympathetically upon his shoulder and bidding him bear up against misfortune, he cast himself again into his chair and sat immovable, heedless of everything save the one woman who was his idol. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS. Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival. While England is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright sunshine, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue which only the Mediterranean can assume. Little wonder it is that the gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its climate, and so many and unique are its attractions. Superbly situated on the broad beautiful Bay of Anges, with the promontories of Ferrat and Antibes jutting out in the far distance on either side, and sheltered by the lower terraces of the Maritime Alps, it presents a handsome appearance, with the heights of Cimiez and other fertile olive-clad hills forming a fitting background. Close to the sea, in the centre of the town, is the pretty Jardin Public, with its cascade and cavern of hanging stalactites, and behind is the fine Place Massena, wherein stands the handsome white Casino Municipal, while along the coast to the right stretches the world-famed Promenade des Anglais, a magnificent esplanade bordered by palatial hotels and villas, all uniformly white, the roadway planted with palms, oranges, cypresses and aloes, and laid out with beds of sweet-smelling flowers. Although February, the oranges are ripe, and roses and carnations are already in full blossom; the Jardin Public is a blaze of brilliant colour, and as one turns from the Promenade into the clean white streets the fragrance of violets hawked in huge bunches at four sous by the flower-girls greets the nostrils at every corner. Nice is indeed a town of flowers. The garden of each villa is full of them--almost every person in the street wears a buttonhole or carries violets, the florists' shops diffuse the odour of mimosa and roses far and near, and even the confectioners sell dainty little round boxes of violets and roses crystallised in sugar. In those spring days Nice is verily in Carnival mood. Her hotels are full, her shops display the daintiest fabrics possible, and as to hats and sunshades--for both of which the town is famous--it is doubtful whether such daring feats of millinery, as fetching as they are audacious, can be found in any city or any clime the world over. Certainly nowhere else is there a brighter or more animated scene than that witnessed on the cemented footway of the Promenade des Anglais on a February morning. Furs have long ago been discarded, and silk blouses and sunshades testify to the warmth of the brilliant sun, while the male portion of the visitors are attired in straw hats and suits of summer tweed. Truly cosmopolitan and polyglot is that chattering throng. One rubs shoulders with barons, counts and highnesses of every nationality, and hears every European language uttered by gay laughing lips; the sibilant French of the dainty Parisienne, the musical Italian, the guttural German, the rapid English and the slow Russian, all combine to make a veritable Babel of tongues, while by the costumes alone, many of them marvellous creations of the famous men-dressmakers, the race of their wearers may usually be determined. Fashionable Europe is making happy holiday amid premature summer. Amid this chattering crowd of pleasure-seekers Liane was strolling beside Prince Zertho one morning a fortnight after old Mr Harrison had visited George in his dingy London chambers. Gowned in pearl grey, the fitting of which bore the impress of the Parisian costumier, and with a large hat to match, she walked on, chatting, laughing, and ever and anon bowing to those she knew; while the Prince, in black jacket suit and soft felt hat of silver-grey, lounged leisurely along beside her, smoking a cigarette, and listening amusedly to her light, vivacious gossip. Her appearance was entirely different to the trim, neatly-dressed girl who, in cotton blouse and shabby skirt, had cycled over the level Berkshire roads. With her pure and perfect French, her slim waist girdled narrow, her _chevelure_ as carefully arranged as if by a maid of the first order, one might have easily mistaken her for a true Parisienne. Her beautiful face, combined with her delightful _chic_, caused many to turn and glance after her as she passed, a fact not unnoticed by her companion. Her cheeks, no longer wan as they had been at Stratfield Mortimer, were again flushed with health; her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she became conscious of the profound admiration she everywhere evoked, and in her footstep was the lightness of one in whose heart there lurked no shadow. The day was perfect. Both sea and sky were of a deep, intense blue, the long line of sun-blanched villas and hotels were gay with visitors, the trees wore their freshest green, and the sweet scent of violets pervaded everything. As they walked, Zertho was reflecting how striking was her beauty, even among that crowd of Europe's prettiest and wealthiest women. Through November and December she and her father had remained in Paris, and early in the new year had travelled down to Nice, taking up their quarters at a small select "pension" in one of the large white villas which, standing in its own pretty garden planted with oranges, palms and roses, faced the Mediterranean at the end of the Promenade towards the Magnan, while close by them Zertho occupied the handsome Villa Chevrier, a great white house with palms in front, which also faced the sea at the corner of the Rue Croix de Magnan. In Nice a wealthy man can, if he desires, easily obtain a large cosmopolitan circle of friends, therefore, the villa of Prince Zertho d'Auzac quickly became a social centre, for his entertainments being upon a scale almost unequalled, he found no lack of acceptances to his invitations. Everyone in Nice soon knew him by sight; the well-informed _Petit Nicois_ mentioned him almost daily in its "Echoes de Partout," the _Swiss and Nice Times_ devoted whole columns to descriptions of his fetes and lists of his guests, among which figured many well-known names, and the _Phare du Littoral_ was loud in its praises of his dinners, his driving parties, and the dances at his house. Well-groomed and usually attired in a dark suit, he walked in the Avenue de la Gare, drove tandem with Liane at his side along the Promenade, rode his unmatched bay on the Corniche Road, or strolled about the Casino, and was everywhere recognised, for he was indeed the man of the hour. He smiled, however, when he recollected how, two years before, he had occupied an apartment "au troisieme" in the narrow noisy Rue de France, while Liane, Nellie and the Captain had lived equally precariously in the Rue Dalpozzo, close by. Often dependent on his wits for a meal he had more than once, he remembered, strolled out upon that same Promenade where he now walked with Liane, in search of some inexperienced youth from whom he might obtain a few louis at cards, and thus stave off starvation for the next few days. Their run of ill-luck had almost knocked them both under until one night after the Captain had won a considerable sum at Monte Carlo, a sudden suggestion occurred to them, and together they started a private gaming-house in the Boulevard Gambetta, in Nice, a place which, although remaining open only a few months, gained a decidedly unenviable repute. Nevertheless, both men found their venture a most profitable one, and it is more than likely that their avarice would have led them into the arms of the police had not Brooker, at Liane's instigation, suddenly dissolved the partnership, taken his money, and returned to England. Liane knew Nice well. Some of the most weary anxious and monotonous days of her life had been spent in a well-remembered frowsy room high up in that narrow back street which smelt eternally of garlic, where they had lived for nine months almost penniless. In those days when the Fates were unkind neither she nor Nelly ever ventured upon the Promenade in the day-time, because their dresses were too dowdy, and they feared lest they should encounter some of the people with whom they had become acquainted when living at the big hotels at Monte Carlo, Mentone, or Cannes, as they did when their father prospered. Yet she had now come back to the town she once abhorred. Her father had sufficient to keep them both respectably and in comfort, and Zertho was almost, if not quite, a millionaire. Fortune they had so often courted had smiled at last upon them all. They were almost constantly at the Villa Chevrier. Each morning the Prince would call with his tandem and take her for a drive, returning in time for half an hour's walk on the Promenade before _dejeuner_, then a lazy afternoon, a dinner with guests, a visit to the Opera, to the Casino, or perhaps to a ball. So passed the warm, brilliant days delightfully. People soon began to inquire who was the handsome, sweet-faced English girl with whom the Prince was seen so often, but Liane, entirely ignorant of Zertho's mysterious influence over her father, or of his motive, merely regarded him with the cordiality of an old friend. Zertho, even in the old days, had always treated her with studied courtesy, had often bought her sweetmeats and flowers, and was fond of teasing her good-humouredly and promising to find her a wealthy husband. It was he who had made both girls unexpected presents of bicycles after their return to England, and never once, even when almost penniless, had he forgotten to send them some trifle on their birthdays. Although he had been her friend she nevertheless had regarded him with some slight, ill-defined mistrust. Why, she had never been able to determine. Though moving in the gay world of fashion and frivolity, of gambling and kindred vices, she was not of it. Her knowledge of man's sins and woman's frailty was wider than that of most girls of her age, yet she had remained sweet, simple, and ingenuous. Often, when at home in her room overlooking the sea, she would stand out upon the balcony and gaze away at the horizon distant in the broad expanse of blue, thinking deeply of George and wondering how he fared. Still she reflected that, after all, life was far more pleasant there than in the lethargic Berkshire village. Yet amid that constant whirl of gaiety she never forgot those days that were past. Even on that bright morning as at Zertho's side she passed along, her sweet face fresh beneath her cream sunshade, she remembered the time when neither Nelly nor herself dare walk there--those days of dire misfortune when only twenty sous lay between them and starvation. Strolling on through the well-dressed throng they presently met the Captain, spruce in a suit of dark grey with soft hat and brown boots, walking slowly, in conversation with a portly Frenchman who had been the Prince's guest on the previous evening. Saluting, Zertho and his fair companion passed on and continuing their walk strolled leisurely back to the Villa Chevrier. "Why are you so thoughtful?" her companion asked presently in French, having noticed her wonderful grey eyes fixed upon the calm sunlit sea. "It is woman's privilege to think," she replied, laughing as she turned to him with her clear eyes expressive of the soul that lay behind. "I was reflecting upon the difference between our life two years ago and what it is to-day." "Yes, slightly better, isn't it? Well, it is luck--always luck," he answered. "Your father is going over to Monte Carlo to-morrow, and I hope that Fortune may be kind also to him. He has waited long enough for a change of luck." Liane regarded him steadily for an instant, then said reproachfully,-- "It is you who have persuaded him. Why have you done this, when you know full well that half an hour at roulette will bring back upon him the mania for play, the fatal recklessness that must be his ruin and mine? This is surely not the action of a friend." "Ah! forgive me," he exclaimed, quickly. "I had no idea that my suggestion to drive you both over there to-morrow would displease you. "I'll make an excuse to him, and we will not go," he added, deferentially. She was not a little surprised that he should thus alter his plans in conformity to her wish, nevertheless his decision satisfied her. She knew that her father had but little money, and certainly he had none to risk. Little did she dream that the cost of her rich, perfectly-fitting dresses, which had been so admired of late upon the Promenade and in the Casino, had been defrayed by her whilom friend, and that every sou her father was spending came also from his pocket. She was in ignorance of the strange, inviolable secret which existed between the two men; that secret, the price of which was her own self. Too much of life had she seen to be dazzled by the gay, brilliant set of which she had found herself a centre, nevertheless, time after time she reflected, when alone, that she was neglecting George sadly; she had an instinctive fear that her letters to him were devoid of any warmth of affection, yet somehow she could not prevent it. Being thrown so much into Zertho's society he frequently asked her advice, and she thus unconsciously became interested in the success of his fetes. She and her father spent the day at the Villa, as usual, and after dinner drove down to the Place Massena to witness one of the great annual events of Nice, the arrival of King Carnival Long before they drove down, the town was already agog, for Carnival is in the blood of the Southerners. The illuminations were unanimously voted worthy of Nice. From their stands on the balcony of the Casino they could see that from end to end the broad Avenue de la Gare was ablaze with red and white lights, festoons of small lamps being connected at intervals with large red stars of hanging lamps. The Place Massena was lighted up with gas-jets in white, blue, and green globes, forming arabesques; the Casino was encircled with lines of gas-jets, and the facade of the immense tribune opposite a brilliant blaze of colour. Liane stood up and surveyed the scene. The immense square was thronged, the crowd being kept back by infantry. After some waiting the sounds of noisy music, the blasts of many horns, and the dancing lights of hundreds of torches at last heralded the approach of the Monarch of Mirth. Mounted gendarmes opened the way; then came the trumpeters of the 6th Chasseurs, followed by the heralds of Nice in costumes embroidered with the arms of the town. The colours of the Carnival were red and rose, and the shops around were gay with dominoes of those hues. Madame Carnival was the first gigantic figure to appear amid the glare of the great braziers of crimson fire. Seated on what might be termed a gilt throne, and wearing a white frilled cap, a silk shawl, and clean apron, she looked altogether very smart, gracefully wielding a fan, and occasionally winking her enormous eyes. In front of the car was her six-months-old baby, held by two giant hands, while in the rear, in a big basket, was the remainder of her family, a turbulent crowd of youngsters in fancy garb. Following another regiment of musicians and torch-bearers came the lord and master, King Carnival, represented as a peasant in his best white hat with tricolour rosette, astride a turkey-cock, which ever and anon moved its head and spread its tail. Among the other cars which followed was one representing a cafe-concert; a chimpanzee which moved its head and swallowed smaller monkeys; a car of animated fans; and "a charmer and her fools" represented by a beauty who sat upon a throne, and by pulling a string set dancing her crowd of foppish admirers. The _groupes a pied_, too, were amusing and numerous, one entitled "Dragging the Devil by the Tail," representing Satan with a tail of enormous length, at which all who were hard up were pulling vigorously. There were polkas of Hammers, Bakers, Felt hats, and walking alarum clocks, as well as a varying and amusing panorama of single maskers. Among these latter were represented a wine-dealer, who had closed his shop in order "to baptise his wines;" Cupid bandaging a lover's eyes; Love stopping a fair cyclist and asking whether he had been forgotten; "Hurrah!" who had shouted so much that his mouth had become an enormous size, and a drunkard stopping at a fountain believing the drinking-cup to be a telephone transmitter! Fully two hours the procession occupied in passing and re-passing, and of the gay party who had met the Prince at his invitation, Liane was perhaps the most vivacious. With a sable cape about her shoulders she sat next him, with her father on her left, laughing and criticising the groups, the spirit of Carnival having already entered her Southern blood, as it had that of the merry, light-hearted Nicois themselves. At last she drove home with her father and the Prince, while the monarch of cap and bells was placed in the handsome pavilion erected for him, there to preside over the corsos, vegliones, and the battles of flowers and confetti which for twelve days, until his immolation on Mardi-Gras, would render Nice a town gone mad with frolic. The Promenade was bright as day beneath the full moon, the feathery palms waved lazily in the breeze, and the dark waves broke with musical monotony upon the pebbly beach. They had alighted at the gate of the pension where the Captain had taken up his quarters, when the Prince suggested to Liane that they should go for a stroll, as it was still early. To this she assented, and the Captain went indoors and sat alone, silent and wondering, while they crossed the deserted esplanade together and walked in the moonlight by the shore. "So you have enjoyed yourself to-night, _ma petite_?" Zertho said, after they had been chatting some time. "Immensely," she answered. "Carnival is not fresh to me, but it is always amusing. Every Nicois enjoys it so thoroughly. I love these gay, happy, contented people who are still Italian although French. They are so different from the English." "You hated them once, I remember," he observed, with a smile, pausing to light a cigarette. "Ah! that was in the evil days. One's enjoyment is always gauged by one's pocket." "Then according to that theory I ought to have a larger measure of this world's pleasures than the majority of people--eh?" "You have." "Ah, no, Liane," he sighed, becoming suddenly grave. "True, I have wealth, a house in Brussels, an estate in Luxembourg, a yacht in yonder port, and a villa here upon this promenade, yet there is one thing I lack to render my happiness complete." "What's that?" she asked, rather surprised at the unusual tone of sadness in his voice. Her smiling lips suddenly quivered with a momentary dread--a dread of something she could not quite define. He had paused at one of the seats at the end of the plage, and with a alight courteous wave of the hand invited her to sit. Slowly she did as she was bid, and awaited his reply. "I have not yet found any woman to sufficiently care for me," he answered at last, in a quiet impressive tone. "You will surely have no difficulty," she said with a strange ring in her voice. She had not suspected that he possessed a grain of sentiment, for long ago she had noticed that he was entirely unimpressionable where the charms of women were concerned. His manner suddenly changed. He sank into the seat beside her, saying,-- "There is something, Liane, I want to say to you I've said it so often to myself that I feel as if you must know it." She sat quite still. He had grasped her small hand in his, and she let him keep it, questioning his face with a bewildered gaze. "You must know--you must have guessed--" She turned pale, but outwardly quelled the panic that sent the blood to her heart. "I must tell you the truth now--I love you." With a sudden movement she freed her hand and drew away from him. "Me!" she gasped. Whatever potential complicity had lurked in her heart, his words brought her only immeasurable dismay. He bent towards her again. "Yes, you!" She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and put up her hand with imploring gesture. He looked at her with almost frenzied admiration, as if it were only with fierce resolve that he restrained himself from seizing her in his arms and closing her mouth with burning kisses. His whole frame quivered in the fury of repressed excitement, insomuch that she shrank from him with involuntary terror. "Can't you tell me what it is that makes me repugnant to you?" he asked quickly. "You are not repugnant at all," she faltered hoarsely. "You are not repugnant, only--I am indifferent." "You mean that you don't care about me one way or the other." She shut her lips tight. Hers was not a nature so passionate as that of most Southerns, but a loving one; feeling with her was not a single simple emotion, but a complicated one of many impulses--of self-diffidences, of deep, strange aspirations that she herself could scarcely understand--a woman's pride, the delight of companionship and sympathy and of the guidance of a stronger will; a longing for better things. All these things were there. But beside them were thoughts of the man she had vowed she loved, the man who was ruined and who could not for years hope to make her his wife. She looked at the glittering moonlit sea, with the light steadily burning in the far distance at Antibes, but no answer escaped her lips. The silence of night was complete save for the rhythmic swish of the waves at their feet. At last, after a long pause, her words came again, shudderingly, "Oh, what have you done?" "By Heaven!" he said, with a vague smile, "I don't know. I hope no harm." "Oh, don't laugh!" she cried, laughing hysterically herself. "Unless you want me to think you the greatest wretch in the world." "I?" he responded. "What do you mean?" "You know you are fooling me," she answered reproachfully. "You cannot put your hand on your heart and swear that you actually love me." A quick look of displeasure crossed his face, but his back was towards the moon and she did not notice it. "Yes--yes, I can--I will," he answered. "You must have known it, Liane. I've been abrupt, I know, and I've startled you, but if you love me you must attribute that to my loving you so long before I have spoken." Her troubled breast heaved and fell beneath her rich fur. She gazed at him with parted lips. "It is a question from me to you," he went on, "the question of my life." "No, don't think so," she protested, "please, don't ask it." "Then don't answer it, Liane. Wait--let me wait. Ask yourself--" "I know my own mind already," she said slowly, with earnestness; then perceiving, as suddenly as she had all the rest, how considered her assertion might appear, she went on, still with the quietness of clear-seeing and truth-telling: "things come clear in an instant. This does, that I could not have thought of. I am already betrothed to another; that is why I cannot accept." "You can't expect me to be satisfied with that," he answered. "I, who know myself, and who see you as you do not see yourself. It is I who ask: who want to take a great gift. I am not offering myself," he went on rapidly. "I am beseeching yourself--of you." "I have not myself to give," she said calmly. "You mean you love someone else," he said, with a hardness about the corners of his mouth. "Yes," and the long eyelashes swept downward as she answered. But Zertho paid no attention to her reply. "During the years I have known you, Liane," he went on, "the thought of you has been as a safeguard against my total disbelief in the possibility of woman's fidelity. I knew then that I revered you with my better self all the while--that, young as you were, I believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my wife, and from this instant I will devote all the love in me--and I have more than you think--to you alone." "Prince Zertho," she said, in honest distress, "I beg you won't go on! I respect your devotion and your kindness, and I don't want to inflict any hurt upon you; but oh! indeed, you must not ask this." "Very well," he said sadly, rising to his feet. "Let it all be. I will not despair. You know now that I love you, and ere long I shall ask you again as I have asked. Defer your answer until then." "Let us go back," she urged, shivering as she rose. "The wind has grown cold;" and in silence they together retraced their steps along the deserted Promenade. An hour later, when Liane had gone to her room, the Captain, at Zertho's request, walked along to the Villa Chevrier, and found his friend awaiting him in the handsome salon. When the servant closed the door the Prince was the first to speak. "To-night I have asked Liane to become my wife," he said harshly, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Well?" "She refuses." "As I expected," answered her father coldly. "As you wish, you mean," retorted Zertho. "I have already explained my views," the other answered, in a deep strained voice. "From her attitude it is evident that you have not spoken to her, as we arranged," said the other angrily. "I have said nothing." "Well, you know me sufficiently well, Brooker, to be aware that when I set my heart upon doing a thing I will accomplish it at all cost," the Prince, exclaimed. "I'm no longer an outsider, remember, I cannot really understand your disinclination to allow Liane to become Princess d'Auzac. Surely you must see that it would be distinctly to your own advantage. She would take care that you'd never be hard up for a few hundreds, you know." "She does not love you, Zertho." "Love be hanged!" cried the other, fiercely impatient. "In a week I shall repeat my proposal to her: if she does not accept, well--" "Well?" echoed Brooker, paler than before, the hand holding the cigar trembling, for he was feigning a coolness which he was unable to preserve. For a moment the Prince paused then crossing to the escritoire, which stood in the window, took therefrom a folded newspaper, old and tattered, together with several other papers folded together lengthwise. Recrossing to where Brooker stood, he held them up to his gaze, with a sinister smile upon his lips, and a look full of menace. "No! no!" cried the Captain, glaring at the innocent-looking papers, and drawing back with a gesture of repulsion. "Very well," Zertho answered, with nonchalance. "Strange though it may appear, your only chance of safety is in becoming my father-in-law. It will be easy enough for you to persuade Liane to become my wife, and I am ready and eager to remain your friend. But if your prejudices are so very intense and indiscreet, well--you know the rest." The two men who had been fellow-adventurers faced each other. In the countenance of one was confidence, in the other abject fear. "I never expected this of you, Zertho," the Captain said reproachfully, regarding him with eyes in which flashed the fire of anger. "You apparently heed nothing of my feelings as her father. You know my past; you know that Liane brings into my life its only ray of brightness." "We are no longer partners," the other answered harshly, with a strangely determined expression upon his dark countenance. "You are playing against me now, therefore I am your opponent. You've thought fit to deal the cards, it's true," he added, with a short derisive laugh; "but I think you'll have to admit that I hold all the trumps." CHAPTER NINE. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS. One thought alone possessed Liane. Zertho loved her. Next morning when the maid brought her coffee, she rose, and opening the sun-shutters, stood at the window gazing upon the broad expanse of bright blue sea. The words the Prince had uttered all came back to her. She recollected how he had pressed her hand, and declared that she was his ideal of what a woman should be; how, not satisfied with her refusal, he had promised to repeat his question. Should she accept? No, she distrusted him as much as she had ever done. While thus plunged in deep reflection, her clear eyes fixed upon the distant horizon where ships were passing, endeavouring to convince herself that marriage with Zertho was impossible because she could never love him, a light tap was heard upon the door, and the girl re-entered, bearing a letter. By its blue English stamp, she knew instinctively it was from George. Slowly she tore open the envelope and read its contents. Then, with a sudden movement, she cast herself upon her bed, burying her face in the lace-edged pillow, and bursting into a torrent of passionate tears. She hated Zertho, and still loved George. Meanwhile, her father had risen, and gone out for an early turn along the Promenade. He let himself out at the rear into the Rue de France, in order not to pass the Villa Chevrier, and after strolling for some time about the town, he reached the sea again walking alone, his face set towards the high castle hill, which he presently ascended by the winding flight of stone steps, and standing at last on the summit, in the beautiful garden laid out on the side of the long-ruined chateau, paused to rest. The sun was strong, the sky cloudless, and in every direction the view was superb. As he stood leaning over the stone parapet, the Cape of Antibes, the Iles de Lerins, the mouth of the broad stony Var, and the town of Nice were at his feet, while behind stretched the green valley of the Paillon, with the white monasteries of Cimiez and St Pons, the distant chateau of St Andre, the peaks of Mont Chauve, and the Aspremont, with the blue distant Alps forming a picturesque background. He removed his hat, and allowed the fresh breeze that came up from the sea to fan his heated temples. He was alone, save for a solitary sentinel standing with fixed bayonet some distance away, at the entrance to a large platform, where several guns were mounted behind baskets filled with stones, and as he leaned, his eyes fixed blankly upon the sea, some low words escaped him. "Yes," he murmured in desperation, "this is indeed the last drop that has filled my cup of affliction. Poor Liane! How can I tell her? How can I go to her and confess the ghastly truth? If I do; if I tell her of the terrible secret which I had believed was mine alone, she--the child whom I have loved and cherished all these years, will turn from me with loathing." His hands were clenched, his brow furrowed, and upon his usually merry countenance was a settled look of unutterable despair. "No, it is impossible--absolutely impossible," he went on, sighing deeply, after a few moments. "To tell her the truth would only be to increase her unhappiness and cause her to hate me, therefore I cannot--I dare not! No; Zertho is inexorable. I must sacrifice Liane in order to save myself." Again he was silent, pondering deeply, and striving to form some plan by which to save his daughter from being forced into this undesirable union. But he could conceive none. Even if he defied this man who was endeavouring to secure Liane, and boldly met the terrible consequences of the exposure of his secret, he saw that such a course must reflect upon her, for she would then be alone in the world--friendless, forsaken and penniless; while if he fled, he must be found sooner or later, for within twenty-four hours the police of Europe would be actively searching for him. Then, calmly and without fear, he thought of suicide, his one desire being to save Liane from disgrace. Leaning over the parapet, he gazed far down upon the brown, rocky crags, beaten time after time by the great rolling waves as they broke and threw up columns of white spray. He was contemplating how best to end his life. He could leave her a letter confessing all the truth, and thus save her from becoming the wife of this titled adventurer. Yet again a difficulty presented itself. To act thus would be cowardly; besides which Liane would also be left without money, and without a protector. For a long time he carefully reviewed all the facts, at length arriving at the same conclusion as before, that his suicide would only bring increased disaster upon the child he idolised. "No," he exclaimed aloud, between his set teeth. "There is but one way--one way alone. She must become Princess. I must obey Zertho, and compel her to marry him. All these long weeks have I striven against it, knowing that once united to such an unprincipled brute, her days must be full of wretchedness and despair. Nay, I am prepared to sacrifice everything for her sake; nevertheless, if I boldly face my enemies, or take my life to escape them, the result would be the same. Liane would be left friendless. To me through all these dark days she has been the one joy of my aimless, weary life; hers has been the one bright face that has cheered me times without number when I should have otherwise knocked under. I have striven my best to keep her uncontaminated by the reckless world in which I've been compelled to move, and none can ever charge me with neglect of her. Yet this is the end. She must be torn from me, and be given to this unscrupulous blackmailer whom the possession of wealth has converted from my friend into my enemy." Erle Brooker, by profession an adventurer, but at heart generous and tender as a woman, had come to Nice solely on Liane's account, because he had been convinced by Zertho's argument that she was moping sadly at Stratfield Mortimer. Although he had accepted the invitation he had never for one moment intended that Liane should become Princess d'Auzac until his whilom partner had pronounced it imperative. Then, hour by hour, day by day, he had sought means whereby Zertho might be dissuaded from pressing his claim, until now he was compelled to acknowledge his hope an utterly forlorn one. "Alas!" he sighed, leaning his fevered weary head on both his hands. "All happiness and gaiety must be crushed from her heart; her young life must be wrecked because of my sin. I, her father, must persuade, nay insist upon her taking a step that she must regret her whole life through, and use towards that end arguments which I would rather my tongue were torn out than I should utter. Ah, Liane," he cried, brokenly, in a voice of despair, "if you could but realise all that I have suffered these past weeks. But you must not; you, at least, shall never know the cause of this deadly fear which holds me paralysed beneath the relentless thrall of the one man who knows the truth. No, you must marry him, and thereby secure his silence. Your consent to become Princess d'Auzac can alone save me." Again he was silent, deep in contemplation of the terrible truth, when suddenly behind him sounded a peal of merry laughter, and turning quickly, he saw he had been joined upon the platform by Liane and two bright English girls who were living at the same pension with them. They had ascended the long flights of steps, and were entirely out of breath. "Why, dear old dad!" cried Liane, in surprise, "whoever would have thought of finding you up here at this hour?" The Captain laughed uneasily, and made some evasive reply regarding the clearness of the morning and the extent of the view. "Oh, isn't it magnificent!" cried the other girls in chorus, as they gazed around. Liane, who had been there on many previous occasions, had brought them up, promising them a fine panorama, and they certainly were not disappointed. Together they wandered about the pretty gardens, watched the artillery at drill working the guns, peered down the old castle well and clambered about the ancient walls which had been torn down nearly two hundred years ago by the Duke of Brunswick; then, after one of the girls had narrowly escaped losing her hat in the high wind, they descended again to the Rue des Ponchettes, where the Captain, excusing himself that he wanted to make a purchase in the town, left them. The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince d'Auzac's trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps along the Boulevard du Midi. They had passed the Jardin Public, where the band was playing Strauss's _Fesche Geister_, and had just entered the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them raising his hat. The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane's companions remarked-- "Isn't the Prince a handsome fellow? I wonder he does not marry." Liane felt her cheeks colouring. "Oh! I suppose he will very soon," observed her sister. They were both tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from London. This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh to them. "You know the Prince well, don't you?" inquired the first girl who had spoken, turning to Liane. "Yes," she answered. "We knew him long before he became rich." "And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect? It does most men." "No, I can scarcely say that," answered Liane. "At heart he is so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don't think he will ever become purse-proud." "I've heard he's a millionaire," observed the other girl. "Is that true?" "I believe so. His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe." "And whoever marries him will be Princess d'Auzac," the girl remarked, contemplatively. "Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with an ancient title like that One could then cut a decent figure in society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy." Liane winced. She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject. That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown back upon a great cushion of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly repugnant. He feared that his words must choke him, and for half-an-hour glanced surreptitiously at her, hesitating to approach the subject. The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to remain firm, he uttered her name. She looked up from her French novel in surprise. The tone in which he spoke was entirely unusual. It was harsh and strained. "Liane," he said, bending and looking straight into her large, clear eyes, "I have wanted to speak seriously to you during these past few weeks, but have always hesitated." "Why, father?" "Because--well, I knew you were happy, and did not wish to cause you pain," he answered. "Pain? What do you mean?" she inquired quickly. "You have been very happy here in Nice, haven't you? I mean that Zertho has made life very pleasant for us both," he stammered. "Certainly. Thanks to him, we've been extremely gay the whole time. So different to our last experience of the Riviera," and she laughed lightly at the recollection of those well-remembered evil days. "You appear to find Zertho a very congenial companion," he observed. She started. Surely her father could not know what had taken place between them during that walk by the moonlit sea on the previous night? "Of course," she answered hesitatingly. "He was always a good friend to poor Nelly and myself, and he is very amusing." "But I have noticed of late that your face betrays your happiness when you walk with him. A woman always shows in her cheeks a distinct consciousness of her success." Her face flushed slightly as she answered,-- "I was not aware that I appeared any happier when in his society than on any other occasion." "It is upon that very point that I desire to speak to you," he went on in a low serious tone. "You will remember that before we left Stratfield Mortimer, I gave you a few words of kindly advice regarding an impossible lover with whom you had foolishly become infatuated." "Yes," she said, "I well remember." "Then it is upon the subject of your marriage that I want again to say a few words to you." "Marriage!" she laughed. "Why, I shall not marry for years yet, dear old dad. Besides, if I left you, whatever would you do?" "Ah, yes, my girl," he answered hoarsely, as a shadow of pain flitted for an instant across his darkened brow. "You must not lose the chance of youth." She closed her book, placed it aside slowly, and regarded him with surprise. "Haven't you always urged me to wait?" she asked half-reproachfully, toying with the two little gipsy rings upon her slim finger. "I understood that you were entirely against my marriage." "So I was when you did not possess the chance of making a wealthy and satisfactory alliance," he replied. His daughter looked at him inquiringly, but hazarded no remark. She saw by the expression of his face how terribly in earnest he was. "You, of course, know to whom I refer," he added, speaking in a low, intense tone, as he bent towards her, gazing still seriously into the sweet, open countenance. "To Zertho," she observed mechanically. "Yes. If you reflect, as I have already reflected times without number during these past few weeks, Liane, you must recognise that your position as the daughter of an almost penniless adventurer, is by no means an enviable one. If anything happened to me you would be left without a friend, and without a penny. Such thoughts are, I admit, not exactly pleasant ones, nevertheless the truth must be faced, at this, the most important crisis of your life. Again, I have nothing to give you, and can hope for nothing. In the days bygone I managed to pick up sufficient to provide us with the comforts and luxuries of life, but now, alas! luck and friends have alike deserted me, and I am left ruined. I--" "But you are not friendless, dear old dad," Liane cried suddenly, the light of affection glowing in her beautiful eyes as, with a sudden movement, she sprang across to him, and kneeling beside his chair as she often did, put both her soft, clinging arms about his neck. "I am your friend, as I have always been. I do not want to marry and leave you," and she burst into tears. His voice became choked by a sob he vainly strove to keep back. He felt his resolution giving way, and bit his lip. "If--if you would remain my friend, Liane, you will marry," he managed to ejaculate at last, although the words seemed to stifle him, and he hated himself for having uttered them. "No, dad--I will never allow you to live alone." "But you must, dearest," he answered with emphasis, fondly pushing back her dark hair from her brow. "Think what a chance you now have of securing position, wealth and everything which contributes to life's happiness. Zertho loves you." "I know," she answered, with a touch of ineffable sadness in her voice and raising her tear-stained face to his. "But I am happy as I am, with you." "True. Yet in a few months the money we have will become exhausted, and whence we shall obtain more I know not," he said with a look of despair. "You have a chance to become a princess--the wife of a man even wealthier than his sovereign--therefore you should seriously reflect, Liane, ere you refuse." "How did you know that Zertho loves me?" she suddenly inquired, turning her frank face upward to his. "Because he has told me," he answered, in a voice low almost as a whisper. "He asked my permission to speak to you and offer you marriage." As he looked at her the thought flashed across his mind that he, her father, who loved her so dearly, was deceiving her. What would she say if she knew the truth? "Yes," she exclaimed with a sigh, "he says that he loves me, and has asked me to become his wife. But I have refused." "Why?" "Because I do not, I cannot love him, dad. Surely you would never wish me to marry a man for whom I have no affection, and in whom I have no trust." Her father held his breath and evaded her gaze. Her argument was unassailable. The words stabbed his tortured conscience. "But would not the fact of your becoming Princess d'Auzac place you in a position of independence such as thousands of women would envy?" he hazarded, again stroking her silky hair with tenderness. "You know Zertho well. He's a good fellow and would make you an excellent husband, no doubt." "I can never marry him," she answered, decisively. "You will refuse his offer?" he observed, hoarsely. Her firmness was causing him some anxiety. "I have already refused," she replied. Slowly he grasped her hand, and after a brief pause looked her steadily in the face, saying-- "Liane, you must become his wife." "I love but one man, dad, and cannot love another," she sobbed passionately, her arms still about his neck. "Forget him." She remained silent a few moments; then, at last looking up with calm, inquiring gaze, asked-- "Why are you so earnestly persuading me to marry this man who is neither your true friend nor mine, dad? What object can you have in urging me to do what can only bring me grief and dire unhappiness?" He made no reply. His face, she noticed, had grown hard and cold; he was entirely unlike himself. "I love George," she went on. "I will only marry him." "Surely you will not ruin all your future, and mine, for his sake," he blurted forth at last. "Your future!" she gasped, drawing away from him and regarding him with sudden surprise as the truth dawned upon her. "I see it all now! With me as Princess d'Auzac, the wife of a wealthy man, you would never want." His teeth were set. He held her small, soft hand so tightly that it hurt her. He tried to speak, but his lips refused to utter sound. He was persuading his daughter to wreck her young life in order to secure his own safety. The thought was revolting, yet he was forced to act thus: to stand calmly by and witness her self-sacrifice, or bear the consequences of exposure. He bowed his head in agony of mind. A lump rose in his throat, so that his words were again stifled. "My marriage would, I know, relieve you of a serious responsibility," she went on, calmly, without any trace of reproach. "I am not unmindful of the fact that if I married Zertho I should gain wealth and position; yet I do not love him. I--I hate him." "He has been kind to us, and I believe he is extremely fond of you," he said, wincing beneath the lie that fear alone forced to his lips. "Is it not but natural that I should seek for you an improved social position and such wealth as will place you beyond all anxiety in future? Heaven knows that the past has been full enough of care and poverty." "Ah! I know that, poor dad," Liane answered caressingly, in a tone of sympathy, her arms again about his neck. "In the days gone by, because you played fairly, and was never an unscrupulous sharper like Zertho, luck forsook you. They laughed at you because you cared so much for me: because you held Nelly and I aloof from the dregs of society into which you had fallen. You were courageous always, and never when the days were darkest did you relinquish hope, or did your love for me wane. Yet," and she paused, "yet if you still cared for me as once you did, I cannot but feel that you would hesitate ere you urged me to a hateful alliance with a man I can never love." "I am but endeavouring to secure your future happiness, Liane," he answered, his voice sounding deep and hollow. A silence fell, deep and impressive, broken only by the low, monotonous roar of the waves beating upon the shore outside, and the musical jingle of the bells on a pair of carriage-horses that were passing. Liane started as she recognised the sound. They were Zertho's. Erle Brooker would have rather died by his own hand ere he had persuaded her to marry this man; yet for the hundredth time he proved to himself that by suicide he would merely leave her unprotected, while she would most probably afterwards learn from Zertho the terrible secret which he was determined should, at all hazards, remain locked within his own troubled heart. "To persuade me to marry the Prince is but to urge me to a doom worse than death," she exclaimed passionately at last. "No, dad, I am sure you would never wish me to do this when I am so contented to live as I am with you. If we are penniless--well, I shall never complain. It will not be the first time that I have wanted a meal, and gone early to bed because I've been hungry. I promise I'll not complain, only do not endeavour to force me to marry Zertho. Let me remain with you." "Alas! you cannot, my child!" he answered in a hard, dry, agonised tone, his hand trembling nervously. "Why?" "You must forget young Stratfield, and become Princess d'Auzac," he said firmly, intense anxiety betrayed upon his haggard countenance. "Never!" "But you must," he cried brokenly, with emphasis. "It is imperative-- for my sake, Liane--you must marry him, for my sake." CHAPTER TEN. MASK AND DOMINO. The world-famous Battle of Flowers had been fought in brilliant, cloudless weather along the Promenade des Anglais, and Liane riding alone in a victoria covered with violets and stocks set off with rose bows and ribbons, had been awarded a prize-banner, while Zertho, his coach adorned by Marechal Niel roses and white lilac, entertained a party, and was a conspicuous figure in the picturesque procession. The crowd was enormous, the number of decorated carriages greater than ever before known, and as the contending parties, made up of people in carriages decorated with flowers and coloured ribbons, passed slowly along on either side of the broad drive, they kept up a brisk fire of small bouquets. As they went by, the occupants of the tribunes poured broadsides into the carriages, and the battle raged everywhere hot and furious. Liane, sitting alone embowered in violets, flushed with the excitement of throwing handfuls of flowers at all and sundry, found herself more than once in the very thick of the fray and was pelted until her hair escaped from its pins and she felt herself horribly untidy. Brooker had excused himself from forming one of Zertho's party and had gone for a long walk into the country; but that night he reluctantly accompanied them to the great Veglione at the Opera, where all were in grotesque costume, both Zertho and himself wearing hideous masks with enormous red noses, while Liane was attired in the beautiful costume of an odalisque, which, at Zertho's desire, had been specially made for her in Paris. Folly reigned supreme in that whirlwind of light and colour, and although dancing was almost impossible in consequence of the crowded state of the beautifully decorated theatre, yet the fun was always fast and furious, and the first saffron streak had already showed over the grey misty sea before they entered their carriage to drive homeward. Variety had now become Liane's very life, excitement the source and sustenance of her existence. Within the few days which had elapsed since the evening when her father had urged her to marry Zertho a complete change had come upon her. No longer was she dull, dreamy, and apathetic, but eager to embrace any opportunity whereby her thoughts might be turned from the one subject which preyed upon her mind. She entered thoroughly into the Carnival fun and frolic, and Zertho, believing that her gaiety arose from contentment, felt flattered, congratulating himself that after all she was not so averse to his companionship as he had once believed. Knowing nothing of love or sentiment he had no suspicion that her bright amused smile masked a weary bitterness, or that, after dancing half the night radiant and happy, and charming the hearts of men with her light coquetry, she would return to the silence of her own room before the wave-beaten shore, and there lie weeping for hours, murmuring the name of the man she loved. So skilfully did she conceal the poignant sorrow wearing out her heart that none but her father detected it, and he, sighing within himself, made no remark. Through the warm sunny reign of King Carnival Zertho and his handsome companion were prominent figures everywhere, although the Captain, who had grown as dull and dispirited as his daughter had become gay and reckless, seldom accompanied them. Since that night when beside the sea Zertho had told her of his love, he had not again mentioned the subject, although they were often alone together. Sometimes he would accuse her of furious flirtation, but always with a good-humoured amused air, without any sign of jealousy in his manner. Truth to tell, he felt satisfaction that she should be the most universally admired girl in Nice. He remembered that her success was due to him, for had he not paid for the costly costumes and milliner's marvels which suited her beauty so well? The bright cloudless days passed, full of frivolity. The King of Folly's reign was short, therefore the excitement while it lasted was kept up at fever-heat, the grand climax of the many festivities being reached by the Corso Carnavalesque and Battle of Confetti which took place on Sunday, ten days after the gigantic effigy of the Monarch of Mirth had been enthroned on the Place Massena in his Moorish pavilion of rose and gold. All the paper confetti conflicts, pretty and vigorous as they had been, were but preliminary scrimmages to the genuine battle fought with pellets of grey chalk, veritable bullets. So hard are these that it is unsafe to venture out without a wire mask, therefore Zertho and Liane, in assuming their costumes that afternoon, did not neglect the precaution. Zertho wore the white dress of a pierrot; with large velvet buttons of pale rose; while Liane, in a domino of pale rose satin trimmed with red--the colours of that season--wore a clown's hat of rose. Both carried, strapped across their shoulders, capacious bags containing confetti, and a small tin scoop with which to throw their missiles. The mask of fine wire, like those used in fencing schools, having been assumed, they both entered the victoria and were driven down to the Jardin Public through which the Carnival procession, headed by the King himself, pipe in mouth, astride the turkey-cock, was at that moment wending its way. The gun from the old Chateau had a few minutes before boomed forth the signal for the opening of hostilities, and the thousands of revellers on foot and in carriages, all wearing masks and dominoes, were carrying on a fierce and relentless combat. Alighting, Liane and her companion plunged into the rollicking riot, pelting the onlookers who were unmasked or who wore no dominoes, covering dark coats and dresses with great white dust-spots, and compelling the unfortunate ones to cry for quarter. On this, the maddest day of Folly's reign, Nice, from two o'clock until five, presented the appearance of a town run mad with fun. Every balcony, decorated with red and rose, was filled with spectators laughing at the antics of the armoured, quaintly-dressed throng; the timorous, taking refuge behind closed windows, peered curiously out upon the wild conflict, while some, more brave than others, ventured out into the thick of the fray with no further protection than the black velvet half-mask. Woe betide these, however, when detected. Wire masks were the only safeguard from the showers of bullets which everywhere were projected from the small tin scoops. Joining in the Corso were many carriages decked out to correspond with their occupants' costumes, many in the carnival colours, one in pure white, another in a mauve, and a third, belonging presumably to a political enthusiast, in the Russian colours, orange and black. Everywhere were scenes of wild and reckless gaiety. In the side streets, in the open squares, in the cafes, on every side confetti was thrown. The garcons de cafe, compelled to stand amid the continuous cross-fire that swept across the streets, had all assumed masks, and the roads and pavements soon became an inch deep in confetti trodden to dust. All along the line of the procession and in the thick of the fight bags of ammunition were offered by men, women or boys, who stood beside stalls or, mingling with the crowd, cried "_Bonbon; Bonbon_!" As Zertho and Liane walked together, pelting vigorously at a carriage containing three of their friends, an urchin came up to them crying, "_Bonbon_!" whereupon Liane, with a mischievous laugh, threw a handful of confetti straight at the crier, much to the urchin's discouragement. "Come, let us follow the procession," Zertho suggested, and across the Place Massena they accompanied the corso, and down the gay streets until they entered the Place de la Prefecture, where the fun was at its height. The scene here presented was exceedingly picturesque. The band, which was really a band, and not merely a medley of ear-splitting, discordant noise which too frequently mars the Carnival, was the centre of attraction around which the maskers danced with wild abandon, joining hands and screaming with laughter. Liane, infected by the mad gaiety and as reckless as the rest, her domino whitened by the showers of confetti rained every moment upon it, plunged into the crowd of dancers and, hand-in-hand with Zertho, whirled round, laughing gleefully. The dancers made a human kaleidoscope of colour, framed by the amphitheatre-like tribunes, which were likewise filled with maskers, and made a setting as bright, and but one degree less animated, than the rollicking, ever-moving foreground. From minute to minute the animation increased. Every street was aglow with colour, and the melee was general. Those seated in the tribunes made furious attacks upon those on foot, the latter retaliating with shower upon shower of pellets, until the battle became fierce in every quarter. Four occupants of a victoria, attired alike in pale blue dominoes, opened a vigorous fire upon Liane and Zertho as they passed, and received in return many scoopfuls of well-aimed confetti. But the pair were decidedly getting the worst of it, when suddenly a lithe little man in clown's dress of cheap lustrine joined Liane in the defence, and next instant received a handful of confetti full in his face. For an instant he felt in his pouch, but found his ammunition had given out. Then espying a stall a few yards away he rushed across with sudden impulse, flung down a couple of francs, caught up four large paper bags each containing several pounds of confetti, and flung them one after another at Liane's assailants. They were aimed with a sure hand, and as each struck the head or shoulders of one or other of the unfortunate occupants, the thin paper broke, completely smothering them with its contents. Yells of uproarious laughter arose at their discomfiture, and the coachman hastened his horses' speed. Then turning to Liane, the man, evidently an honest, happy-hearted Nicois from his Italian accent, bowed gracefully, and with a smile said,--"Mademoiselle, I believe we have taught them a lesson." Before she could thank him he was lost in the turbulent, laughing crowd. And as Zertho passed gaily along at Liane's side, he sang softly to himself the refrain of "L'Amoureuse,"--the slightly risky parody, popular at that moment,-- "Voila l'amoureuse, A la demarch' voluptueuse, Qui se pavan' soir et matin, Avec des airs de p'tit trottin; Voila l'amoureuse, A la demarch' voluptueuse, Elle est joli' sacre matin! Joli' comme un petit trottin!" Gradually they fought their way back to the Place Massena, and found it a scene of brilliant colour, but the fight had now become so general that the very heavens seemed obscured by the confetti, which, on striking, crumbled into dense clouds of fine, white dust. The fanfares of the Chasseurs Alpins were sounding, the great effigy of the King was slowly moving across towards the leafy public garden, and the colossal figure of an ingenue was sailing along with the crowd with folded arms, perfectly pleased with herself and the Carnival world in general. Everyone here wore the wire mask and domino, even the vendors of confetti being compelled to assume grilles to protect their sun-tanned faces from their own wares. The Carnival contagion had now spread to even the puppets and musicians themselves; for these left their lofty perches on the cars where they had been observed by all during the processions, and descending to earth, whirled among that motley crowd of dancers and of forms gigantic, gay and grotesque. Although conflict and retaliation were the order of the day, and disorder the spirit supreme, to the credit of Nice and her crowds be it said that on such a day, when so many liberties were possible, were so few taken. The Mayor had caused a precautionary notice to be posted up, prohibiting any confetti being thrown at the police, gendarmes, or musicians, but even the gendarmes, usually an awe-inspiring, spick and span body, when threatened in fun, would reply, "Fire away, your bullets don't hurt," and laughing defiance, would receive volley upon volley of the dusty pellets upon their dark uniforms without flinching, and laugh back defiantly. Clowns, punchinelli, pierrots, furies, devils and ladies in dominoes fought with one another till every street in the neighbourhood of the Avenue de la Gare was swept from end to end by a hail of confetti, and Zertho and Liane trudged on through the thick dust into which it was every moment being trodden. Long "serpentines" of coloured paper, flung now and then, wrapped themselves about the lamp-posts and hung from windows and from the tall eucalypti, while from some of the houses the more enterprising showered upon the crowd thousands of small, advertising hand-bills. Those who, growing weary of the fight as the sun declined, sought shelter in the cafes, were quickly disillusioned, for from time to time disconcerting showers of pellets would sweep in at the open door, often falling into the bocks, mazagrans, and sirops, so that those who had had previous experience of Carnival ways sat with their wire vizors still down and their hands carefully covering their glasses. On Confetti Day Carnival penetrates everywhere. In the streets, in the shops, in the churches, in the houses, the small pellets seem to enter by unknown means. They find their way down one's neck into one's boots, while ladies get their hats and hair filled with them and drop them wherever they tread. Confetti Day, apart from its interest and amusement as a brilliant spectacle, is the more remarkable because so many hundreds of human beings, prone to "envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness," begin, continue and end the fun, in such glorious good humour. Everywhere the battle raged fiercely, yet it was all in boisterous mirth, and laughter loud and sincere rang out alike from victor and from vanquished. Mirth ran riot, and disorder was everywhere, but spite was never shown. Time after time, a storm of confetti swept about Liane and her escort, as together they passed along the colonnade, pelting and being pelted by every masker they met, until the dust came into her face through the grille, and the hood and trimming of her domino was full of grey pellets. "You are tired and hot," Zertho exclaimed at last. "This dust makes one thirsty. Let us try and get to the Cafe de la Victoire." To accomplish this, they were compelled to cross the broad place through the very thickest of the fray. Nevertheless, undaunted, with scoops ever in the sacks slung at their sides, they pressed forward, half-choked by the cross-fire of confetti through which they were passing. Liane's conical felt hat was dinted and almost white, and her domino sadly soiled and tumbled, still with cheeks aglow by the exciting conflict, she went on, taking her own part valiantly. The wire masks did not completely disguise their wearers. Numbers of men and women she met she recognised, and where the recognition was mutual, the battle raged long and furiously, accompanied by screams of uproarious laughter. At last they managed to reach the opposite side of the Place. The tables in the colonnade before the popular cafe were crowded with maskers who were endeavouring to get rid of the dust from their throats, notwithstanding the showers of pellets which continually swept upon them. The sun was sinking in a blaze of gold behind Antibes, the clock over the Casino marked a quarter to five; in fifteen minutes the cannon of the chateau would boom forth the signal for hostilities to cease, the musicians and puppets would mount upon the cars and move away, the maskers would remove their wire protectors, and order would reign once more. Zertho and Liane had secured a table upon the pavement near the door, the interior of the cafe being suffocatingly crowded, and sipping their wine, were laughing over the desperate tussle of the afternoon, now and then retaliating when any passer-by directly assailed them. Suddenly a woman, looking tall in a domino of dark rose and wearing a half-mask of black velvet which completely disguised her features, flung, in passing, a large handful of confetti which struck Liane full upon the mask. In an instant she raised her scoop, and with a gleeful laugh, sent a heavy shower into her unknown opponent's face. Like many other women, her assailant had apparently become separated from her escort in the fierce fighting, and the fact that she preferred a velvet mask to one of wire showed her to be not a little courageous. But Liane's well-directed confetti must have struck her sharply upon the chin, which remained uncovered, for it caused her to wince. She halted, and standing in full view of the pair as if surveying them deliberately, next second directed another scoopful at them. Both Zertho and Liane, divining her intention, raised their hands to cover their masks, and as they did so the hail of pellets descended, many of them falling into their glasses. "There," cried Liane, laughing gaily. "It's really too bad, she's spoilt our wine." In a moment, however, Zertho, who had been preparing for this second onslaught, flung scoopful after scoopful at the intrepid woman, and several of those sitting at the tables around at once joined in repelling the fair masker's attack. Yet, nothing daunted, although smothered in confetti from a dozen different hands, she continued the conflict with the pair she had at first attacked, until Liane, in her eagerness to annihilate this woman who had so suddenly opened such a persistent and vigorous fire upon them, turned suddenly with her tin scoop filled to overflowing. With a loud laugh she flung it, but by accident the scoop itself slipped from her fingers, and struck the masker sharply upon the shoulder. In an instant Liane, with a cry of regret, rose from her seat and rushed out into the roadway to apologise, but the unknown woman with a stiff bow, her dark eyes flashing angrily through the holes in her mask, turned away and walked quickly along the Rue Massena. Liane stooped, snatched up her scoop, and returned to where Zertho sat heartily laughing, those sitting around joining in a chorus of hilarity at the incident. "She got a bigger dose than she bargained for," he exclaimed. "I am sorry," she said. "It was quite an accident. But did you see her eyes? She glared as if she could kill me." "Yes," he replied. "She looked half mad. However, she'll never be able to recognise you again." Liane was silent. The light of joy and happiness had suddenly died out of her fair countenance. She seemed to possess some vague recollection of a similar pair of dark, flashing eyes. A face--a strange ghost of the past--came for an instant before her eyes; a thought flashed through her mind and held her appalled. She shuddered, pale as death behind her mask of gauze. Next instant, however, she laughed aloud at her fear. No, she assured herself, it could not be. It was only some faint resemblance, rendered the more vivid because it had come before her amid that reckless gaiety. Then she smiled at Zertho again happily as before, and they ordered fresh wine, and waited until the cannon thundered from the heights above and the streets grew orderly, ere they started to walk home along the Promenade. They had, however, been too far off the woman to overhear the strange ominous words she uttered when, with an evil glint in her eyes, she turned from them abruptly with a fierce imprecation upon her lips, her cheeks beneath the velvet mask blanched with suppressed anger. "No, I am not mistaken," she had muttered in French, with a dry laugh between her set teeth. "When I met you dancing in the Place de la Prefecture I thought I recognised you, Liane Brooker. I followed, and threw at you in order to obtain a good view of your pretty face in which innocence is so well portrayed. Strange that we should meet again purely by accident; strange, too, that you should cover me with dust and fling your scoop into my face as though in defiance. Little do you dream how near I am to you, or of the ghastly nature of the revelation which I shall ere long disclose. Then the smiles which enchant your admirers will turn to tears, your merry laughter to blank despair, and your well-feigned innocence and purity to ignominy and shame." CHAPTER ELEVEN. MONTE CARLO. Carnival's reign was ended. Pierrot, clown and columbine, hand in hand, had watched the flames consume him, and had danced around the dying embers. His palace had been torn down, the decorations in his honour had disappeared, the colours red and rose were no longer exhibited in the shop windows, for Nice had assumed her normal aspect of aristocratic dignity. One afternoon a week afterwards, Liane reluctantly accompanied her father and Zertho to Monte Carlo. When at luncheon the visit had been suggested by the Prince, she at once announced her intention of staying at home. Truth to tell, those great gaming-rooms with their wildly excited throngs possessed for her too many painful memories. At length, however, after much persuasion, she was induced to dress and accompany them. She chose a white costume, with a large white hat relieved by violets, and a narrow belt of violet satin to match--a plain, fresh-looking gown which suited her beauty admirably, and within an hour they had ascended the steps of the great white Casino with its handsome facade, and entered the long bureau to exchange their visiting-cards for one of the pink cards of admission. The clerk at the counter, whose duty it is to examine the dress of the visitors and their cards, at once recognising the party, shook hands heartily with Brooker and the Prince, expressing pleasure at seeing them again. "Yes, we've returned, you see," the Captain answered jocularly. "Always back to Monte Carlo, you know." "Well, I wish messieurs all good fortune," laughed the stout, round-faced man, "and also mademoiselle, of course," he added, bowing, his face beaming with good humour, as instead of writing out formal admission cards he handed them three of the special white tickets issued by the Administration of the Cercle to its well-known habitues. A gay cosmopolitan crowd in Paris-made gowns and well-cut suits, with bulky purses in their hands, struggled behind, eager to obtain tickets, therefore they at once deposited their sticks and sunshade, and passing across the great atrium, thronged with well-dressed people, approached the long polished doors guarded by attendants in bright livery of blue and gold. Here again one of the men wished the Captain "Good day," the door opened, and they found themselves once more, after many months, inside the lofty well-remembered rooms where so many fortunes had been lost and won. Down the vista from the entrance could be seen room after room, resplendent in gilt decorations, polished floors, ceiling of ornamental glass, and many beautiful paintings by Feyen, Perrin, and Jundt; each room filled with eager, anxious gamblers crowding around the oblong roulette-tables. The continual hum of voices, the jingle of coin, the rustle of notes, the click of the roulette-ball, and the monotonous cries of the croupiers combined to produce a veritable Babel of noise, while the heat on that bright sunny March afternoon seemed overpowering. But those sitting around the tables, or standing behind, cared nothing for the world outside, too absorbed were they in the chance of the red or the black. The sun was excluded by blinds closely drawn, and the long windows were all curtained in black or blue muslin, with handsome patterns worked thereon, so that those walking upon the terrace by the blue sunlit sea could obtain no glimpse of what was going on within. The place was close, and there was about it that faint odour which it ever retains, the combined smell of perspiration and perfume. From the moment Liane placed foot upon the polished floor she regretted that she had come. With that well-remembered scene before her a thousand bitter memories instantly surged through her brain. She hated herself. Around her as they approached the first table in the Moorish room were the same types of people that she knew, alas! too well; the flora of the Riviera, the world in which she had for years been compelled to live. Among those sitting around were men, weary and haggard-eyed, with those three deep lines across the brow which habitual gamblers so quickly develop, and heavy-eyed women who had concealed their paleness beneath their rouge. Of this class of frenzied humanity, she reflected, she herself was. There had been a time not long ago when she, too, had sat at the table prompting her father, sometimes flinging on coin or notes for him, dragging in his winnings with the little ebony rake, or keeping an account in her tiny memorandum book of the various numbers as they turned up, so as to assist him in his speculations. Unlike these _declasse_ women, she hated play. The life was to her detestable. She had, it was true, moved in their world, but, thanks to her father's care, she had retained her goodness and purity, and had never been of it. Well she knew the terrible tension each spin of that little ivory roulette-ball caused among that eager crowd, an anxiety which furrowed the brows, which caused the hands to tremble, and sapped all youth and gaiety and life. She, although young and fair, had witnessed life there in its every aspect. She had herself experienced the terrible frenzy of excitement; she had felt the desperation of abject despair. She had seen dozens, nay hundreds, come there rich and respected, to depart broken and ruined; she had witnessed more than one woman grow so desperate over her losses that she had fainted at the table, and once beside her at that very table there had sat a man, young, good-looking, and well-dressed, who lost and lost, and continued to lose throughout the long, hot day, until with a low imprecation he at length threw down his last hundred-franc note on the "impair." He lost, then rose unsteadily from the table, while half-a-dozen others struggled to obtain his place. An hour later she had risen and gone into the garden to obtain air, but scarcely had she walked a dozen yards when two attendants passed her by, carrying her fellow-gambler's lifeless form. He had shot himself. This tragic incident, by no means uncommon, though so frequently hushed up, had so unnerved her that for many weeks her father could not induce her to enter the Casino, but gradually, because with a gambler's belief in talismans, he declared that when she accompanied him Fortune was always on his side, she again went with him, to spend long, anxious, breathless hours in the crowded place, where bright, happy girls staked their five-franc pieces, just for the purpose of saying they had done so, and rubbed shoulders with the most notorious of the _demi-monde_; and where honest men, professional gamesters, blackmailers and souteneurs all placed themselves on equal footing before the green-covered shrine of their fickle goddess. Monte Carlo resembles nothing. It is at the same time a paradise and a hell, of hope and despair, of golden dreams and of hideous nightmares; a place without laws, either physical or moral. Its surroundings are delightful, nestling below the high bare Tete de Chien and the Mont de la Justice, with the picturesque little town of Monaco perched upon its bold prominent rock to the right, the green slopes of Cap Martin jutting out into the sea on the left, and away far in the distance, yet clearly defined, the purple Alps of Italy, while beyond the white-balustraded terrace is a broad open expanse of clear blue sea. The centre of elegance and corruption, of beauty and deformity, of wealth and vice, of refinement and sin, it is in itself unique. On every hand, within and without the little place, the view is superb. In the fine square before the Casino the gardens are brilliant with flowers and shady with palms; the cafes overflow with visitors, waltz music sounds by night and day, and from noon till the early hours there is life and movement everywhere. The game fascinates, and the climate acts upon the organism of all who go there. The exquisitely beautiful surroundings of the Casino exert a deleterious influence. They are alluringly pleasant. Life seems so gay, happy and free amid that whirl of voluptuousness, where vice is disguised in a form _tout a fait charmante_, its banal influence so imperceptible, that the man who ventures into the Principality determined not to risk a single louis upon the _tapis-vert_ in almost every case finds himself overwhelmed by that involuntary indolence which creeps upon all like an infernal intoxication, drawn irresistibly to the tables, and too often to his ruin. The daily life in Monaco presents a surprising picture of morals; a truly extraordinary Paradise of the marvellous and the diabolical, of the sublime and the terrible, of fair dreams and of hideous realities. _Et le fruit defendu dont se nourrit la masse a d'autant plus de saveur que le joli petit serpent auquel on doit sa decouverte a toutes les allures mignonnes d'un demon tentateur extremement seduisant_. To Erle Brooker, whose sole vice was that of gambling, the monotonous invitation of the croupiers, and the jingle of louis as they were tossed carelessly over to the winners, were as the sound of the hounds to the old hunter, or the bugle to the retired soldier. All the old longing for excitement and the hope for a run of luck came again upon him, and although he had vowed he would never again play he soon felt his pulse quicken and his good resolutions fading away. As, accompanied by Zertho and Liane, he moved on from table to table, watching the play and criticising it with the air of one with wide experience, the desire for risking a few louis came irresistibly upon him. He remembered that before leaving Nice he had placed ten one-hundred-franc notes in his pocket. It was a sum small enough, in all conscience, to risk. He recollected the time when, with Zertho standing behind him taking charge of his winnings, he had won a hundred times that amount between mid-day and midnight. Of all that gay crowd Liane looked the prettiest and smartest. As she cast a rapid glance around the various tables, many of the men and women she recognised as professional fellow-gamblers, each with their little piles of silver, gold and notes. One or two, well-dressed and more prosperous, had, she knew, at one time been down to their very last franc. The two men also singled out old acquaintances, men who passed their days in these crowded rooms, nodded to them and remarked upon the sudden prosperity of some and the unusual seediness of others. They were standing together closely watching the roulette at one of the centre tables. People were crowding four deep around it, but mostly the stakes were five-franc pieces, the minimum allowed. "By Jove!" Zertho exclaimed at last, turning to the Captain. "See what a run the red is having!" "Fourteen times in succession, m'sieur," observed a man at their elbow, consulting his card. "It won't again. Watch," Brooker answered briefly, closely interested in the game. Next moment the ball was sent spinning around outside the revolving disc of black and red; the croupier with sphinx-like countenance uttered his monotonous cry, "_Rien ne va plus_!" and after breathless silence the rattle told that the ivory had fallen. Brooker's prophecy proved correct. The black had gained. "Going to risk anything?" inquired Zertho, with a smile. "No," interrupted Liane earnestly. "Dad will not. He has already promised me." The Captain, his hand trembling in his pocket, turned to his daughter with a smile. "Surely you won't deprive him of winning a few louis?" Zertho exclaimed. "Be generous, just this once, dearest." Smiling, she turned to her father with a glance of inquiry. "I have promised," he observed quietly. "I do not break my pledge to you, unless with your permission." Already the people, eager to tempt Fortune, were placing their money on the yellow lines upon the table, and while they spoke Zertho tossed a couple of louis upon the simple chance of the black. The game was made, black won, and he received back his stake with two louis in addition. The sight of Zertho winning stirred Erle Brooker's blood. He had watched the run of the table sufficiently to know from experience that the chances were again in favour of the red, and with quick resolve he threw upon the scarlet diamond two notes for one hundred francs apiece. Liane made a sudden movement to stay his hand, but too late. Then, with lips compressed she looked at him with bitter reproach, but uttered no word. The little ivory ball had already been launched on it way. "_Rien ne va plus_!" cried the croupier an instant later, and the ball next second clicked into its socket. Red won. The croupier tossed over to him two notes of the same value as those he had staked, and he took them up with an amused smile at his companions. "Really, dad," cried Liane, pouting prettily, "it is too bad of you to break your promise. I only came with you on one condition, namely, that you wouldn't play." "Well, I've won ten louis, so no great harm has been done," he answered. "But there is harm," she protested firmly. "When once you come to the tables you cannot, you know, leave until you've won, or lost everything. I thought you had, for my sake, given it up." They had drawn aside from the table, and were standing in the middle of the handsome room. "This is only in fun, Liane," Zertho assured her. "We are neither of us any longer professionals. Our day is over." "It is certainly not kind of you to invite my father to play like this," she exclaimed, turning upon him resentfully. "I have already told you that I do not wish him to play." "I have not invited him," Zertho declared with a laugh. "If he chooses to follow the run I cannot well prevent it." At that moment Brooker, who still kept his keen eyes riveted upon the table, heard the croupier's voice, hesitated a moment, and taking two rapid steps forward tossed upon the red diamond the four notes he had just picked up. Whirr-r! click! went the ball again, and the croupier's announcement a few seconds later told him that he had won four hundred francs. Liane, annoyed, flushed slightly, compressed her lips and turning from them with a gesture of anger walked straight out from the great gilded salons so hateful to her. As she passed, many turned and remarked how beautiful she was. She knew that the mania which had caused her father's downfall had returned, that this double success would cause him to plunge still more deeply. Zertho smiled contemptuously at her fears, and neither men went after her to induce her to return. The Prince, on the contrary, shrugged his shoulders, and laughing said,-- "She's annoyed. She'll return in a minute or two, when she knows you've won. Now that she's gone I'm going to risk a little myself." At that moment two players rose from their chairs, and the pair so well-known to the croupiers and attendants "marked" their places. The man sitting before the red and black disc which slowly revolved while the players laid down their coin, gave both men a little nod of recognition. "_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_," cried the croupier. "What's your fancy? The impair?" Zertho inquired of his companion in the same tone as was his wont long ago. "Of course," the other replied, selecting at the same moment three notes from those in his hand, and tossing them over upon the marked square indicated. Once more sounded the monotonous cry, "_Rien ne va plus_!" The croupier sat immovable as one joyless, hopeless, and impassionate, a veritable machine raking in and paying out gold and silver and notes without caring one jot whether the bank gained or lost. The ball was an instant later sent on its way, and Brooker watching, saw it suddenly spring about and fall. Again he won. With one elbow resting upon the table he gathered up his winnings with that impassive manner which marks the professional gamester as one apart. Whether he gained or lost Erle Brooker never made sign, except sometimes when he lost more heavily than usual he would perhaps smile a trifle bitterly. Already the furrows were showing in his brow, and his deep-set eyes watched keenly the run of the game as time after time he would hesitate, apparently reflecting, until the ball was already in motion, and then toss his notes into the "manque" or "passe," the first being the numbers 1 to 18, and the latter 19 to 36, or place them upon the lines of the various numbered squares, whichever he deemed wisest for the composite chances of a "sixain," a "carre," a "douzaine," or a "colonne." Heedless of all around him, heedless of his old partner at his side, the man who had once shared his losses and his winnings, heedless of the pale delicate girl who was wandering about alone somewhere outside, fearing lest he should lose the whole of the little money they now had, he won and won, and still won. Sometimes he lost. Twice in succession the bank gained six hundred francs of his winnings; still nothing daunted, he continued, and found that the knowledge he had gained of the game proved true, for he won again and again, although sometimes doubling and even trebling his stake. The crowd of eager ones around the table now began to wait until he selected the place whereon he should put down his stake, and commenced to follow his play narrowly, playing when he played, and refraining when he held back. Zertho noticed this and whispered: "Your luck's changed, old chap. Why not try bigger stakes?" "I know what I'm about," the other snapped viciously, pulling towards him a dozen notes from the "passe" opposite. "If you won't play yourself keep count for me, and see that I get fully paid." Zertho well knew that his old partner had now become oblivious to everything. His mouth was hard-set, his eyes gleamed with a fierce excitement he strove to suppress, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his heavily-lined brow. A lady standing behind him, a tourist evidently, reached over his head to stake her modest five-franc piece on the red, whereupon he turned, and muttering something uncomplimentary regarding "those women who ought to play for sous," withered her with a look. Somebody had handed Zertho one of the cards printed with parallel columns under the letters "N" and "R," with a pencil wherewith to keep count. He glanced up, and noticing all eyes directed upon them, suddenly reflected that if any person came up who knew him as Prince Zertho d'Auzac it would scarcely be dignified to be discovered counting the gains and acting as clerk to a professional gamester. But Brooker wanted money badly, and was winning; therefore he could not disturb him. Both men were gamblers at heart, and the one feared to move just as much as the other, lest the spell should be broken and the luck change. The good fortune attending the Captain's play seemed to the onlookers little short of marvellous. With apparent unconcern he flung down his notes, sometimes six or ten twisted carelessly together, and each time there came back towards him upon the point of the croupier's rake his own notes with a similar number of others. Suddenly, having thrown four notes upon the "manque," he rested his hot whirling brow upon his hand. The ball clicked into its little numbered partition, the croupier announced that the number 20 had gained, and he knew he had lost. The excited crowd sitting and standing around the table exchanged smiles and glances, and at that moment the croupiers changed. Again the game was made, and the man upon whom everyone's eyes were turned threw five hundred francs upon the simple chance of the red. Black again won. Once more he threw a similar sum upon the red. A third time black won. He had lost fourteen hundred francs in three spins of the wheel! It seemed that his luck had suddenly departed. It is often remarked by professional gamesters that luck departs from the fortunate when the croupiers are changed. But the passion was now full upon him. His face was rigid; his mouth tightly closed. He had spoken no word to Zertho, and had seemed hardly to notice how much his companion had been gathering into his hands, or to take the trouble to glance at the revolving roulette. The croupier's voice was, for him, sufficient. Now, each time that the tiny ball dropped into its socket he knew that its click cost him four hundred francs. Time after time he lost, and those who, half-an-hour before, had been carefully following his play and winning heavily thereby, began to forsake him and trust in their own discretion. In eighteen games only twice the red turned up, still with the dogged pertinacity of the gamester he pinned his faith to the colour upon which he had had his run of luck, and continued to stake his notes in the expectation that the black must lose. "You're getting reckless," Zertho whispered. "This isn't like you, old fellow." But his companion turned from him with angry gesture, and flung on his money as before. At that moment red won. The colour had changed. From Zertho's hand he took the bundle of notes, still formidable, although his losses had been so heavy, and counted them as quickly and accurately as a bank-teller. There were eighty-three, each for one hundred francs. For an instant he paused. Already the ball was on its way. His keen eyes, gleaming with an unnatural fire, took in the table at a glance; then withdrawing twenty-three of the notes, he screwed up the remainder into a bundle and tossed it upon the scarlet diamond. "Good heavens!" Zertho gasped. "Are you mad, Brooker?" But the Captain paid no heed. His blotchy countenance, a trifle paler, was as impassive as before, although he had staked six thousand francs, the maximum allowed upon the simple chance. "_Rien ne va plus_!" cried the croupier once more, and those crowding around the table, witnessing the heavy stake, glanced quickly at the reckless gamester, then craned their necks to watch the tiny ball. Slowly, very slowly, it lost its impetus. The breathless seconds seemed hours. All were on tiptoe of expectation, the least moved being the man sitting with his chin resting upon his hand, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the table before him; the man who had spent whole years of his life amid that terrible whirl of frenzied greed and forlorn hope. Even the croupiers, whose dark, impassive faces and white shirt-fronts had haunted so many of the ruined ones, bent to watch the progress of the ball. Zertho, in his eagerness, rose from his chair to obtain a better view. Whirr-r. Click! It fell at last, and scarcely had it touched the number when the croupier's voice clearly and distinctly announced that the red had gained. Then the crowd breathed once more. Brooker raised his head in the direction of the croupier, and a slight smile played about the corners of his hard-set mouth. A moment later six notes for a thousand francs each were handed to him at the end of the rake, while Zertho drew in the big bundle of small notes his companion had staked. Brooker had re-won all the winnings he had lost. He toyed with the bundle of sixty notes which Zertho handed to him until the ball was again set spinning, when, as if with sudden resolution, he tossed them once more upon the same spot. A silent breathlessness followed, while he remained still motionless, his chin sunk upon his breast. It was a reckless game he was playing, and none knew it better than himself. Yet somehow that afternoon a desperate frenzy had seized him, and having won, he played boldly, with the certain knowledge that the bad luck which had hitherto followed him had at last changed. Again the disc, revolving in the opposite direction, sent the ball hopping about as it struck it. Once more it fell. The red again won, and he added six additional notes to the six already in his hand. "_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_!" A third time was the game made, a third time he held in his hand in indecision that bundle of notes, and a third time he tossed them upon the scarlet diamond. In an instant gold and notes were showered upon them from every hand until they formed a formidable pile. The other players crowding around, seeing his returning run of luck, once more followed his game. A third time was the ball projected around the edge of the disc, followed eagerly in its course by two hundred eyes; a third time the croupier's voice was raised in warning that no more money was to be placed upon the table, and a third time the ivory dropped with a sudden click upon the red. A third time came the six thousand francs handed upon the end of the croupier's rake. Brooker, taking the bundle of small notes and thrusting them all together in his pocket, rose at once from the table with a smile at those opposite him, the richer by a thousand pounds. "Marvellous!" cried Zertho, as they moved away together across the polished floor. "What a run you've had! Surely Liane can't be angry now. Let's go into the gardens; she's certain to be awaiting us there." And together they went to the cloakroom for their hats; then passed out down the broad carpeted steps into the pretty place, where the shadows were lengthening. The Monegasques and visitors were promenading in the gardens; the orchestra before the crowded Cafe de Paris, with its striped sun-blinds, was playing an overture of Mascagni's; and the cool, bright, flower-scented air was refreshing after the heat and excitement of the crowded rooms. "At last!" Brooker exclaimed, as they descended the steps to seek Liane. "At last my luck has changed!" CHAPTER TWELVE. LIANE'S SECRET. When Liane had left the two men she first obtained her sunshade, then, descending the steps, walked slowly beneath the shadows round to the front of the Casino and out upon the beautiful broad terrace, flanked by palms, aloes and flowers, which faced the sea. There were but few promenaders, for the sun was still warm, and most of the people were inside tempting Fortune. With her white sunshade above her head she leaned upon the stone balustrade, her clear eyes fixed in deep thought upon the wide expanse of blue sky and bluer sea. On the terrace below, where a pigeon-shooting match was in progress, the crack of a gun was heard at intervals, while pacing the gravelled walk near her was one of the Casino attendants with the curious closely-fitting coat and conspicuous broad striped belt of red and blue. The duty of these men is somewhat unique. They watch the loungers narrowly, and if they appear plunged in despair they eject them from the gardens lest they should commit suicide. The soft breeze from the sea fanned her face refreshingly after the closeness of those crowded rooms, where the sun's brightness was excluded, and the light of the glorious day subdued. She was annoyed at Zertho's action in inciting her father by winning the paltry couple of louis, more than at the Captain for his want of self-control. She stood there thinking, a tall lithe figure in white girdled with violet, refined, exquisite, dainty from the gilt ferrule of her sunshade to the tip of her tiny white kid shoe. She reflected what terrible fascination the tables possessed for her father, and was half inclined to forgive him, knowing how irresistible was the temptation to play amid that accumulation of all the caprices, of all the fantasies, of all the eccentricities, of all the idleness, of all the ambitious and all the indiscretions. But Zertho's contemptuous smile had added to her vexation and displeasure. Her father had commenced playing, and she dreaded the consequences, knowing with what dogged persistency he would stake his last louis on the chance of regaining his losses, heedless of the fact that for each coin lost they would be deprived of the comforts of life to that amount. She reproached herself for consenting to accompany them, but as she pondered her anger soon turned to poignant sorrow. She had believed that her father, hard hit as he had been, had relinquished all thought of play. Time after time he had assured her that he had renounced roulette for ever, yet now on the first occasion he had revisited the scene of his old triumphs and defeats, all his good resolutions had crumbled away, and he had tossed his money into the insatiable maw of the bank as recklessly as he had ever done. She sighed as she thought of it, and bitter tears dimmed her vision. By her own influence she could have taken him away; it was, she knew, the fear of Zertho's derision that caused him to fling those notes so defiantly upon the table. With that picturesque, well-remembered landscape of rugged mountain heights, olive-clad slopes, and calm sea, memories sad and bitter continued to crowd upon her. This place, among the fairest on earth, was to her the most hateful and loathsome. With it were associated all the evil days which had passed so drearily; all the poverty which had kept her and her dead companion shabby and heavy-hearted; all the months of anxiety and weariness in days when their rooms were poorly furnished and the next meal had been an event of uncertainty. A few months of life at a good hotel, amid congenial society, would always be followed by many months of residence high up in some back street, where the noise was eternal, where the screaming of loud-voiced Frenchwomen sounded above and below, where clothes were hung upon the drab jalousies to air in the sun, and where the smell of garlic came in at the windows. In such a life the quiet English homeliness of Stratfield Mortimer had come as a welcome rest. She had loved their quaint old ivied cottage, and had fondly believed they would remain there always, happy and contented. But, alas! Nelly's tragic end had changed it all. Zertho, her reckless but animated companion of the old days, was back again with them, and once more they were upon the very spot that she had vowed so often she would never again revisit. These reflections brought with them thoughts of Nelly. She recollected how, often and often, they would stroll together along that terrace while Zertho and her father sat hour after hour at the tables, regardless of meal-times, and how sometimes, hungry and having no money, they would go in and obtain from one or other of the men a ten-franc piece with which to get their dinner at the cheap little restaurant they knew of down in La Condamine. It was upon that very gravelled walk, with its inviting seats, high palms, and banks of flowers, that they had one afternoon passed a tall, good-looking young Englishman not much older than themselves. He had smiled at them, and they, always delighted at the chance of an innocent flirtation, had laughed in return. He had then raised his hat, spoken to them, and strolled along at Nellie's side. His name was Charles Holroyde, and it was he who, a few weeks later, had given Nelly the costly brooch which had been stolen from her throat by her assassin. She glanced at the seat beside which she was standing. It was the one on which they had sat that sunny afternoon when they chatted merrily, and he had first given the two girls his card. She sighed. Those days were passed, and even Nelly, her companion and confidante, was no more. She was, she reflected gloomily, without a single real friend. At that moment, however, she felt a light hand upon her shoulder behind her, and a voice exclaimed,-- "Liane! At last!" She turned quickly with a start, and next instant found herself face to face with George Stratfield. "You, George!" she gasped, her face blanching. "Yes, darling," he answered. "I called at your address at Nice, but they told me you had come over here, so I followed. But what's the matter?" he asked, in consternation. "You are not well. How white you look! Tell me what is worrying you?" "Nothing," she answered, with a forced laugh. "Nothing whatever, I assure you. I--I wasn't aware that I looked at all pale. Your sudden appearance startled me." But George regarded her with suspicion. He knew from the look of intense anxiety upon her fair countenance that she was concealing the truth. "Is the Captain with you?" he inquired after an awkward pause. "Yes, he is inside," she answered. "But why have you come here?" "To see you, Liane," he said, earnestly. "I could no longer bear to be parted from you, so one night I resolved to run out and spend a week or so in Nice, and here I am." Her face had assumed a strange, perplexed look. He knew nothing of Zertho's existence, for loving him so well she had hesitated day by day to write and tell him the hideous truth. She saw that he must now know all. She raised her clear, wonderful eyes to his as she stammered a question, asking if that was his first visit to the Riviera. "Yes," he answered, gazing around at the Casino, the mountains, and the sea. "How charming it is here. I don't wonder that you are so fond of it." "I'm not fond of it?" she protested, with a sigh. "I would rather be in England--much rather." "Yet you are half-French yourself! Surely this is gayer and much more pleasant than Stratfield Mortimer," he exclaimed, leaning with his back to the balustrade, glancing at her elegant dress, and noticing how well it suited her. "The surroundings are perhaps more picturesque," she replied, turning her gaze sea-ward. "But I was far happier there than here," She sighed and the little gloved hand holding her sunshade trembled. "Why?" he inquired surprised. For an instant she raised her eyes to his, then lowering her gaze, answered,-- "Why do you ask? Did I not then have you?" "But I am here now," he said quickly. "I must, however, admit that your welcome was scarcely as cordial as I expected." Her lips tightened, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "I--I cannot kiss you here, in a public place," she said, with a little gesture of regret. The strange coldness about her voice caused him dismay. It proved that the apparent apathy of her letters actually arose from indifference. His suspicions were correct. Her love had grown cold. A heavy look of disappointment crossed his face, as pausing a moment, he glanced at her, and saw that she shivered. "Come," he exclaimed. "You have, I believe, stood here too long. The breeze is perhaps chilly. Let us walk." "I'm not cold at all," she assured him, without moving. "Except towards me," he observed, gloomily. "I wasn't aware that my attitude was one of indifference," she said, endeavouring to smile. "There is a change in you, Liane," the young man declared, gazing seriously into her eyes. "Tell me, darling, what has occurred." She held her breath for a moment. She loved him dearer than life, yet she feared to speak the truth lest he should turn from her and renounce her as an enchantress false and unworthy. Her countenance was almost pale as the dress she wore, and her breast rose and fell convulsively. "Nothing," she answered at last. "Nothing has occurred." "But you are not bright and happy as you used to be," he declared sympathetically. "Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling." She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks. But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics. He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper. "Now, what distresses you, Liane?" he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. "Surely I may know?" "No," she murmured. "No, George, you cannot." "Do you fear to trust me--the man who loves you?" he asked in a reproachful tone, grasping her hand. "Ah!" she cried with sudden emotion, "do not make my burden heavier to bear, George. Why have you come here to me--now?" "Why now? Are you not pleased that I should be beside you when you are unhappy?" "Yes--I mean no," she sobbed. "Your presence here only adds to my torture." "Torture?" he echoed. "What do you mean, Liane?" "I must tell you now," she gasped, clutching his arm convulsively, and raising her tearful face to his with an imploring look. "You will not think me false, cruel and heartless--will you? But I cannot marry you." "What!" he ejaculated, starting and regarding her in abject dismay. "Why, what is there to prevent it? Surely you cannot say that you no longer love me?" "Ah! no," she answered, panting, her gloved hand still clutching his arm. "I do love you, George. I swear I love you at this moment as no other woman ever can." "Yet you cannot marry me?" "It is impossible." "Ah! don't say that, darling," he protested. "We love each other too well ever to be parted." "But we must part," she answered, in a blank, despairing voice. "You must no longer think of me, except as one who has loved you, as one who will still think often, very often, of you." "Impossible!" he cried quickly. "You told me once that you loved me, that you would wait a year or so if necessary, and that you would marry me." "I know! I know!" she wailed, covering her face with her hands. "And I told you the truth." "Then you have met someone else whom you love better," he observed, in a tone of poignant sorrow. She did not reply. Her heart was too full for words. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, and she laid one hand upon the stone balustrade to steady herself. "Ah, George," she murmured brokenly, "you do not know the fatality that of late has encompassed me, or you would not reproach me. You would pity me." He saw she was trembling. Her eyes were downcast, her chin had fallen upon her breast. "I cannot sympathise with you, or advise you, if you will not tell me the cause of your distress," he said in a kindly tone, grasping her hand. They were in the eastern end of the garden, at a spot but little frequented. "I know you must hate me for having deceived you like this, but truly I could not avoid it. Many, many times have I striven to write to you and tell you the truth, but my words looked so cold, formal and cruel on paper that I always tore up the letter. While you were in ignorance I knew that you still loved me, but now--" "Well, I am still in ignorance," he interrupted. "And I have lost you!" she cried despairingly. "Why? I still love you." "But I must not--I dare not think of love again!" she whispered hoarsely. "From to-day we must part. You must go away and let us both try and forget all that has passed between us. If I have acted cruelly, forgive me. It was because I have been so weak--because I loved you so well." "No," he answered firmly, "I shall not leave you, dearest. I love you still as fondly as in the old days when we strolled together around Stratfield; therefore you shall not send me away like this." "But you must go," she cried. "You must go; I am betrothed." "Betrothed?" The colour died from his face. She hung her head, and her breast rose and fell quickly. "Ah!" she cried, "do not hate me, George. Do not think that I have been false to you. It is not my fault; I swear it is not. A fate, cruel and terrible has overwhelmed me." For a moment he stood rigid as one transfixed. "What is the man's name?" he inquired at last, in a hard, strained tone. She stood silent for several moments, then slowly, without raising her head, answered,-- "Zertho." "His surname, I mean," he demanded. "Prince Zertho d'Auzac," she replied, in a low, faltering voice. He knit his brows. The title was to him sufficient proof that the woman he loved so dearly had forsaken him in order to obtain wealth and position. She would be Princess d'Auzac. It was the way of the world. "And why have you kept the truth from me?" he demanded, in a harsh tone full of reproach. "Because I feared you--because--because I loved you, George," she sobbed. "Love!" he echoed. "Surely you cannot love me if you can prefer another?" "Ah! no," she cried in protestation. "I knew you would misjudge me; you whom I loved so dearly and still love." "Then why marry this man, whoever he is?" he interrupted fiercely. He saw her words were uttered with an intense earnestness. There still burned in her eyes the unmistakable light of fond passion. "Because I must." "You must? I don't understand." Her cold lips moved, but no sound came from them. In vain she tried to suppress the fierce tumult of feelings that raged within her breast. He was endeavouring to wring her secret from her! the secret of Zertho's influence. No, he should never know. It was terrible, horrible; its very thought appalled her. To save her father from exposure, disgrace, and something worse she was compelled to renounce her love, sacrifice herself, and marry the man she despised and hated. "I have promised to marry the Prince d'Auzac because I am compelled," she said briefly, in a low, firm voice. "What renders it imperative?" he demanded, his face dark and serious. "My own decision," she answered, struggling to remain calm. "You have decided, then, to discard my love," he said fiercely. "You prefer being the wife of a Prince rather than of a struggling barrister. Well, perhaps, after all your choice is but natural." "I do not prefer," she declared, passionately. "Cannot you see, George, that there are circumstances which compel me to act as I am acting? Heaven knows, I have suffered enough, because you are the only man I can love." "Then why not remain mine, darling?" he said, more tenderly, with a slight pressure of her hand as he gazed with intense earnestness into her tear-dimmed eyes. "We love one another, therefore why should both our lives be wrecked?" "Because it is imperative," she answered, gloomily. "But what motive can you have in thus ruining your future, and casting aside all chance of happiness?" he inquired, puzzled. "It is to secure my future, not to ruin it, that I have promised to marry the Prince," she answered. "And for no ulterior motive?" "Yes," she faltered. "There is still another reason." "What is it? Tell me." "No, George," she answered in a low, hoarse voice. "Do not ask me, for I can never tell you--never." "You have a hidden motive which you refuse to explain," he observed resentfully. "I have placed faith in you; surely you can trust me, Liane!" "With everything, save that." "Why?" "It is a secret which I cannot disclose." "Not even to me?" "No, not even to you," she answered, pale to the lips. "I dare not!" He remained silent in perplexity. A bevy of bright-faced, laughing girls passed them in high spirits, counting as they went by the coin they had won at the tables. Liane turned her face from them to hide her emotion, and stood motionless, leaning still upon the balustrade. The sun was sinking behind the great dark rock whereon was perched Monaco, and the mountains were already purple in the mystic light of evening. "Why are you so determined that we should separate, darling?" he asked, in a low, pained voice, bending down towards her averted face. "Surely your Prince can never love you as devotedly as I have done!" "Ah! George," she cried, with a tender passion in her glance as she again turned to him, "do not tempt me. It is my duty, and I have given a pledge. I have never loved Prince Zertho, and I never shall. Mine will be a marriage of compulsion. In a few short weeks I shall bid farewell to hope and happiness, to life and love, for I shall become Princess d'Auzac and lose you for ever." "As Princess you may obtain many of the pleasures of life. Far more than if you were my wife," he observed, in a hollow tone, as if speaking to himself. "No, no," she protested. "The very name is to me synonymous of all that is hateful. Ah! you do not know, George, the terrible thoughts that seem to goad me to madness. Often I find myself reflecting whether death would not be preferable to the life to which I am now condemned. Yet I am held to it immutably, forced against my will to become this man's wife, in order that the terrible secret, which must never be disclosed, may still remain where it is, locked in the breast of the one man who, by its knowledge, holds me irrevocably in his power." "Then you fear this Prince Zertho?" he said slowly, with deep emphasis. She seemed quite unlike the laughing, happy girl he had known at home in their quiet rural village. Her strange attitude of abject dejection and despair held him stupefied. "Yes," she answered hoarsely, after a long pause, "I dare not disobey him." "From your words it would seem that your crime is of such a terrible nature that you dare not risk exposure. Is that so?" he hazarded in a hard voice, scarcely raised above a whisper. "My crime!" she cried, all colour instantly dying out of her handsome face, while in her clear, grey eyes was a strange expression as if she were haunted by some fearsome spectre of the past. Her white lips quivered, her hands trembled, "What do you mean?" she gasped. "What do you know of my crime?" Next instant she started, her lips held tight together as she drew herself up unsteadily with a sudden movement. She knew that she had involuntarily betrayed herself to the man she loved. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. LIP-SALVE. In a room on the second floor of an old, high, dingy-looking house in one of the dingiest back streets near the flower-market in Nice sat a man and a woman. The room was lofty, with a ceiling which had once been painted but had now faded and fallen away in great flakes, while the furniture was frayed and shabby. The shutters of the two long windows were closed, and the place was lit by a cheap shaded lamp suspended in the centre, its light being too dim to sufficiently illuminate the whole apartment. Beneath the circle of light stood a table marked in squares, and in its centre a roulette-wheel. The man, lying lazily back in an armchair, smoking a long cigar, was about thirty-five, dark, with well-cut aquiline features, in which craft and intelligence were combined, a small pointed moustache, and a pair of keen black eyes full of suspicion and cunning. His companion was old, perhaps sixty, lean, ill-attired and wizened, her face being almost brown as a toad's back, her body bent, and her voice weak and croaking. They sat opposite to one another, talking. Around the walls there were tacked copies of a leaflet headed, in huge black capitals, "The Agony of Monte Carlo," which declared that the advertiser, an Englishman who offered his services to the public, had vanquished the hazard, and was the only person who could gain indefinitely at either roulette or trente-et-quarante. He had solved the puzzling problem of "How to Win." The French in which the circular was printed was not remarkable for its grammar or diction, but it was certainly a brilliant specimen of advertisement, and well calculated to entrap the unwary. Copies of it had for several weeks been widely distributed in the streets of Nice, flung into passing cabs, or handed to those who took their daily airing on the Promenade, and it had given rise to a good deal of comment. Among many other remarkable statements, it was alleged that the discoverer of this infallible method had gained five hundred francs an hour upon an ordinary capital of five francs, and so successful had been his play that the Administration of the Casino, in order to avert their own ruin, had denied him any further card of admission. The remarkable person declared further that so certain was he of success that he was prepared to place any stake against that of any person who doubted, and to allow the player to turn the roulette himself. To those who arranged to play under his direction the circular promised the modest gain of one million two hundred thousand francs a month! Truly the remarkable circular was aptly headed "The Agony of Monte Carlo." The inventor was the dark-eyed man with the cigar, and it was upon the table before him that he gave illustrations of his marvellous discovery to his clients. All the systems of Jacquard, Yaucanson, Fulton, Descartes and Copernic were declared to be mere jumbles of false principles, and held up to derision. This was actually infallible. Nice had heard of a good many methods of winning before, but never one put forward by an inventor sufficiently confident to offer to bear the losses; hence, from the hours of ten to twelve, and two to six, the foppishly-attired man who declared in his circular, "_Je mis la force, parceque je suis la verite_," was kept busy instructing amateur gamesters how to act when at Monte Carlo, and receiving substantial fees for so doing. The clocks had chimed ten, and the street was quiet. The old woman, who with difficulty had been reading the feuilleton in the _Petit Nicois_ yawned, flung down her paper, and glanced over at the cosmopolitan adventurer who, with his head thrown back, was staring at the ceiling, humming in a not unmusical voice the catchy refrain of Varney's popular "Serenade du Pave--" "Sois bonne, O ma chere inconnue, Pour qui j'ai si souvent chante! Ton offrande est la bienvenue, Fais-moi la charite! Sois bonne, O ma chere inconnue, Pour qui j'ai souvent chante! Devant moi, devant moi Sois la bienvenue?" So light-hearted he seemed that possibly he had succeeded in inventing some other system whereby the pockets of the long-suffering public might be touched. Suddenly a footstep on the landing outside caused them both to start and exchange quick glances. Then the bell rang, and the conqueror of the hazard rose and opened the door. Their visitor was Zertho. He was in evening clothes, having left the theatre early to stroll round there. "Well, Mother Valentin," he exclaimed in French, tossing his hat carelessly upon the table, and sinking into a chair. "Rheumatism still bad--eh?" "Ah, yes, m'sieur," croaked the old woman in the Provencal patois, "still very bad," and grunting, she rose, and hobbled out of the room. "And how's business?" Zertho inquired of the other. "Pretty fair. Lots of mugs in the town just now," he smiled, speaking in Cockney English. "That handbill of yours is about the cheekiest bit of literature I've ever come across," he said, nodding towards one of the remarkable documents tacked upon the wall. "It has drawn 'em like honey draws flies," said the other, smiling and regarding it with pride. "The offer to pay the losses does it. You can always make a lie truth by lying large enough." He had resumed his seat, and was puffing contentedly at his cigar. "It's a really marvellous specimen of bluff," Zertho observed, in a tone of admiration. "When I first saw it I feared that you had been a bit too extravagant in your promises." "The bigger your promise the greater your success. I've always found it the same with all the wheezes I've worked," he replied. "I saw you driving with Brooker's daughter a few days ago. You seem to be having an uncommonly good time of it," he added. "Can't complain," Zertho said, leaning back with a self-complacent air. "Patrician life suits me after being so many years an outsider." "No doubt it is pleasant," his companion answered with a meaning look, "if one can completely bury the past." "I have buried it," Zertho answered quickly. Max Richards, the inventor of "The Agony of Monte Carlo," regarded the man before him with a supercilious smile. "And you pay me to prevent its exhumation--eh?" "I thought we had agreed not to mention the matter again," Zertho exclaimed, darting at his crafty-looking fellow-adventurer a look of annoyance and suspicion. "My dear fellow," answered the other quite calmly, "I have no desire to refer to it. If you are completely without regret, and your mind is perfectly at ease, well, I'm only too happy to hear it. I have sincere admiration, I assure you, for a man who can forget at will. I wish I could." "I do not forget," Zertho snapped. "Your confounded demands will never allow me to forget." The thin-faced man smiled, lazily watching the smoke ascend from an unusually good weed. "It is merely payment for services rendered," he observed. "I'm not the lucky heir to an estate, therefore I can't afford to give people assistance gratis." "No," cried Zertho in a tumult of anger at the remembrance of recent occurrences. "No, you're an infernal blackmailer!" Richards smiled, quite undisturbed by his visitor's sudden ebullition of wrath, and, turning to him said,-- "My dear fellow, whatever can you gain by blackguarding me? Why, every word you utter is in self-condemnation." Zertho was silent. Yes, it was the truth what this man said. He was a fool to allow his anger to get the better of him. Was it not Napoleon who boasted that the success of all his great schemes was due to the fact that he never permitted his anger to rise above his throat? His face relaxed into a sickly smile. "I'm weary of your constant begging and threatening," he said at last. "I was a fool in the first instance. If I had allowed you to speak no one would have believed you. Instead of that, I generously gave you the money you wanted." "I'm glad you say `generously'," his companion observed, smiling. "Generosity isn't one of your most engaging characteristics." "Well, I've been generous to you--too generous, for you have now increased your demands exorbitantly." "I'm poor--while you can afford to pay." "I can't--I won't afford," retorted Zertho, determinedly. "When men grow wealthy they are always imposed upon by men such as you," he added. "I admit that the service you rendered deserved payment. Well, I liquidated the debt honourably. Then you immediately levied blackmail, and have ever since continued to send me constant applications for money." "A man who can afford to forget his past can afford to be reminded of the debt he owes," answered the man, still smoking with imperturbable coolness. "But I tell you I won't stand it any longer. You've strained the cord until it must now snap." "Very well, my dear fellow," answered the other, with an air of impudent nonchalance. "You know your own business best. Act as you think fit." "I shall. This is my last visit here." "No doubt. My present wheeze is getting about played out. A good thing like this can't run for any length of time. In a week, for obvious reasons, I shall lock up the doors and depart with Mother Valentin, leaving the landlord looking for his rent and my clients thirsting for my vitals. Yes, you are right, my dear Zertho, when you say this will be your last visit here. But if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, the latter must go to the mountain. I may, perhaps, call upon you, my dear Zertho." "No, you sha'n't. I shall give orders that you are not to be admitted." "You will scarcely do that, I think," he answered, still smiling. The whole bearing of the man betrayed confidence in his position. "But I tell you I will. I have come here to-night in fulfilment of your demand. It is, however, the last time that we shall meet." "I hope so." "Why?" "I hope that you'll pay me a sum sufficient to obviate the necessity of us meeting again. I assure you that the pleasure of your company is not unmixed with dislike." "It is mutual," Zertho snapped, annoyed at the man's unmitigated insolence. "I'll pay you nothing more than what you demanded in your letter yesterday," and taking from his pocket a wallet of dark-green leather with silver mountings, he counted out four five-hundred-franc notes, and tossed them angrily upon the table, saying, "Make the best of them, for you won't get another sou from me." The man addressed stretched out his hand, took the notes, smoothed them out carefully, and slowly placed them in his pocket. "Then we are enemies?" he observed at last, after a long pause. He looked straight into Zertho's face. "Enemies or friends, it makes no difference to me. It does not alter my decision." His companion slowly knocked the ash from his cigar, then continued smoking in silence. "Well, you don't speak," exclaimed Zertho, impatiently, at last, twirling his dark moustache. "What is your intention?" "I never show my hand to my opponent, my dear fellow," was the quick retort. "And I know you are never unwise enough to do so." Zertho had his match in this _chevalier d'industrie_, and was aware of it. "You think I'm still in fear?" he said. "I don't know; neither do I care," the other answered. "If you don't pay me there are others who no doubt will." Zertho sprang quickly from his chair with a look of murderous hatred in his dark face and flashing eyes. "You would still threaten me!" he said between his teeth. "You taunt me because you believe I am entirely in your hands." "I do not believe," the other replied with cool indifference. "I know." "You are an infernal scoundrel!" "I might pass a similar compliment," he said. "But I see no reason why the pot should comment unfavourably upon the blackness of the kettle. I'm merely assisting you to obtain a pretty wife--a wife, by Heaven, too pure and good and beautiful for any such as you, and--" "What do you mean?" Zertho interrupted with a start. This man evidently knew more than he had suspected. "You are not assisting me in the least." But Richards laughed aloud, and with a deprecatory wave of the hand, replied,-- "It's no good to bluff me. I know it is your intention to marry Liane Brooker, whose beauty is so admired everywhere, and who is as good as she's pretty. I happen to know something of her--more, perhaps, than you think. Well, only by my assistance can you obtain her. Therefore, you won't be such an idiot as to quarrel with me." "I do not quarrel," Zertho answered in a much more conciliatory tone. "I only protest against your infernal taunts and insolence." "Then the matter resolves itself into a simple one--a mere question of price." "I refuse to treat with you." "Then you will not marry Liane. She will be spared the misery of becoming Princess d'Auzac." "Misery!" he echoed. "I can give her wealth, position--everything which makes a woman happy." "I doubt whether any woman can be happy with a man whose conscience is overshadowed, like yours," his companion observed. "Why, her face would remind you hourly of that which you must be ever striving to forget." "What does it matter to you?" he snarled. "I shall marry her." "Then before doing so you will pay me for my services. Your stroke is a bold one, Zertho, but remember that you can marry her only through me. It is worth a good sum to obtain such a beautiful wife." "Whatever it may be worth, you'll never get it," d'Auzac declared determinedly. The two men faced each other. "In which case she will be enabled to release herself," observed the inventor of the infallible system. "Who will suffer, then? Why you, yourself." Zertho stood leaning upon the back of the armchair in which he had been sitting. He well knew by this man's attitude that he meant to "squeeze" him. Nevertheless, he treated his remarks with derision, laughing disdainfully. "You appear to fancy that because you are now wealthy no words of mine can injure you," the thin-faced man said. "Well, you are welcome to that opinion. The ostrich buries its head in the sand when pursued. You bury yours in the millions which have unexpectedly come to you." "It is sufficient for you to know that I'll never part with another sou," Zertho answered with impatience. "Very well, my dear friend, we shall see. Of all men you in the past have been among the most discreet, and none have ever accused you of the folly of impatience; but I tell you plainly that you shall never marry Liane Brooker," he said distinctly, without the slightest undue warmth. "I intend to marry her," Zertho answered. "In a month she will be my wife." "You dare not act like that." "But I shall." "Then you defy me? Very good. We now understand one another." "No, I do not defy you," Zertho exclaimed quickly. "But in this matter I shall follow my own inclination entirely. I intend to marry Brooker's daughter." "Without my sanction?" "Don't you intend to give it? It surely is no affair of yours?" "No, I shall not give it," he answered carelessly tossing his dead cigar-end into the ash-tray. "Liane shall never become your wife." "What! you would tell her?" Zertho gasped, his face suddenly pale and anxious. "I have already told you that I'm not in the habit of showing my opponent my hand." "I love Liane. I must marry her," he blurted forth. "Love! Fancy you, Zertho d'Auzac, declaring that you love a woman!" the man exclaimed, laughing heartily in derision. "The thing's too absurd. I know you too well." Zertho bit his lip. If any other man had spoken thus he would have knocked him down; but, truth to tell, he was afraid of this dark-faced, crafty-eyed Englishman. Since first he had known him, in the days when he was down on his luck, he had always felt an antipathy towards him, because he treated everything and everybody with such amazingly cool indifference. He saw that money only would appease him. He calculated roughly how much he had already paid him, and the reflection caused him to knit his brows. "A few minutes ago you said it was a question of price," he said at length. "Well, what are your views?" "Since then they have changed." "Changed! How?" "You say that I have received from you all that you intend I shall receive. Well, let it remain so. You will not marry her." Zertho regarded him with a puzzled expression. "I asked you to name your price," he said. "What is it?" Max Richards, lying back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, turned towards his visitor and answered,-- "I have offered to treat with you, but you refused. My offer is therefore withdrawn. I have enough money at present. When I want more I shall come to you." "But, my dear fellow," exclaimed Zertho, dismayed, "you cannot mean that you refuse to accept anything further for the slight service you have, up to the present, rendered me?" "Our compact is at an end," the man answered coldly. "No word will pass my lips on one condition, namely, that you release Liane, and--" "I will never do that!" he cried in fierce determination. "She shall be my wife. Come, name your own terms." "Ah! I thought you would not be so unwise as to utterly defy me!" exclaimed the man, smiling in triumph. "The prize is too great to relinquish, eh?" Zertho nodded. "Come, don't name a figure too exorbitant. Let it be within reason," he said. "It will be entirely within reason," the other answered, fixing his dark eyes intently upon Zertho's. "Well?" "Nothing!" he laughed. "Nothing? I don't understand." "I want nothing," he repeated, rousing himself, and bending forward in the lamplight, his eyes still fixed upon the man he was addressing. "You refuse?" "Yes, I refuse," he said in a deep intense voice. "I have, it is true, bought and sold many things in my brief and not unblameworthy career, but I have never yet sold a pure woman's life, and by Heaven! I never will!" Zertho stood in abject dismay. He had been utterly unprepared for this. Anger consumed him when he recognised how completely he had been misled, and how suddenly all his plans were checkmated by this man's unexpected caprice. "You've suddenly withdrawn into the paths of rectitude," he observed with a sickly smile when at last he found voice. "It will be a new and interesting experience, no doubt." "Possibly." "Come, Richards," Zertho exclaimed, after a brief pause, "it's useless to prevaricate any longer. Let us settle the business. I intend marrying Liane, but I am ready to admit that this is possible only with your assistance. For the latter I am prepared to continue to pay as I have already done. Name the amount, and the thing can be settled at once." "I will name no amount. I decline to barter away Liane's happiness." "You wish me to name a sum--eh? Well, what do you say to five hundred pounds down? Recollect how much you've already had off me." The other's lip curled contemptuously, as he shook his head. "Well, I'll double it. A thousand." Their gaze met. Max Richards again shook his head. Zertho, with a sudden movement, pulled his wallet from his pocket, withdrew his cheque-book, and taking up a pen from the table, scribbled out a draft upon the Credit Lyonnais, and filled it in for fifty thousand francs. Tearing it out roughly he tossed it across to his companion, exclaiming with a bitter smile,-- "There you are. I've doubled it a third time. Surely that's sufficient as lip-salve?" The other stretched forth his hand unsteadily, hesitated for a single instant, then slowly his thin eager fingers closed upon it. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A WOMAN'S STORY. When George Stratfield's coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel on the following morning there lay upon the tray a note which had been brought by hand. The superscription was in educated unfamiliar writing, evidently a woman's. Filled with natural curiosity he tore open the envelope and read the following in French:-- "The writer would esteem it a personal favour if Monsieur Stratfield would accord her an interview this evening at any time or place he may appoint. As the matter is urgent she will be obliged if Monsieur would have the goodness to telegraph a reply addressed to Marie Blanc, Poste Restante, Nice, before noon." This mysterious communication he re-read several times. Who, he wondered, was Marie Blanc, and what on earth did she want with him? How, indeed, did she know his name? There was a distinct air of suspicion about it. He tossed the strange letter aside, and thoughtfully drank his coffee and ate his roll. Then, dressing, he went out, and strolling along the Promenade past the house where Liane lived, he thought it over. His first inclination was not to heed it. He was sufficiently worried by his own affairs, and had no desire to be bothered about other people's. Marie Blanc was no doubt some woman who had seen his name in the visitor's list and wanted the loan of a pound or two. He had heard of such things happening at Continental resorts. No, he would take no notice of it; so he tore the note into fragments and cast them to the wind. He had not called upon Liane, or seen her, since their meeting at Monte Carlo. She had forbidden him; and although he had lounged about up and down the broad walk nearly the whole of the previous day, he had seen no sign of her. Evidently she had not been out, and was purposely avoiding him. Her attitude towards him had filled him with grief and dismay. From her involuntary utterances it was plain that she still loved him, yet her strange declaration that it was imperative she should marry Prince d'Auzac perplexed him to the verge of madness. He had made inquiry about this man, and on every hand heard with chagrin reports of his vast wealth, of the brilliance of his fetes, and the charm of his personality. He was, without doubt, a prominent figure in Nice society. To one cause alone was George able to attribute this change in the manner of his well-beloved, the fascination wealth exercises over women. When he compared his own lowly position with that of the man who had taken his place in Liane's heart, he sighed, and was plunged into deep despair. Indeed, that very morning as he lay awake prior to his coffee being brought, he reflected whether it would not be wiser to return at once to London. But he loved Liane. He would not yet leave her side. She loved him, too, and although this marriage might be forced upon her, yet she was nevertheless his own well-beloved. Throughout that morning, in the hope of catching sight of Liane, he sauntered about the Promenade, sat for half-an-hour in the Posada-sur-Mer drinking vermouth, where from the open window he could watch each person who passed. But his vigilance remained unrewarded. Time after time he recollected the mysterious request of his unknown correspondent, and found himself half inclined to send a telegram and meet her. It would be an amusing adventure, if nothing else, he thought; and at length, while strolling back to the town, he resolved to do so, and, entering the nearest telegraph office, sent her a reply, asking her to call at his hotel at nine o'clock. The afternoon he spent lonely and dull. There was, it was true, plenty of amusement going on, but in his frame of mind he was in no mood for concerts, or the mild form of gambling offered by the Casino Municipal. He sat in the public garden listening to the band until sundown, then went for a stroll through the town, dined leisurely, and went to one of the small salons in the hotel there to await his visitor. A few minutes after nine the door was thrown open by one of the servants, behind whom stood a tall, well-dressed lady. "M'sieur Stra-atfeeld?" she exclaimed interrogatively, with a very pronounced French accent. "That is my name," he answered, bowing and inviting her into the room. The spring nights are chilly in Nice, and she was warmly clad in furs, and wore a neat toque with black veil, but even the spotted net was insufficient to conceal that an eminently handsome face was beneath. "Your room is warm and cosy," she exclaimed, when he had placed an armchair for her. "It is quite cold outside. May I be permitted to remove my cape?" "Certainly, madame," he answered, still standing near her, a puzzled expression upon his countenance as she unloosened her sealskin and allowed it to fall over the back of her chair, revealing a trim figure with narrow waist, neatly attired in black silk, the bodice trimmed with cream. "You were smoking," she said, with a smile. "Pray do not desist on my account. I love tobacco. Indeed, if you offered I would take one of your cigarettes--or would you think me very, very shocking?" "By all means," he laughed. "I shall be delighted if you'll join me," and he offered her his cigarette-case, and took one himself. Then he struck a vesta while she raised her veil, disclosing a pretty face and an adorable mouth, and lit up with the air of an inveterate smoker. Her fair hair was, he noticed, well-dressed, and her eyes were dark, but there was just the faintest suspicion of artificial colouring in the former, and her cheeks betrayed the use of the hare's foot and carmine. He reflected however, that in a Frenchwoman these little aids to beauty might be forgiven. Her handsome head was well poised, her throat soft and well-rounded, her white gloves new, and her dress a model of combined neatness and elegance. Her exact age was difficult to determine, nevertheless she was still young-looking, and possessed the _chic_ of the true Parisienne, which to Englishmen seldom fails to prove attractive. He made a movement to close the window, but with a pretty pout she detained him, declaring that the room was a little warm, and at least for the present she felt no draught. He sank back into his chair, and regarded her with an expression half of curiosity, half of surprise. Their eyes met. The silence was awkward, and he broke it by apologising for receiving her somewhat abruptly. "Ah, you bachelors are generally abrupt to unwelcome visitors?" she answered in her pleasant broken English, with a low rippling laugh. "It is only my much abused sex who prevent you from reverting to utter barbarity. You are not married. Ah, you should have a wife to look after you." "Perhaps I may have one--some day," he answered, smiling at her frankness. Slowly she removed the cigarette from her lips, and her gaze wandered round the brightly-furnished room. "But you declare yourself to be an unwelcome visitor," he continued. "Why?" For a moment she regarded the end of her cigarette contemplatively, then turning her dark eyes upon his, answered in a half-apologetic tone-- "Well, you must think my visit here curious, m'sieur. It is. Nevertheless, I trust I may be forgiven for encroaching upon your time, and coming here without introduction. The object of my call is of some concern to you, inasmuch as it is in the interests of one who loves you." "One who loves me!" he echoed in surprise. "Who?" "Liane Brooker," answered his fair visitor. "In her interests, and in yours." "Are you, then, a friend of Liane's?" he inquired, suddenly interested. "Well, not exactly," she replied, a little evasively he thought. Then she replaced her cigarette daintily between her lips, and continued smoking with that ease and grace acquired by ladies who are in the habit of soothing their nerves with tobacco. "Are you acquainted with Captain Brooker?" he asked. "Yes, we have met," she answered. "You know him, of course? He is such a kind-hearted man, such a thorough Bohemian, yet such a perfect gentleman." "Unfortunately, I have only met him on one or two occasions," George said. In an instant it had occurred to him that from his mysterious visitor he might learn what Liane and poor Nelly had always refused to tell him. "He has lived here, in France, for some years. What has been his profession?" "Profession!" she exclaimed, raising her dark well shaped eyebrows. "What! are you unaware?" "I am entirely ignorant." "Well, although a military officer, of late years his chief field of operations has been the trente-et-quarante table at Monte Carlo, where he is as well-known as--well, as the fat old gentleman who sits in the bureau to examine one's visiting card." "A gambler!" he cried, in a tone of disbelief. "Yes, a gambler," she went on. "Few men of late years have lost such large sums so recklessly as he has. Once everybody followed his play, believing him to be a sort of wizard who could divine the cards undealt; but at last his ill-luck became proverbial, and after ruining himself he left with Liane and Nelly Bridson and went to England." "And Liane? What of her?" he inquired, dismayed that the man he had held in high esteem as a good-hearted, easy-going fellow should actually turn out to be an adventurer. "Ah! she has led a strange life," sighed the handsome Frenchwoman. "I have seen her many times, but have seldom spoken much with her. I often met her father in the days of his success, but he for some reason avoided introducing me. Although the circle in which Erle Brooker moved was usually composed of thieves, adventuresses, and the scum of the gambling-hells, he held his daughter aloof from it all. He would never permit her to mix with any of his companions, appearing to entertain a curious suspicion towards even respectable folk, fearing lest she should become contaminated by the world's wickedness. Thus," she added, "Liane and her companion Nelly grew to be sweet and altogether ingenuous girls, who were everywhere respected and admired." There was a short pause, during which he pondered deeply over the facts his strange visitor had explained. The truth was out at last. Liane was the daughter of an adventurer. He recollected how well she had been dressed when he had met her on the terrace at Monte Carlo, and reflected that her father must be again winning. The reason why she had compelled him to leave her that afternoon, why she had always preserved such a reticence regarding her past life, was now entirely plain. She did not wish that he should know the truth. "You said that you called in Liane's interests," he observed, presently, glancing at her with earnestness. "How?" "What are her interests are yours; are they not?" she asked. "Certainly." "You love her?" He smiled at the abruptness of her question. She was leaning back, regarding him with her keen, dark eyes, and holding her cigarette daintily between her bejewelled fingers. "She has promised to become my wife," he answered. A strange look crossed her features. There was something of surprise mingled with anger; but in an instant she hid it beneath a calm, sphinx-like expression. "I fear she will never marry you," she said, with a sigh. "Why?" "Because of her engagement to the Prince d'Auzac." "I care nothing for that," he cried, in anger at mention of his rival's name. "We love each other, and will marry." "Such a course is impossible," she answered, in a deep impressive voice. "It would be far better if you returned to London--better for you both--for she cannot marry you." "Why?" he demanded. He suddenly recollected that from this mysterious woman who knew so much of their personal affairs he might obtain knowledge of the secret his well-beloved had refused to disclose. "Why cannot she abandon him, and marry the man she loves?" "There is a secret reason," his visitor replied. "She dare not." "Are you aware of the reason?" he demanded, quickly. "I can guess. If it is as I suspect, then marriage with you is entirely out of the question. She must marry Zertho." "Because she is in fear of him?" he hazarded. She shrugged her shoulders with that vivacity which only Frenchwomen possess, but no reply left her lips. "From what does her strange fear arise?" he asked, bending towards her in his eagerness to learn the truth. "An overwhelming terror holds her to Zertho. It is a bond which, although he may be hateful to her, as undoubtedly he is, she cannot break. She must become Princess d'Auzac." "She fears lest he should expose some hidden secret of her past?" he suggested. "I don't say that," she answered. "Remember I have only suspicions. Nevertheless, from whatever cause arises her terrible dread its result is the same--it prevents her from becoming your wife." "Yes," he admitted, plunged in gloomy reflections. "It does. I have come out here from London to see her, but she will tell me nothing beyond the fact that she is betrothed to this man, Zertho d'Auzac. At first I believed that the attractions of wealth had proved too strong for her to resist; but your words, in combination with hers, are proof positive that there is some strange, dark secret underlying her engagement to him." "He has forced her to it," his fair visitor said in a harsh voice. "He's absolutely unscrupulous." "You know him?" "Yes," she answered, with a slight hesitancy. "His career has been a curious one. Not long ago he was a fellow-adventurer with Captain Brooker, and well-known in all the gaming-houses in Europe--at Monte Carlo, Spa, Ostend, Namur, and Dinant--as one who lived by exercising his superior intelligence over his fellow-men. He was an `escroc'--one who lived by his wits, won money at the tables, and when luck was against him did not hesitate to descend to card-sharping in order to secure funds. He was the black sheep of a noble family, an outcast, a cheat and a swindler," she went on with a volubility that surprised him. "He possessed all Erle Brooker's shrewdness without any of his good qualities; for, although the Captain may be an adventurer he has never stooped to meanness. He has always lost and won honourably, regarding his luck, good or ill, with the same imperturbable grim humour and reckless indifference. In the days of his prosperity his hand was ever in his pocket to assist his fellow-gamesters upon whom Misfortune had laid a heavy hand, and more than one young man, drawn to the tables by the hope of winning, has been held back from ruin by his kindly and timely advice. The one was, and is still, a dishonest, despicable knave; while the other was a man of honour, truth and singleness of heart. Suddenly, not long ago, the fortunes of Zertho d'Auzac changed, for his father died and he found himself possessor of a truly princely income and estates. He left the gaming-tables, burned the packs of cards with which he had fleeced so many unsuspecting ones, and returned to Luxembourg to claim his possessions. Since then he has led a life of ease and idleness; yet he is still now, as he ever was, vicious, recreant, and utterly unprincipled." "And to this man Liane is bound?" "Yes," she sighed. "Irrevocably, I fear; unless she can discover some means whereby to hold him at defiance." "But she must. I would rather see her dead than the wife of such a man," he cried. She remained silent for some minutes. Her cigarette had gone out and she tossed it away. At last she turned to him, exclaiming,-- "Towards her release I am striving. I want your assistance." "I will render you every help in my power," he answered eagerly. "What can I do?" "First," she said, glancing at him curiously through her half-raised veil, "first describe to me in detail the whole of the circumstances in which poor Nelly Bridson was killed." "What!" he exclaimed quickly. "Has her fear any connection with that tragic incident?" In an instant he remembered the finding of a hairpin near the spot, a pin which had been proved conclusively not to belong to the murdered girl. "I know it was you who discovered the body," she went on, disregarding his inquiry. "Tell me the whole of the sad affair as far as your knowledge extends. I have, of course, read the accounts of the inquest which appeared in the papers at the time, but I am anxious to ascertain some further details." "Of what nature?" "I want you to tell me, if you will," she replied with an interested look, "the exact position of the body when you discovered it." Her question brought to his memory his ghastly discovery in all its hideousness. There arose before his vision the blanched upturned face of the girl prostrate in the dust, the fallen cycle, and the white, deserted English lane, silent and gloomy in the evening mist. "Why do you desire me to recall an event so painful?" he asked in a calm tone. "Because it is necessary that you should tell me exactly how you discovered her," she replied. "You had an appointment with Liane at that very spot on that same evening, had you not?" "Yes," he answered. "I was, unfortunately, late in keeping it, and rode to the railway bridge at full gallop, expecting to find her still waiting, but instead, found Nelly dead." "She was lying in the centre of the road?" "Almost. But a little to the right," he answered. "The road passing beneath the railway takes an abrupt but short incline just where I found her. She was evidently mounting the hill on her cycle when she was shot down." "Tell me exactly how you discovered her, and how you acted immediately afterwards," she urged. "Begin at the beginning, and tell me all. It may be that you can assist me in releasing Liane from her bondage." Her words puzzled him, nevertheless, in obedience to her wish, he related in their proper sequence each of the events of that memorable evening; how he had made the appalling discovery, how he had found the long-lost miniature of Lady Anne, had ridden with all speed down to the village for assistance, and how he had subsequently discovered the mysterious hairpin among the long grass by the gateway. "Have you been able to determine how the missing miniature came into Nelly's possession?" she asked. "No," he said. "It is entirely a mystery. It almost seems as if she had carried it in her hand, and it fell from her fingers when she was struck." "The papers also mentioned a brooch which was missing from Nelly's dress," she observed. "Yes," he replied. "It was no doubt stolen by the murderer." "Why are you so certain the assassin was also the thief?" she inquired. "Well, everything points to such being the case," he said. "When you first discovered the crime are you certain that the brooch was not still at her throat?" his mysterious visitor asked, eyeing him seriously. He paused, reflecting deeply for a moment. "I took no notice," he answered. "I was too much upset by the startling discovery to take heed what jewellery the victim wore." "Cannot you sufficiently recall the appearance of the unfortunate girl when first you saw her to say positively whether or not she was still wearing the ornament? Try; it is most important that this fact should be cleared up," she urged. Her gay carelessness had left her, and she was full of serious earnestness. Again he reflected. Once more before his vision rose the tragic scene just as he had witnessed it, and somehow, he felt a growing consciousness that this woman's suggestion was correct. Yes, he felt certain that Nelly, although her eyes were sightless and her heart had ceased to beat, still wore the brooch which her admirer had given her. Again and again he strove to decide, and each time he found himself convinced of the one fact alone--that at that moment the brooch was still there. "Well," she exclaimed at last, after intently watching every expression of his face, "what is your reply?" "Now that I come to reflect, I am almost positive that the brooch had not been stolen," he answered, slowly. "You are quite confident of that?" she cried, quickly. "I will not swear," he answered, "but if my memory does not deceive me it was still at her throat. I recollect noticing a strange mark beneath her chin, and wondering how it had been caused. Without doubt when her head sunk heavily upon her breast in death her chin had pressed upon the brooch." "In that case you certainly have sufficient justification to take an oath if the question were put to you in a court of justice," she observed, her brows knit reflectively. George was puzzled how this fact could affect Liane's future welfare, or rescue her from marriage with the Prince. This woman, too, was a mystery, and he found himself wondering who and what she was. "You are already aware of my name," he observed, after a brief pause. "Now that we have exchanged confidences in this manner, may I not know yours?" "It is no secret, m'sieur," she replied, looking into his face and smiling. "My name is Mariette Lepage." "Mariette Lepage!" he gasped, starting from his chair, and glaring at her in bewilderment. "That, m'sieur, is my name," she answered, opening her dark eyes widely in surprise at his strange and sudden attitude. "Surely it is not so very extraordinary that, in giving you, a stranger, an address at the Post Restante I should have used a name that was not my own?" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. HELD IN BONDAGE. George Stratfield walked out of his hotel next morning his mind full of Mariette Lepage's strange statements. Long and deeply he pondered over the curious situation, but could discern no solution of the intricate problem. That there was some deep mystery underlying the actions of this woman he could not fail to recognise, yet, try how he would, he nevertheless found himself regarding her with misgiving. Her coquettishness caused him grave suspicion. Although she had endeavoured to convince him of her friendliness towards Liane it was apparent from certain of her remarks that she had some ulterior motive in endeavouring to obtain from him the exact details of the tragedy. He felt confident that she was Liane's enemy. Was it not a cruel vagary of Fate that he should discover this unknown woman whom his father had designated as his wife, only to find her the bitterest foe of the woman he loved? This was the woman who, under his father's eccentric will, was to be offered twenty thousand pounds to accept him as husband! He had said nothing of the offer which sooner or later must be formally made to her, but before they had parted she had given him as her address the Villa Fortunee, at Monaco. He remembered the strange fact of one of her letters being found in Nelly Bridson's pocket, but when he mentioned it she had merely remarked that she had been acquainted with the unfortunate girl. Nevertheless, he also recollected that the letter had contained an expression never used in polite society, and that it had been considered by the police as an altogether extraordinary and rather incriminating document. Confused and bewildered, he was walking beneath the awnings on the shops of the Quai Massena on his way to the Promenade, when suddenly he heard his name uttered, and on looking up found Liane standing before him smiling. In her tailor-made gown of pale fawn with a neat toque, she presented an extremely smart and fresh-looking appearance. "You were so engrossed, George," she said half-reproachfully, with a pretty pout, "that you were actually passing me unnoticed. What's the matter? Something on your mind?" "Yes," he answered, endeavouring to laugh, so pleased was he that they had met. "I have something always on my mind--you." "Then I regret if thoughts of me induce such sadness," she answered, as turning in the direction she was walking he strolled by her side. The March sun was so warm that its fiery rays burnt his face. "Don't speak like that, Liane," he protested. "You surely must know how heavily those cruel words you spoke at Monte Carlo have fallen upon me. How can I have happiness when I know that ere long we must part?" They had crossed the road, and were entering the public garden in order that passers-by should not overhear their conversation, for in Nice half the people in the streets speak or understand English. "Yes," she sighed gloomily. "I know I ought not to have spoken like that, George. Forgive me, I know that happiness is not for me, yet I am trying not to wear my heart upon my sleeve." "But what compels you to marry this man, who was once an adventurer and swindler, and is still unscrupulous? Surely such a man is no fitting husband for you?" Liane glanced at him quickly in surprise. If her lover knew of Zertho's past he would no doubt have learnt that her father had also earned a precarious livelihood by his wits. "Already I have told you that a secret tie binds me irrevocably to him," she answered huskily, as slowly, side by side, they strolled beneath the trees. "It must be broken, whatever its nature," he said quickly. "Ah! I only wish it could be," she answered wistfully, again sighing. "I am compelled to wear a smiling face, but, alas! it only hides a heart worn out with weariness. I'm the most wretched girl in all the world. You think me cruel and heartless--you believe I no longer love you as I did--you must think so. Yet I assure you that day by day I am remembering with, regret those happy sunny days in Berkshire, those warm brilliant evenings when, wandering through the quiet leafy lanes, we made for ourselves a paradise which we foolishly believed would last always. And yet it is all past--all past, never to return." He saw that she was affected, and that tears stood in her eyes. "Life with me has not the charm it used then to possess, dearest," he said, in a low, intense tone, as together they sat upon one of the seats. "True, those days at Stratfield were the happiest of all I have ever known. I remember well how, each time we parted, I counted the long hours of sunshine until we met again; how, when I was away from your side, each road, house and tree reminded me of your own dear self; how in my day-dreams I imagined myself living with you always beside me. The blow came--my father died. You were my idol. I cared for nothing else in the world, and before he died I refused to obey his command to part from you." "Why," she asked quickly, "did your father object to me?" "Yes, darling, he did," he answered. This was the first time he had told her the truth, and it had come out almost involuntarily. "Then that is why he acted so unjustly towards you?" she observed, thoughtfully. "You displeased him because you loved me." He nodded in the affirmative. "But I do not regret it," he exclaimed hastily. "I do not regret, because I still love you as fervently as I did on that memorable evening when my father called me to his bedside and urged me to give up all thought of you. It is because--because of your decision to marry this man, Zertho, that I grieve." "It is not my decision," she protested. "I am forced to act as I am acting." "But you shall never marry him!" "Unfortunately it is beyond your power to assist me, George," she answered, in a tone of despair. "We love each other, it is true, but we must end it all. We must not meet again," she added, in a voice broken by emotion. "I--I cannot bear it. Indeed, I can't." "Why should you say this?" he asked, reproachfully. "Loving each other as fondly as we do, we must meet. No power on earth can prevent it." They looked fondly into each other's eyes. Liane saw in his intense passion and earnestness, and knew how well he loved her. Plunged in thought, she traced a semicircle in the dust with the ferrule of her sunshade. "No," she said at length, quite calmly. "You must forget, George. I shall leave here to marry and live away in the old chateau in Luxembourg as one buried. When I am wedded, my only prayer will be that we may never again meet." "Why?" he cried, dismayed. "Because when I see you I always live the past over again. All those bright, happy, joyous days come back to me, together with the tragic circumstances of poor Nelly's death--the dark shadow which fell between us, the shadow which has lengthened and deepened until it has now formed a barrier insurmountable." "What does Nelly's death concern us?" he asked. "It was tragic and mysterious, certainly; nevertheless, it surely does not prevent our marriage." For an instant she glanced sharply at him, then lowering her gaze, answered drily,-- "Of course not." "Then why refer to it?" "Because the mystery has never been solved," she said, in a tone which surprised him. "Where the police have failed we can scarcely hope to be successful," he observed. Yet the harsh, strained voice in which she had spoken puzzled him. More than once it had occurred to him that Liane had never satisfactorily explained where she had been on that well-remembered evening, yet, loving her so well, he had always dismissed any suspicion as wild and utterly unfounded. Nevertheless, her statements to several persons regarding her actions on that evening had varied considerably, and he could not conceal the truth from himself that for a reason unaccountable she had successfully hidden some matter which might be of greatest importance. "Do you think the truth will ever come out?" she inquired, her eyes still downcast. "It may," he answered, watching her narrowly. "The unexpected often happens." "Of course," she agreed, with a faint smile. "But the police have obtained no further clue, have they?" she asked in eagerness. "Not that I'm aware of," he answered briefly, and a silence fell between them. "Liane," he said at last, turning towards her with a calm, serious look, "I somehow cannot help doubting that you are acting altogether straightforward towards me." "Straightforward?" she echoed, glancing at him with a look half of suspicion, half of surprise. "I don't understand you." "I mean that you refuse to tell me the reason you are bound to marry this man you hate," he blurted forth. "You are concealing the truth." "Only because I am forced to do so," she answered mechanically. "Ah, you do not know all, George, or you would not upbraid me," she added brokenly. "Why not tell me? Then I might assist you." "No, alas! you cannot assist me," she answered, in a forlorn, hopeless voice, with head bent and her gaze fixed blankly upon the ground. "If you wish to be merciful towards me, leave here. Return to London and forget everything. While you remain, my terrible secret oppresses me with greater weight, because I know that I have lost for ever all love and hope--that the judgment of Heaven has fallen upon me." "Why, dearest?" he cried. "How is it you speak so strangely?" Then in an instant remembering her curious words when they had met at Monte Carlo, he added, "Anyone would believe that you had committed some fearful crime." She started, staring at him with lips compressed, but uttering no response. Her face was that of one upon whose conscience was some guilty secret. "Come," he said presently, in a kind, persuasive tone. "Tell me why poor Nelly's death is a barrier to our happiness." "No," she answered, "I cannot. Have I not already told you that my secret is inviolable?" "You refuse?" She nodded, her breast heaving and falling. "Every detail of that terrible affair is still as vivid in my recollection as if it occurred but yesterday," he said. "Until quite recently I have always believed that the assassin stole the brooch she was wearing; but I am now confident that it was stolen between the time I discovered the body and returned with assistance from the village." She held her breath, but only for a single instant. "What causes you to think this?" she inquired. "Because I distinctly remember that the brooch was still at her throat when I found her lying in the road. Yet when I returned it was missing. The assassin was not the thief." "That has been my theory all along," she said. He noticed the effect his words produced upon her, and was puzzled. "You have never explained to me, Liane, the reason you did not keep your appointment with me on that evening," he said gravely. "If you had been at the spot we had arranged, Nelly's life would most probably have been saved." "I was prevented from meeting you," she answered vaguely, after a second's hesitation. "You have already told me that. What prevented you?" "A curious combination of circumstances." "What were they?" "I started out to meet you, but was prevented from so doing." "By whom?" "By a friend." "Or was it an enemy?" he suggested. Her statement did not coincide with the fact that she had written to him postponing their meeting. "I do not know," she replied. "When we parted it was long past the hour we had arranged, so I returned home." "Nelly must at that moment have been lying dead," he observed. "Have you any idea what took her to that spot of all others?" "None whatever," Liane replied. "Except that, unaware of our appointment, she met someone there." "You think she met there the person who afterwards shot her?" "That is my belief." "Then if you know nothing further regarding the mysterious affair why should it prevent our marriage?" he asked, regarding her intently. "It is not only that," she replied quickly, "but there is a further reason." "What is it? Surely I may know," he urged. "You will not send me away in doubt and ignorance, when you know I love you so well." "I cannot tell you," she answered, panting. "Then I shall not leave you, and allow you to become this man's wife-- nay, his victim," he exclaimed passionately. "You do not love him, Liane. You can never love him. Although once a cheat and adventurer he may now have wealth and position, nevertheless he is no fitting husband for you, even though he may give you a fine chateau, a town house in Brussels, and a villa here, on the Riviera. Wealth will never bring you happiness." "Why do you not leave me, George?" she cried, with a sudden movement as if to rise. "Why do you taunt me like this? It is cruel of you." "I do not taunt you, dearest," he protested in a tone of sympathy. "I merely point out the bitter truth. You are betrothed to a man who is in every respect unworthy of you." "Ah, no!" she exclaimed hysterically. "It is myself who is unworthy. I--I cannot break the bond between us because--because I fear him." "If he holds you secretly in his power why not confide in me?" her lover suggested earnestly. "I may devise some means by which you may escape." "If I did you would only hate me," she answered, her lips trembling in blank despair. "No, do not persuade me. There is but one course I can pursue." "You intend marrying him?" he observed huskily. "Unfortunately it is imperative." "Have you ever reflected how utterly wretched your life must necessarily be under such circumstances?" he asked, gazing seriously into her eyes. "Yes," she answered, endeavouring vainly to restrain the sob which escaped her. "I know full well the life which must now be mine. Without you I shall not care to live." "Then why not allow me to assist you?" he urged. "Whatever may be the nature of your secret, tell me, and let me advise you. Together we will frustrate Zertho's plans, whatever they may be." "Any such attempt would only place me in greater peril," she pointed out. "But surely you can rely on my secrecy?" he said. "Do I not love you?" "Yes, but you would hate me if you knew the truth," she whispered hoarsely. "Therefore I cannot tell you." "Your secret cannot be of such a nature as to cause that, Liane," he said quietly. "It is. Even if I told you everything your help would not avail me. Indeed, it would only bring to me greater pain and unhappiness," she answered quickly. "Our days of bliss have passed and gone, and with them all hope has vanished. They were full of a perfect, peaceful happiness, because you loved me with the whole strength of your soul, and I idolised you in return. Hour by hour the remembrance of those never-to-be-forgotten hours spent by your side comes back to me. I remember how quiet and peaceful the English village seemed after the noise, rattle and incessant chatter of a gay Continental town, how from the first moment we met, I, already world-weary, commenced a new life. But it is all past--all gone, and I have now only before me a world of bitterness and despair." And she turned her pale face from his to hide the tears which welled in her eyes. "You say you were world-weary," he observed in a low tone. "I do not wonder at it now that I know of your past." "My past!" she gasped quickly. "What do you know of my past?" "I know that your father was a gambler," he answered. "Ah! what a life of worry and privation yours must have been, dearest. Yet you told me nothing of it!" She looked at him, but her gaze wavered beneath his. "I told you nothing because I feared that you would not choose the daughter of an adventurer for a wife," she faltered. "It would have made no difference," he assured her. "I loved you." "Yes," she sighed; "but there is a natural prejudice against women who have lived in the undesirable set that I have." "Quite so," he admitted. "Nevertheless, knowing how pure and noble you are, dearest, this fact does not trouble me in the least. I am still ready, nay, anxious, to make you my wife." She shook her head gravely. Her hand holding her sunshade trembled as she retraced the semicircle in the dust. "No," she exclaimed at last. "If you would be generous, George, leave me and return to London. In future I must bear my burden myself; therefore, it is best that I should begin now. To remain here is useless, for each time I see you only increases my sadness; each time we meet brings back to me all the memories I am striving so hard to forget." "But I cannot leave you, Liane," he declared decisively. "You shall not throw yourself helplessly into the hands of this unscrupulous man without my making some effort to save you." "It is beyond your power--entirely beyond your power," she cried, dejectedly. "I would rather kill myself than marry him; yet I am compelled to obey his will, for if I took my life in order to escape, others must bear the penalty which I feared to face. No, if you love me you will depart, and leave me to bear my sorrow alone." "I refuse to obey you," he answered, firmly. "Already you know that because I loved you so well I have borne without regret my father's action in leaving me almost penniless. Since that day I have worked and striven with you always as my pole-star because you had promised to be mine. Your photograph looked down at me always from the mantelshelf of my dull, smoke-begrimed room. It smiled when I smiled, and was melancholy when I was sad. And the roses and violets you have sent from here made my room look so gay, and their perfume was so fresh that they seemed to breathe the same sweet odour that your chiffons always exhale. Your letters were a little cold, it is true; but I attributed that to the fact that in Nice the distractions are so many that correspondence is always sadly neglected. Picture to yourself what a blow it was to me when, on the terrace at Monte Carlo, you told me that you had another lover, and that you intended to marry him. I felt--" "Ah!" she cried, putting up her little hand to arrest the flow of his words, "I know, I know. But I cannot help it. I love you still--I shall love you always. But our marriage is not to be." He paused in deep reflection. There was one matter upon which he had never spoken to her, and he was wondering whether he should mention it, or let it remain a secret within him. In a few moments, however, he decided. "I have already told you the cause which led my father to treat me so unjustly, Liane," he said, looking at her seriously, "but there is one other fact of which I have never spoken. My father left me a considerable sum of money on condition that I married a woman whom I had never seen." "A woman you had never seen!" she exclaimed, at first surprised, then laughing at the absurdity of such an idea. "Yes. It was his revenge. I would not promise to renounce all thought of you, therefore, in addition to leaving me practically a pauper, he made a tantalising provision that if I chose to marry this mysterious woman, of whom none of my family knew anything, I was to receive a certain sum. This woman must, according to the will, be offered a large sum as bribe to accept me as husband, therefore ever since my father's death his solicitors have been endeavouring to discover her." "How extraordinary!" she said, deeply interested in his statement. "Has the woman been found?" "Yes. I discovered her yesterday," he replied. "You discovered her! Then she is here, in Nice?" "Yes, strangely enough, she is here." "What's her name?" "Mariette Lepage." Instantly her face went pale as death. "Mariette Lepage!" she gasped hoarsely. "Yes. The woman whose strange letter was found upon Nelly after her death," he answered. "What my father could have known of her I am utterly at a loss to imagine." "And she is actually here, in Nice," she whispered in a strange, terrified voice, for in an instant there had arisen before her vision the dark angry eyes of the woman in mask and domino who had pelted her so unmercifully on that Sunday afternoon during Carnival. "Yes, she is here," he said, glancing at her sharply. "She was evidently well acquainted with poor Nelly. What do you know of her?" "I--I know nothing," she answered in an intense, anxious tone, as one consumed by some terrible dread. "Mariette Lepage is not my friend." And she sat panting, her chin sunk upon her breast as if she had been dealt a blow. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE GOLDEN HAND. When a few minutes later they rose Liane declared that she must return to lunch; therefore they walked together in the sun-glare along the Promenade, at that hour all but deserted, for the cosmopolitan crowd of persons who basked in the brilliant sunshine during the morning had now sought their hotels for dejeuner. Few words they uttered, so full of gloom and sadness were both their hearts. Liane had insisted that this must be their last meeting, but time after time he had declared that he would never allow her to marry Zertho, although he could make no suggestion whereby she could escape the cruel fate which sooner or later must overwhelm her. They had strolled about half-way towards the villa in which she and the Captain were staying, when suddenly he halted opposite a short narrow lane, which opened from the Promenade into the thoroughfare running parallel--the old and narrow Rue de France. On either side were high garden walls, and half-way along, these walls, taking a sudden turn at right angles, opened wider; therefore the way was much narrower towards where they stood than at the opposite end. "Let us go down here," George suggested. "There is more shade in the street, and you can then reach your villa by the back entrance." "No," she answered, glancing with repugnance at the narrow lane, and turning away quickly. He fancied she shuddered; but, on glancing at the clean little thoroughfare only about a hundred paces in length, he could detect nothing which could cause her repulsion, and at once reassured himself that he had been mistaken. "But it is so terribly hot and dazzling along here," he urged. "You should carry a sun-umbrella," she smiled. "But there, I suppose men don't care to be seen with green ginghams." "But surely this glare upon the footway hurts your eyes," he continued. "It is so much cooler in the Rue de France." "No," she replied. And again he thought he detected a gesture of uneasiness as, turning from him, she walked on, her sunshade lowered to hide her face. Puzzled, he stepped forward and quickly caught her up. There was, he felt certain, some hidden reason why she declined to pass along that small unnamed lane. But he did not refer to the subject again, although after he had left her he pondered long and deeply upon her curious attitude, and in walking back to the town he turned into the narrow passage and passed through it to the Rue de France, whence he took the tram down to the Place Massena. A dozen times had she urged him to leave her and return to London, but so full of mystery seemed all her actions that he was more than ever determined to remain and strive to elucidate the reason of her dogged silence, and solve the curious problem of her strange inexplicable terror. It was plain that she feared Mariette Lepage, and equally certain also that this mysterious woman who feigned to be her friend was nevertheless her bitterest foe. The reason of her visit to him was not at all plain. Her inquiries regarding the tragic circumstances of Nelly Bridson's death were, he felt confident, mere excuses. As he sat in the tram-car while it jogged slowly along the narrow noisy street, it suddenly occurred to him that from her he might possibly obtain some information which would lead him to an explanation of Liane's secret. He thought out the matter calmly over a pipe at his hotel, and at last decided upon a bold course. She had given him her address, he would, therefore, seek her that afternoon. In pursuance of his plan he alighted about four o'clock from the train at Monaco Station and inquired his way to the Villa Fortunee. Following the directions of a waiter at the Hotel des Negociants, he walked down the wide read to the foot of the great rock whereon the town is situated, then ascended by the broad footway, so steep that no vehicles can get up, and passing through the narrow arches of the fort, found himself at last upon the ramparts, in front of the square Moorish-looking palace of the Prince. Around the small square were mounted several antiquated cannon, while near them were formidable-looking piles of heavy shot which are carefully dusted each day, and about the tiny review ground there lounged several gaudily-attired soldiers in light blue uniforms, lolling upon the walls smoking cigarettes. The Principality is a small one, but it makes a brave show, even though its defences remind one of comic opera, and its valiant soldiers have never smelt any other powder save that of the noon-day gun. The silence of the siesta was still upon the little place, for the afternoon was blazing hot. On one side of the square the sentry at the Palace-gate leaned upon his rifle half-asleep, while on the other the fireman sat upon the form outside the engine-house, and with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets moodily watched the slowly-moving hands of the clock in its square, white castellated tower. George stood for a few moments in the centre of the clean, carefully-swept square, the centre of one of the tiniest governments in the world, then making further inquiry of the sleepy fireman, was directed along the ramparts until he found himself before a fine, square, flat-roofed house, with handsome dead white front, which, facing due south and situated high up on the summit of that bold rock, commanded a magnificent view of Cap Martin, the Italian coast beyond, and the open Mediterranean. Shut off from the ramparts by a handsome iron railing, the garden in front was filled with high palms, fruitful oranges, variegated aloes and a wealth of beautiful flowers, while upon a marble plate the words "Villa Fortunee" were inscribed in gilt letters. The closed sun-shutters were painted white, like the house, and about the exterior of the place was an air of prosperity which the young Englishman did not fail to notice. Its situation was certainly unique. Deep below, on the great brown rocks descending sheer into the sea, the long waves lashed themselves into white foam, while away sea-ward the water was a brilliant blue which, however, was losing its colour each moment as the shadows lengthened. Within sight of gay, dazzling Monte Carlo, with all her pleasures and flaunting vices, all her fascinating beauty and hideous tragedy, the house was nevertheless quiet and eminently respectable. For an instant he paused to glance at the beautiful view of sea-coast and mountain, then entering the gate, rang the bell. An Italian man-servant opened the door and took his card, and a few moments later he was ushered into the handsome salon, resplendent with gilt and statuary, where Mariette Lepage had evidently been dozing. The jalousies of the three long windows were closed; the room, perfumed by great bowls of violets, was delightfully cool; and the softly-tempered light pleasant and restful after the white glare outside. "This is an unexpected pleasure," Mariette exclaimed in English, rising to allow her hand to linger for an instant in his, then sinking back with a slight yawn upon her silken couch. In the half-light, as she reclined in graceful abandon upon the divan, her head thrown back upon a great cushion of rose silk, she looked much younger than she really was. George had guessed her age at thirty-five when she had called at his hotel, but in that dimly-lit room, with her veil removed and attired in a thin light-coloured gown she looked quite ten years younger, and certainly her face was eminently handsome. She stretched out her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe, with an air of coquetry, and in doing so displayed either by accident or design that _soupcon_ of _lingerie_ which is no indiscretion in a Frenchwoman. He had taken a seat near her, and was apologising for calling during her siesta. "No, no," she exclaimed, with a light laugh. "I am extremely glad you've come. I retire so late at night that I generally find an afternoon doze beneficial. We women suffer from nerves and other such things of which you men know nothing." "Fortunately for us," he observed. "But then we are liable to a malady of the heart of far greater severity than that to which your sex is subject. Women's hearts are seldom broken; men's often are. A woman can forget as easily as a child forgets; but the remembrance of a face, of a voice, of a pair of eyes, to him brighter and clearer than all others, is impressed indelibly upon a man's memory. Every woman from the moment she enters her teens is, I regret to say, a coquette at heart. In the game of love the chances are all against the man." "Why are you so pessimistic?" she asked, raising herself upon her elbow and looking at him amused. "All women are not heartless. Some there are who remember, and although evil and vicious themselves, are self-denying towards others." "Yes," he answered. "A few--a very few." "Of course you must be forgiven for speaking thus," she said, in a soft, pleasant tone. "Your choice of a woman has been an exceedingly unhappy one." "Why?" he exclaimed, with quick suspicion. "What allegation do you make against Liane?" "I make no allegation, whatever, m'sieur," she answered, with a smile. "It was not in that sense my words were intended. I meant to convey that your love has only brought unhappiness to you both." "Unfortunately it has," he sighed. "In vain have I striven to seek some means in which to assist Liane to break asunder the tie which binds her to Prince Zertho, but she will not explain its nature, because she says she fears to do so." "I am scarcely surprised," she answered. "Her terror lest the true facts should be disclosed is but natural." "Why?" he inquired, hastily. But she shook her head, saying: "Am I not striving my utmost to assist her? Is it therefore to be supposed that I shall explain facts which she desires should remain secret? The object of your present visit is surely not to endeavour to entrap me into telling you facts which, for the present, will not bear the light? Rather let us come to some understanding whereby our interests may be mutual." "It was for that reason I have called," he said, in a dry, serious tone. Her gaze met his, and he thought in that half-light he detected in her dark, brilliant eyes a keen look of suspicion. "I am all attention," she answered, pleasantly, moving slightly, so that she faced him. "Well, mine is a curious errand," he began, earnestly, bending towards her, his elbows on his knees. "There is no reason, as far as I'm aware, why, if you are really Liane's friend, we should not be perfectly frank with one another. First, I must ask you one question--a strange one you will no doubt regard it. But it is necessary that I should receive an answer before I proceed. Did you ever live in Paris--and where?" She knit her brows for an instant, as if questions regarding her past were entirely distasteful. "Well, yes," she answered, after some hesitation. "I once lived in Paris with my mother. We had rooms in the Rue Toullier." "Then there can be no mistake," he exclaimed, quickly. "You are Mariette Lepage." "Of course I am," she said, puzzled at the strangeness of his manner. "Why?" "Because there is a curious circumstance which causes our interests to be mutual," he answered, watching the flush of excitement upon her face as he spoke. "Briefly, my father, Sir John Stratfield, was somewhat eccentric, and because he knew I loved Liane, he left me penniless. He, however, added an extraordinary clause to his will, in which you are mentioned." Then drawing from his breast-pocket a copy of the document, he glanced at it. "I am mentioned?" she echoed, raising herself and regarding him open-mouthed. "Yes," he said. "By this will he has left me one hundred thousand pounds on condition that I become your husband within two years of his death." "You--my husband?" she cried. "Are you mad?" "Not so mad as my father when he made this absurd will," he answered, calmly. "You are, under its provisions, to be offered twenty thousand pounds in cash if you will consent to become my wife. This offer will be made to you formally by his solicitors in London as soon as I inform them that you are at last found. Read for yourself," and he passed to her the copy of the will. She took it mechanically, but for several moments sat agape and motionless. The extraordinary announcement held her bewildered. Quickly she glanced through the long lines of formal words, reassuring herself that he had spoken the truth. She was to receive twenty thousand pounds if she would marry the man before her, while he, on his part, would become possessed of a substantial sum sufficient to keep them comfortably for the remainder of their lives. At first she was inclined to doubt the genuineness of the document; but it bore the signature of the firm of solicitors, and was attested by them to be a true copy of the original will. It held her dumb in astonishment. "Then we are to marry?" she observed amazedly, when at last she again found voice. "The offer is to be made to you," he answered, evasively. "As you have seen, if you refuse, or if you are already married, I am to receive half the amount." "I am not married," she answered with a slightly coquettish smile, her chin resting upon her palm in a reflective attitude as she gazed at him. "Marriage with you will mean that we have together the substantial sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds." "That is so," he said gravely. "If we married we certainly should have money." "But you love Liane," she answered in a low tone. "You can never love me," and she sighed. He did not answer. The look upon his face told her the truth. He feared lest she should accept this curious offer, knowing that he would then be drawn into a marriage with her. She regarded him critically, and saw that he was tall, good-looking, muscular, and in every way a thorough type of the good-natured Englishman. Twenty thousand pounds was, she reflected, a sum that would prove very acceptable, for she lived extravagantly, and the Villa Fortunee itself was an expensive luxury. "It is very dull living alone," she exclaimed, with a little touch of melancholy in her voice. Then, with a laugh, she added, "To be perfectly frank, I should not object to you as my husband." "But is there not a barrier between us?" he exclaimed, quickly. "Only Liane. And she can never marry you." "I love her. I cannot love you," he answered. Her effort at coquetry sickened him. "It is not a question of love," she answered, coldly, toying with the fine marquise ring upon her white finger. "It is a question of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds." "Would either of us be one whit the better for it, even if we married?" he queried. "I think not. At present we are friends. If we married I should hate you." "Nevertheless I should obtain twenty thousand pounds," she argued. "Is it worth while to risk one's future happiness for that?" he said. "I have not yet sufficiently considered the matter," she replied, with her eyes still fixed on him. "At present I'm inclined to think that it is. But I must have time to reflect. One cannot refuse such an offer without due consideration." "Then you are inclined to accept," he observed, blankly. She hesitated. Slowly she rose from the settee, crossed to the window and pushed open the sun-shutters, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room from over the clear blue-green sea. "Yes," she answered, standing gazing out upon the far-off horizon where the white-sailed racing yachts, Ailsa and Britannia, were passing, "I am inclined to accept." "Very well," he stammered, sitting rigid and immovable. "My future is entirely in your hands." She passed her hand wearily across her brow. With the sunset falling full upon her, he saw how heavy-eyed she was, and how artificial was the complexion that had looked so well in the dreamy half-light when the jalousies had been closed. Yes. She no doubt bore traces of a faded beauty, but she was old; there were lines in her brow, and crows' feet showed at the corners of her eyes. She was _passee_, and all the vivacity and coquettishness she had shown had been carefully feigned to assume an appearance of youth. The thought of it nauseated him. Again she turned towards him. Her momentary gravity had vanished, and she commenced a commonplace conversation. At last, however, he rose to go, but she would not hear of it. "No; remain here and dine," she said, in a low, persuasive tone. "Afterwards we can go over to Monte Carlo for an hour or so, and you can catch the yellow _rapide_ back to Nice at eleven." "But you must really excuse me. I--" "I will take no excuse," she said, laughing. "You must remain," and she rang for the servant and told him that m'sieur would dine. Together they stood at the open window watching the succession of lights and shadows upon the purple mountains, how the rose of the afterglow grew deeper over the sea until it faded, and the streak of gold and orange died out behind the distant rocks of Cap d'Aggio. Then the mists rose, creeping slowly up the mountain sides, the dusk deepened, a chill wind blew in from the sea, and just as they closed the windows the door opened and the man announced dinner. The table, set for two in a cosy little salle-a-manger, glittered with its cut-glass and shining plate, and was rendered bright by its shaded candles and small silver repousse stands filled with choice flowers. Throughout the meal she was gay and vivacious, speaking but little of herself and carefully avoiding all references to Liane. He found her a pleasant hostess, unusually well-informed for a woman. They discussed art and literature, and in all her criticisms she exhibited a wide and intimate knowledge of men and things. Then, when they rose, she opened a door at the further end of the room and he found himself in a spacious conservatory, where she invited him to smoke while she dressed to go to the Casino. Half an hour later she reappeared in a handsome gown of pale blue silk, the corsage trimmed with narrow braiding of silver; a costume which suited her admirably, yet so daring was it that he could not disguise from himself the suggestion that it was the dress of a demi-mondaine. Her hair had been redressed by her maid, and as he placed about her shoulders her small black cape of lace and feathers, he mumbled an apology that he was not able to dress. "What does it matter? I invited you," she said, with a gay laugh. "Come." Together they entered the open carriage awaiting them, and descending the long winding road to the shore, drove rapidly through La Condamine, and ascended the steep incline which brought them round to the main entrance to the Casino. The night was brilliant, and the broad Place, with its palms and flowers, its gay, laughing crowd of promenaders, and its showy Cafe de Paris, where the band was playing Mattei's "Non e ver," lay bright as day beneath the moonbeams and electric rays. As they entered, Mariette handed him her cape, which he deposited for her in the cloakroom, then both passed through a crowd of habitues of the rooms. Several men around bowed to her, and she greeted them with a smile. "You appear to be well-known here," he laughed, as the well-guarded doors opened to them. "I suppose I am," she answered vaguely. "When I am lonely I come here and play. It is the only recreation I have." The rooms were hot and crowded. The monotonous cry of the croupiers, the incessant clicking of the roulette-ball, the jingle of coin, and the faint odour of perfume were in striking contrast to the quiet of the road along which they had just driven, but walking side by side they passed through one room after another until they reached that fine square salon, with its huge canvas representing a peaceful pastoral scene occupying the whole of the opposite wall, the "trente-et-quarante" room. There was not quite so large a crowd here, but the stakes were higher, a louis being the minimum. Mariette saw a player rise from his chair at the end of the table and instantly secured the vacant seat, then turning to her companion with a gay laugh, said,-- "I am going to tempt Fortune for half an hour." She took from the large purse she carried a card on which to record the game, impaled it to the green cloth with a pin, in the manner of the professional gambler, and drew forth a small roll of notes. The first time she played the "tailleur" dealt the cards quickly, one by one, then cried, "_Six, quatre, rouge gagne et couleur perd_." She had lost. But next time she tossed two notes upon the scarlet diamond before her and won. She doubled her stake, won again, and then allowed the cards to be dealt several times without risking anything. Presently, she hesitated, but suddenly counted out five one hundred-franc notes, folded them in half and carelessly tossed them upon the red. Again the cards were dealt one by one upon the leather-covered square; again the monotonous voice sounded, and again came her winnings towards her, five notes folded together on the end of the croupier's rake. So engrossed had George become in the game, that he noticed nothing of what was transpiring around him. Had he not been so deeply interested in the play of this woman whom his father had designated as his wife, his attention would probably have been attracted by a curious incident. At the moment when the cards had been dealt, a man seated at the end of the opposite table, who, with his companion had won a considerable sum, raised his head, and, for the first time, noticed amid the excited expectant crowd, that it was a woman who had been successful at the other table. The man was Zertho. Next instant, however, his face went white. In his eyes there was a look of abject terror when he identified the lucky player. With a sudden movement he put his hand to his head to avoid recognition, and bending quickly to his companion, gasped,-- "Look, Brooker! Can't you see who's in front? Good God! why there's `The Golden Hand.' Quick! We must fly!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE HOUSE OF THE WICKED. Next afternoon Liane and Zertho strolled up to Cimiez together to pay a call upon a Parisian family named Bertholet, who lived in one of those fine white houses high up on the Boulevard de Cimiez, and who had recently accepted the Prince's hospitality. As they turned from the dusty Boulevard Carabacel, and commenced the long ascent where the tree-lined road runs straight up to the glaring white facade of the Excelsior Regina Hotel, Zertho expressed a fear that she would be fatigued ere they reached their destination, and urged her to take a cab. "I'm not at all tired," she assured him, nevertheless halting a second, flushed and warm, to regain breath. "The day is so beautiful that a walk will do me no end of good." "It's a dreadful bore to have to toil up and call on these people, but I suppose I must be polite to them. They are worth knowing. Bertholet is, I hear, a well-known banker in Paris." Liane smiled. The patronising air with which her companion spoke of his newly-found friends always amused her. "Besides," he added, "we must now make the best of the time we have in Nice. We leave to-morrow, or the day after." "So sudden!" she exclaimed, surprised. "I thought we should remain for another fortnight or three weeks. The weather is so delightful." "I have arranged it with the Captain," he said briefly. "Do you regret leaving?" "How can I regret?" she asked, glancing at him and raising her brows slightly. "How can I regret when the place, so fair in itself, is to me so hateful? No, I'm glad for several reasons that we are leaving." She recollected at that moment what George had told her. Mariette Lepage was near them. She remembered, too, the fierce expression of hatred in that pair of angry eyes shining through the mask. "Yes," he said at length, "one can have too much of a good thing, and sometimes it is even possible to have too much of the Riviera. I have the satisfaction at least of having succeeded in obtaining a footing in society." And he laughed as he added, "A year ago I was a down-at-heel adventurer, almost too shabby to obtain admittance at Monte Carlo, while to-day I'm welcomed everywhere, even among the most exclusive set. And why? Merely because I have money and impudence." "Yes," Liane admitted, with a touch of sorrow. "This is indeed a curious world. There is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man is too often judged by his coat." "And a woman by her dress," he added quickly. "When you are Princess d'Auzac, you will find that other women will crowd around you and pet you, and declare you are the most beautiful girl of the year--as, of course, you are--all because you have wealth and a title. They like to speak to their friends of `My friend the Princess So-and-So.'" "You are very complimentary," she answered, coldly. "I have no desire to excite either the admiration or envy of other women." "Because you have never yet fully realised how beautiful you are," he answered. "Oh yes, I have. Every woman knows the exact worth of her good looks." "Some over-estimate them, no doubt," he said, with a laugh. "But you have always under-estimated yours. If the Captain had chosen he could have already married you to a dozen different men, all wealthy and distinguished." "Dear old dad loved me too well to sacrifice my happiness for money," she said, climbing slowly the steep hill. "Yet you declare that you are doing so by marrying me," he observed, his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I am only marrying you because you compel me," she answered, huskily. "You know that." "Why do you hate me?" he cried, dismayed. "I have surely done my best to render your life here happy? In the past I admired your grace and your beauty, but because of my poverty I dared not ask the Captain for you. Now that I have the means to give you the luxury which a woman like yourself must need, you spurn my love, and--" "Your love!" she cried, with a gesture of disgust, her eyes flashing angrily. "Do not speak to me of love. You may tell other women that you love them, but do not lie to me!" "It is no lie," he answered. She had never spoken so frankly before, and her manner showed a fierce determination which surprised him. "You have a manner so plausible that you can utter falsehoods so that they appear as gospel truth," she said. "Remember, however, that you and my father were once fellow-adventurers, and that years ago I thoroughly gauged your character and found it exactly as superficial and unprincipled as it is now." "The past is forgotten," he snapped. "It is useless to throw into my face facts and prejudices which I am striving to live down." "No," she cried. "The past is not forgotten, otherwise you would not compel me to become your wife. How can you say that the past is buried, when at this moment you hold me beneath your hateful thrall, merely because my face and my figure please you, merely because you desire that I should become your wife?" "With you at my side I shall, I trust, lead a better life," he said, calmed by her rebuff. "It is useless to cant in that manner," she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. "In you, the man I have always mistrusted as knavish and unscrupulous, I can never place confidence. The mean, shabby, tricks you have served men who have been your friends are in themselves sufficient proof of your utter lack of good-will, and show me that you are dead to all honour. Without confidence there can be no love." "I have promised before Heaven to make you happy," he answered. "Ah, no," she said, in a choking voice of bitter reproach. "Speak not of holy things, you, whose heart is so black. If you would make your peace with God give me back my liberty, my life, before it is too late." Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke. But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pushing it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pass. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she passed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame's two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech. "We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince," Madame Bertholet was saying in French. "We must congratulate you. I'm sure I wish you every happiness." "Thank you," she said, with a forced smile. "It is extremely good of you." "And when and where do you marry?" "In Brussels, in about three weeks," Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane's face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered. Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her. "After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg," said Madame. "Have you seen it?" Liane replied in the negative. "I happen to know Luxembourg very well. My brother, strangely enough, is one of the Prince's tenants." "Oh, then, you of course know my future home," exclaimed Liane, suddenly interested. "Yes, very well. The chateau is a fine old place perched high up, overlooking a beautiful fertile valley," her hostess replied. "I once went there a few years ago, when the old Prince was alive, and I well remember being charmed by the romantic quaintness of its interior. Inside, one is back three centuries; with oak panelling, old oak furniture, great old-fashioned fireplaces with cosy corners, and narrow windows, through which long ago archers shed their flights of arrows. There is a dungeon, too; and a dark gloomy prison-chamber in one of the round turrets. It is altogether a most delightful old place." "Gloomy, I suppose?" observed Liane thoughtfully. "Well, life amid such old-world surroundings as those could scarcely be quite as bright or enjoyable as Nice or Paris, but it is nevertheless a magnificent and well-preserved relic of a bygone age. Without doubt it is one of the finest of feudal chateaux in Europe." "Are any of the rooms modern?" "None," Madame replied. "It seems to have been the hobby of the Princes d'Auzac to preserve intact its ancient character. You will be envied as the possessor of such a fine old place. I shall be delighted to come and see you when you are settled--if I may." "Certainly. I, too, shall be delighted," Liane answered mechanically. "In a place like that one will require a constant supply of visitors to make life at all endurable. It is, I fear, one of those grey, forbidding-looking old places as full of rats as it is of traditions." "I don't know about the rats," her hostess answered, laughing heartily. "But there are, I know, many quaint and curious legends connected with the place. My brother told me some." "What were they about?" "Oh, about the tyranny of the d'Auzacs who, in the middle ages, ravaged the Eiffel and the Moselle valley, and more than once attacked the town of Treves itself. In those days the name of d'Auzac was synonymous of all that was cruel and brutal; but the family have become civilised since then, and," she added, looking towards Zertho, who was laughing with her two daughters, "the Prince scarcely looks a person to be feared." "No," observed Liane, with a forced smile. To her also the name of d'Auzac was synonymous of cunning, brutality, and unscrupulousness. She pictured to herself the great mountain stronghold, a grim, grey relic of an age of barbarism, the lonely dreary place peopled by ghosts of an historic past, that was to be her home, in which she was to live with this man who held her enthralled. Then she shuddered. Her hostess noticed it, wondered, but attributed it to the draught from the open window. To her it was inconceivable that any girl could refuse Prince Zertho's offer of marriage. He was one of the most eligible of men, his polished manner had made him a favourite everywhere, and one heard his wealth discussed wherever one visited. Either of her own daughters would, she knew, be only too pleased to become Princess. Liane, although nothing of a coquette, was nevertheless well enough versed in the ways of the world to be tactful when occasion required, and at this moment strenuously strove not to betray her world-weariness. Although consumed by grief and despair she nevertheless smiled with feigned contentment, and a moment later with an air so gay and flippant that none would guess the terrible dread which was wearing out her young life, joined in the light amusing chatter with Madame's daughters. "We saw you at Monte Carlo last night," one of the girls exclaimed, suddenly, addressing Zertho. "Did you?" he answered, with a start. "I really saw nothing of you." "We were quite close to you," observed her sister, "You were sitting with Captain Brooker, and were having quite a run of good fortune when, suddenly, you both jumped up and disappeared like magic. We tried to attract your attention, but you would not glance in our direction. Before we could get round to you you had gone. Why did you leave so quickly?" "We wanted to catch our train," Zertho answered, a lie ever ready upon his lips. "We had only three minutes, and just managed to scramble in." "Did you notice a fine, handsome-looking woman at the table, a woman in blue dress trimmed with silver?" asked Madame Bertholet. Zertho again started. In a second, however, he recovered his self-possession. "I am afraid I did not," he replied with a smile. "I was too intent upon the game. Besides," and he paused, glancing at Liane, "female beauty ought not to attract me now." They all laughed in chorus. "Of course not," Madame agreed. "But the woman wore such a gay costume, and was altogether so reckless that I thought you might have noticed her. Everybody was looking at her. I was told that she is a well-known gambler who has won huge sums at various times, and is invariably so lucky that she is known to habitues of the table as `The Golden Hand.'" "Everything her hand touches turns to gold--eh?" Zertho hazarded. "I only wish my fingers possessed the same potency. It must be delightful." "But she's not at all a desirable acquaintance, if all I hear is true," Madame observed. "Do you know nothing of her by repute?" "I fancy I've heard the sobriquet before," he replied. "I'm sorry I didn't notice her. Did she win?" Liane and the Prince exchanged significant glances. "Yes, while we watched she won, at a rough estimate, nearly twenty thousand francs," one of the girls said. "A friend who accompanied us told us all about her," Madame observed. "Hers has been a most remarkable career. It appears that at one time she was well-known in Paris as a singer at La Scala, and the music halls in the Champs Elysees, but some mysterious circumstance caused her to leave Paris hurriedly. She was next heard of in New York, where she was singing at the music halls, and it was said that she returned to France at the country's expense, but that, on being brought before the tribunal, the charge against her could not be substantiated, and she was therefore released. Subsequently, after a strange and chequered life, she turned up about four years ago at Monte Carlo, and became so successful that very soon she had amassed a considerable sum of money. To the attendants and those who frequent the Casino she is a mystery. For sheer recklessness no woman who comes to the tables has her equal; yet she is invariably alone, plays at her own discretion without consulting anyone, and with a thoroughly business-like air, speaks to scarcely anybody, and always rises from the table at eleven, whether winning or losing. Indeed, `The Golden Hand' is altogether a most remarkable person." "Curious," observed Zertho, reflectively. "I wish I had noticed her. You say she was sitting at our table?" "Yes," answered one of the girls. "She sat straight before you, and because you were winning she watched you closely several times." "Watched me!" he exclaimed, dismayed. "Yes," answered the girl, with a laugh. "Why, you speak as if she possessed the evil eye, or something! She's smart and good-looking certainly, but I don't think Liane need fear in her a rival." "Scarcely," he answered, with a forced smile. But the alarming truth possessed him that Mariette had surreptitiously watched Brooker and himself before they had discovered her presence. He reproached himself bitterly for having gone to Monte Carlo that night, yet gambler that he was he had been unable to resist the temptation of the tables once again ere they left the Riviera. But the woman known as "The Golden Hand" had watched them both, and by this time most probably knew where they were living. Neither he nor the Captain had any idea that Mariette Lepage still hovered about the tables, or they would certainly never have set foot inside the Principality. Liane in her cool summer-like gown sat in a low wicker lounge-chair and listened to this description of the notorious woman without uttering a word. She dared not trust herself to speak lest she should divulge the secret within her breast. She had grown uncomfortable, and only breathed more freely when, ten minutes later, they made their adieux and began to descend the Boulevard back to Nice. "So your old friend Mariette has seen you!" she exclaimed, as soon as they had walked twenty paces from the house. "Yes," he snapped. "Another illustration of my accursed luck. The sooner we leave Nice the better." "Very well," she answered, with a weary sigh. She did not tell him that she had already ascertained from George Stratfield that "The Golden Hand" had been to Nice. "We must leave for Paris," he said briefly. "It will not be wise to run too great a risk. If she chooses she can make things extremely unpleasant." "For you?" "No," he answered, turning quickly towards her. "For you." She held her breath; the colour fled from her cheeks. He lost no opportunity of reminding her of the terrible past, and as he glanced at her and watched the effect of his words he saw with satisfaction that he still held her in a thraldom of fear. "I thought she had left France," he continued, as if to himself. "I had no idea that she was still here. Fortune must have been kind to her of late." Liane said nothing. She had not failed to notice his anxiety when Mademoiselle Bertholet had explained how Mariette had watched him, and she wondered whether, after all, he feared this remarkable woman who had played such a prominent part in their past lives; this notorious gambler who was her bitterest foe. She was already tired of Nice, and recognised that to remain longer was only to endanger herself. The Nemesis she had so long dreaded seemed to be closing upon her. In the Boulevard Carabacel they took an open cab to drive home, but while crossing the Place opposite the Post Office they encountered George Stratfield walking. As he passed he raised his hat to Liane, and she greeted him with a smile of sadness. Zertho noticed the young Englishman, and his bearded face grew dark. "What! So your lover is also here!" he exclaimed in surprise, turning to catch another glance of the well set-up figure in light grey tweed. She had carefully concealed from him and from her father the fact that George had come to Nice. "Yes," she answered simply, looking straight before her. "Why did you hide the truth from me?" he demanded angrily. "Because the knowledge that he was here could not have benefited you," she answered. "You have met him, of course, clandestinely," he said, regarding her with knit brows. "I do not deny it." "And you have told him, I hope, that you are to be my wife?" "I have," she sighed. "Then you must not meet again. You understand," he exclaimed fiercely. "Send the fellow back to London." She bit her lip, but made no answer. Her eyes were filled with tears. Without any further words they drove rapidly along the Promenade, at that hour chill after the fading of the sun, until the cab with its jingling bells pulled up before the Pension, and Liane alighted. For an instant she turned to him, bowing, then entered the villa. Her father was out, and on going into her own room she locked the door, cast down her sunshade, tossed her hat carelessly aside, and pushing her hair from her fevered brow with both hands, stood at the open window gazing aimlessly out upon the sea. A sense of utter loneliness crept over her forlorn heart. She was, she told herself, entirely friendless, now that her father desired her to marry Zertho. Hers had been at best a cheerless, melancholy life, yet it was now without either hope, happiness, or love. The sea stretching before her was like her own future, impenetrable, a great grey expanse, dismal and limitless, without a single gleam of brightness, growing every instant darker, more obscure, more mysterious. Thoughts of the man she loved so fondly surged through her troubled mind. She remembered how sad and melancholy he had looked when she had passed him by; how bitterly he had smiled when she bowed to him. The memory of his dear face brought back to her all the terrible past, all the hopelessness of the future, all the hideousness of the truth. She sank beside her bed, and burying her face in the white coverlet gave way to her emotion, shedding a torrent of tears. The dusk deepened, the twilight faded and darkness fell, still she sobbed on, murmuring constantly the name of the one man on earth she loved. A low tapping at the door aroused her, and thinking it was her father she hastily dried her eyes and stumbled blindly across the dark room to admit him. It was, however, the Provencal _femme de chambre_, who handed her a note, saying in her quaint patois-- "A letter for Mademoiselle. It was brought a minute or two ago by a man who gave it to me, with strict injunctions to give it only into Mademoiselle's own hands." "Thank you, Justine," she answered, in a low hoarse voice, then, closing the door again, she lit a candle, and mechanically tearing open the note found that it was dated from the Villa Fortunee, Monaco, and signed by Mariette. In it the woman who was her enemy made a strange request. She first asked that she should say no word to her father or to Zertho regarding the receipt of the note or inform them of her address, and then, continuing, she wrote: "To-morrow, at two o'clock, call upon George Stratfield, who is, as you know, staying at the Grand Hotel, and he will bring you over here to my house. It is imperative that I should see you. Fear nothing, but come. George is my friend, and he will be awaiting you." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. SINNED AGAINST. Liane's first inclination was not to comply with the request, for knowing the crafty nature of this woman, she feared that the words had been written merely to place her off her guard. Yet immediately after luncheon at the Villa Chevrier on the following day she declared her intention of going down to the English library to get some books, and leaving her father and the Prince smoking over their liqueurs, went out upon the Promenade. As soon, however, as she was out of sight of the windows of the villa, she hailed a passing cab and drove to the Grand Hotel, where she found George sitting in a wicker-chair in the doorway, consoling himself by smoking a cigarette and awaiting her. "You have come at last," he cried, approaching the carriage. "Don't get out. We will drive straight to the station," and stepping in, he gave the man directions. "What does this mean?" inquired Liane, eagerly. "I cannot tell its meaning, dearest," he answered. "I merely received a note, saying that you would call for me on your way to Monaco." "Have you no idea why she desires to see both of us?" "None whatever," he replied. "You have found her," she observed in a deep, earnest tone. "In my letter she says that you are her friend. You don't know her true character, I suppose," his well-beloved added, looking earnestly into his eyes. "If you did you would not visit her." "She lives in an air of the most severe respectability," he said. "I dined at the Villa Fortunee the night before last, and found her an extremely pleasant hostess." She smiled. Then, while driving along the Avenue de la Gare to the station she told him of Mariette's past in similar words to those used by Madame Bertholet. He sat listening eagerly, but a dark shadow crossed his features when, in conclusion, she added, "Such, unfortunately, is the woman who is to be bribed to marry you." They alighted, obtained their tickets, crossed the platform, and entered the _rapide_. It was crowded with people going to Monte Carlo, and the tunnels rendered the journey hot, dusty and unpleasant. Nevertheless the distance was not far, and when half-an-hour later they were ascending the steep winding way which led up to the rock of Monaco, Liane's heart sank within her, for she feared that she was acting unwisely. "It is very remarkable that Mariette should have written to us both in this manner," George was saying as he strolled on beside the pale-faced graceful girl. "Evidently she desires to consult us upon some matter of urgency. Perhaps it concerns us both. Who knows?" "It may," she answered mechanically. "She is not, however, a person to trust. Women of her character have, alas! neither feeling nor honour." "Is she, then, so notoriously bad?" he asked in surprise. "You know who and what I am," she answered, turning to him, her grave grey eyes fixed upon his. "I have been forced against my inclination to frequent the gambling-rooms through months, nay years, and I knew Mariette Lepage long ago as the most vicious of all the women who hovered about the tables in search of dupes." By her manner he saw that she was annoyed, and jealous that he should have visited and dined with this woman so strangely referred to in his father's will, and he hastened to re-assure her that there was but one woman in the world for him. "Then you will not marry her?" she cried eagerly. "Do not, for my sake. If you knew all you would rather cast the money into yonder sea than become her husband." "Well," he said, "it is imperative that she should be offered the bribe to become my wife. If she refuses I shall gain fifty thousand pounds. I have thought of buying her refusal by offering to divide equally with her the sum I shall obtain." "Excellent!" she cried, enthusiastically. "I never thought of that. If she will do so the cruel punishment your father intended will be turned to pleasure, and you will be twenty-five thousand pounds the richer." "I will approach her," he said, after brief hesitation. "You know, darling, that I love you far too well to contemplate marriage with any other woman." "But remember, I can never become your wife," she observed huskily, her eyes behind her veil filled to overflowing with tears. "I am debarred from that." "Ah! no," he cried, "don't say that. Let us hope on." "All hope within me is dead," she answered gloomily. "I care nothing now for the future. In a few brief days we are leaving here, and I shall say farewell, George, never again to meet you." "You always speak so strangely and so dismally," he said. "You will never tell me anything of the reason you are so irrevocably bound to Zertho. In the old days at Stratfield you always took me into your confidence." "Yes, yes," she answered, quickly. "I would tell you everything if I could--but I dare not. You would hate me." "Hate you. Why?" "You could no longer grasp my hand or kiss my lips," she faltered. "No, you must not, you shall not know, for I could not bear that you of all men should spurn me, leave me, and remember me only with loathing. I could not bear it. I would rather kill myself." She was trembling, her breast rose and fell with the exertion of the steep ascent, and her face was blanched and haggard. Her attitude, whenever he referred to Zertho, always mystified and puzzled him. Had she not spoken vaguely of some strange crime? Yet he loved her with all the strength of his being, and the sight of her terrible anxiety and dread pained him beyond measure. He was ready and willing to do anything to assist and liberate her from the mysterious thraldom, nevertheless she preserved a silence dogged and complete. He strove to discern a way out of the complicated situation, but could discover none. "Have you ever been to the Villa Fortunee before?" he asked presently, after a long and painful silence, when they had crossed the sunny square before the Prince's palace, and were strolling along the road which skirted the rock with the small blue bay to their left and the white houses of Monte Carlo gleaming beyond. "No," she answered. "I had no idea Mariette, `The Golden Hand,' lived here. She used always to live at the little bijou villa in the Rue Cotta at Nice." "The Golden Hand!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Why do you call her that?" "It is the name she has earned at the tables because of her extraordinary good fortune," Liane answered. "Her winnings at trente-et-quarante are said to have been greater perhaps than any other player during the past few years." At that moment the road turned sharply, almost at right angles, and Liane found herself before the great white house where lived the notorious gambler, the woman whose powdered, painted face every habitue of Monte Carlo knew so well, and whose luck was the envy of them all. She read the name of the villa upon the marble tablet, and for a moment hesitated and held back, fearing to meet face to face the woman she held in fear. But George had already entered the gateway and ascended the steps, and she felt impelled to follow, a few moments later taking a seat in the cool handsome salon where the flowers diffused a sweet subtle perfume, and the light was softly tempered by the closed sun-shutters. Liane and her lover sat facing each other, the silence being complete save for the swish of the sea as it broke ever and anon upon the brown rocks deep below. A moment later, however, there was a sound of the opening and shutting of doors, and with a frou-frou of silk there entered "The Golden Hand." She wore an elegant dress of pale mauve trimmed with velvet, and as she came forward into the room a smile of welcome played upon her lips, but George thought she looked older and more haggard than when he had visited her only two days before. Closing the door quietly behind her, she crossed almost noiselessly to where they were seated, and sinking upon a settee expressed pleasure at receiving their visit. "I was not exactly certain whether you would come, you know," she exclaimed, with a coquettish laugh. "I was afraid Liane would refuse." "You told me that you were her friend," he said. "And that was the entire truth," she answered. Liane faced her, her countenance pale, her lips parted. She had held back in fear when this woman had entered, but the calm expression and pleasant smile had now entirely disarmed her suspicions. Yet she feared lest this woman whom she had known in the old days, should divulge the secret she had kept from her lover. George, the man she adored, was, she knew, fast slipping away from her. On the one hand she was forced to marry Zertho, while on the other this very woman, whom she feared, was to be bribed to accept her lover as husband. Liane looked into her face and tried to read her thoughts. But her countenance had grown cold and mysterious. "You were not always my friend," she said at last, in a low, strained tone. "No, not always," the woman admitted, in English. "I have seldom been generous towards my own sex. I was, it is true, Liane, until recently, your enemy," she added, in a sympathetic tone. "I should be now if it were not for recent events." "You intend, then, to prove my friend," Liane gasped excitedly, half-rising from her chair. "You--you will say nothing." "On the contrary, I shall speak the truth." "Ah, no," she wailed. "No, spare me that. Think! Think! surely my lot is hard enough to bear! Already I have lost George, the man I love." "Your loss is my gain," Mariette Lepage said slowly. "You have lost a lover, while I have found a husband." "And you will marry him--you?" she cried, dismayed. "I know what are your thoughts," the other said. "My reputation is unenviable--eh?" Liane did not answer; her lover sat rigid and silent. "Well," went on the woman known at the tables as "The Golden Hand," "I cannot deny it. All that you see here, my house, my furniture, my pictures, the very clothes I wear, I have won fairly at the tables, because--well, because I am, I suppose, one of the fortunate ones. Others sit and ruin themselves by unwise play, while I sit beside them and prosper. Because of that, I am pointed out by men and women as a kind of extraordinary species, and shunned by all save the professional players to whom you and I belong. But," she added, gazing meaningly at Liane, "you know my past as well as I know yours." The words caused her to turn pale as death, while her breath came and went quickly. She was in momentary dread lest a single word of the terrible truth she was striving to hide should involuntarily escape her. "Yes," Liane said, "I knew you well when I went daily to the Casino, and have often envied you, for while my father lost and lost you invariably won and crammed handsful of notes into your capacious purse. At first I envied you, but soon I grew to hate you." "You hated me, because even into my hardened heart love had found its way," she said reproachfully. "I hated you because I knew that you loved only gold. I had seen sufficient of you to know that you had no higher thought than of the chances of the red or the black. You had been aptly nicknamed `The Golden Hand.'" "And I, too, envied you," the other said. "I envied you your grace and your beauty; yet often I felt sorry for you. You seemed so jaded and world-weary, although so young, that it was a matter of surprise that they gave you your carte at the Bureau." "Now, strangely enough, we are rivals," Liane observed. "Only because you are beneath the thrall of one who holds you in his power," Mariette answered. "You love each other so fervently that I could never be your rival, even if you were free." "But, alas! I am not free," she said, in deep despondency, her eyes downcast, her head resting upon her hand. "True," said the other, shrugging her shoulders. "Circumstances have combined to weave about you a web in which you have become enmeshed. You are held by bonds which, alone and unassisted, you cannot break asunder." Liane, overcome with emotion she could no longer restrain, covered her face with her hands and burst into a torrent of tears. In an instant her lover was beside her, stroking her hair fondly, uttering words of sympathy and tenderness, and endeavouring to console her. Mariette Lepage sat erect, motionless, silent, watching them. "Ah!" she said slowly at length, "I know how fondly you love each other. I have myself experienced the same grief, the same bitterness as that which is rending your hearts at this moment, even though I am believed to be devoid of every passion, of every sentiment, and of every womanly feeling." "Let me go!" Liane exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, rising unsteadily from her chair. "I--I cannot bear it." "No, remain," the woman said in a firm tone, a trifle harsher than before. "I asked you here to-day because I wished to speak to you. I invited the man you love, because it is but just that he should hear what I have to say." "Ah!" she sobbed bitterly. "You will expose me--you who have only just declared that you are my friend!" "Be patient," the other answered. "I know your fear. You dread that I shall tell a truth which you dare not face." She hung her head, sinking back rigidly into her chair with lips compressed. George stood watching her, like a man in a dream. He saw her crushed and hopeless beneath the terrible load upon her conscience, held speechless by some all-consuming terror, trembling like an aspen because she knew this woman intended to divulge her secret. With all his soul he loved her, yet in those painful moments the gulf seemed to widen between them. Her white haggard face told him of the torture that racked her mind. "Speak, Liane," he cried in a low intense tone. "What is it you fear? Surely the truth may be uttered?" "No, no!" she cried wildly, struggling to her feet. "No, let me leave before she tells you. I knew instinctively that, after all, she was not my friend." "Hear me before you judge," Mariette exclaimed firmly. "Cannot you place faith in one who declares herself ready to assist you?" he added. She shook her head, holding her breath the while, and glaring at him with eyes full of abject fear. "Why?" "Ah! don't ask me, George," she murmured, with her chin sunk upon the lace on her breast. "I am the most wretched woman on earth, because I have wilfully deceived you. I had no right to love you; no right to let you believe that I was pure and good; no right to allow you to place faith in me. You will hate me when you know all." "For what reason?" he cried, dismayed. "My life is overshadowed by evil," she answered vaguely, in a despairing voice. "I have sinned before God, and must bear the punishment." "There is forgiveness for those who repent," the woman observed slowly, a hard, cold expression upon her face, as she watched the desperate girl trembling before her. "There is none for me," she cried in utter despondency, haunted by fear, and bursting again into tears. "None! I can hope for no forgiveness." At that instant the door of the room was opened, and two persons entered unannounced. George and Liane were standing together in the centre of the saloon, while Mariette was still seated with her back to the door, so that the new comers did not at first notice her presence. The men were Brooker and Zertho. "We have followed you here with your lover," exclaimed the Prince angrily, addressing Liane. "We saw you driving to the station together, and watched you. We--" "The Golden Hand" hearing the voice, turned, and springing to her feet faced them. "Mariette!" Zertho gasped, blanched and aghast, the words dying from his pale lips. In their eagerness to follow Liane and George they had entered the villa, not knowing that therein dwelt the woman from whom they intended on the morrow to fly. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE MINIATURE. Zertho gave her a single glance full of hatred, then, with a gesture of impatience after a few quick words, turned to make his exit. As he did so, however, he found himself face to face with a man who, standing in the doorway, resolutely barred his passage. He stood glaring at him as one stupefied. The man was Max Richards. "No," the latter said. "Now that you have chosen to call here uninvited it is at least polite to remain at the invitation of your hostess." "Let me pass!" he cried threateningly. "I shall not!" Richards answered with firmness, his back to the half-closed door, while Brooker stood watching the scene, himself full of fear and dismay. "This is a conspiracy!" Zertho exclaimed, his trembling hands clenched, his face livid. "Listen!" Mariette cried, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she stepped boldly forward and faced him. "This is a counterplot only to combat your dastardly intrigue. The innocent shall no longer suffer for the sins of the guilty." "The guilty!" he echoed, with an insolent laugh. "You mean yourself!" "I am not without blame, I admit," she answered quickly, her flashing eyes darting him an angry look. "Nevertheless, I have to-day determined to make atonement; to end for ever this conspiracy of silence." Then, turning to Liane, who was standing whitefaced and aghast, she said, "First, before I speak, it will be necessary for you to make confession. Explain to George of what nature is this bond which holds you to yonder man." "No, I--I cannot," she protested, covering her face with her hands. "But it is necessary," she urged. "Speak! Fear nothing. Then the truth shall be made known." The slim, fair-faced girl stood with bent head, panting and irresolute, while all waited for the words to fall from her dry, white lips. At last, with eyes downcast, she summoned courage, and in a low, hoarse voice said,-- "Zertho compelled me to accept him because--because he can prove that my father murdered Charles Holroyde." "Your father a murderer!" her lover echoed. "Impossible." "Let me speak," Mariette interrupted, hastily. "Two winters ago I met in Nice a wealthy young Englishman named Holroyde. We saw one another often at Monte Carlo, and our acquaintance ripened into love. He offered me marriage, and I accepted; but one night, after winning a considerable sum, he returned to Nice about eleven o'clock, was waylaid in a narrow lane running from the Promenade des Anglais into the Rue de France, robbed and murdered. Thus was the man I loved cruelly snatched from me just at the moment when happiness was in my reach; just within a few weeks of making me his wife. This villa, which I have since bought, he designated as our home, and this ring upon my finger is the one he gave me. The crime, enshrouded in mystery, has not yet been forgotten either by the police or the people of Nice. It seemed amazing that such a dastardly assassination could take place so swiftly without a single person hearing any cry, yet the police had no clue. The murderer, who had no doubt accompanied or followed his victim from Monte Carlo, must have struck him down with unerring blow and escaped, leaving no trace behind. Yet there was nevertheless a witness of the deed--a witness who is present." "A witness!" gasped Liane. "Yes," Mariette said. "Max Richards will tell you what he saw." The man indicated, still standing with his back to the door, smiled triumphantly at Zertho, then said,-- "Yes, it is true. I witnessed the murder of Charles Holroyde. On that night I had left the Cafe de la Regence, and crossing the road overtook, in the Avenue de la Gare, Nelly Bridson, Captain Brooker's adopted daughter. We had met before on several occasions, and after she had told me that she had been to a chemist's to obtain something for Liane, who was not well, I offered, as it was late, to accompany her as far as her house in the Rue Dalpozzo. To this she made no objection, and we walked together along the Rue de France as far as the corner of the street wherein she lived. The moon, however, was bright upon the sea, and at my suggestion she consented to accompany me for a stroll along the Promenade. To reach the latter we had to pass through a narrow lane, which we had just entered, when we saw straight before us figures of men struggling together. Instantly I dragged Nelly back into the deep shadow where we could see without being observed. Suddenly I heard one of the men cry in English `My God! I'm stabbed!' and he staggered back and fell. Then, discerning for the first time that the man had been attacked by two assailants, I rushed forward, but already they had bent and secured the contents of their victim's pocket, and as I approached one of them threw the knife away. That man I recognised in the moonlight as Captain Brooker!" A low groan escaped the lips of the pale-faced, agitated man who had been thus denounced, and he stood paralysed by fear, clutching the back of a chair for support. "The man, however, who threw away the knife he had snatched up, was not the murderer," Richards continued, in a clear, calm voice. "Both Nelly and myself were afterwards in complete accord that it was his companion who had, in the melee, struck the fatal blow. The murderer was the man there--Zertho d'Auzac." "It's a lie!" cried the man indicated, "a foul, abominable falsehood! Brooker crept up behind him and tried to gag him with a scarf, when, finding that he was too powerful for him, he struck him full in the breast. In an instant he was dead." "Your story is an entire fabrication," Richards answered, in a deprecatory tone. "We were both quite close to you, and saw your murderous face in the moonlight at the moment when you killed your victim. To us it seemed as though you alone had acted with premeditation, and that instead of assisting you, Brooker was endeavouring to release Holroyde, for I heard him cry in dismay, `Good God! Zertho, what are you doing?' It was you who bent and secured the notes, while Brooker snatched up the knife, held it for an instant in hesitation, then seeing me approach in the darkness, flung it away and fled after you. I sped along the Promenade for some distance, leaving Nellie beside the prostrate man, but you both escaped, and when I returned she had gone. She had, I suppose, rushed home, fearing to be discovered there. But the young Englishman was already lifeless, therefore I left the spot hurriedly. Next morning, when the town was in a state of great excitement over the murdered Englishman, Nelly called at my rooms and begged me to say nothing to the police, because she felt certain the Captain would be arrested and convicted as an accessory. Therefore, in obedience to her wish, I have kept my knowledge secret until such time as I should choose to make the truth known." "Is that the actual truth?" Brooker asked, agape in wonderment. "It is the entire truth of what I saw with my own eyes--of what I am prepared to swear in any court of justice." "So confused were the memories of that terrible incident that I have all along believed that I myself was the actual murderer," said the Captain. "That night I had drunk more wine than usual, and remember very little of the occurrence save that I held the knife in my hand, and that on the following morning when I awoke I found my hands stained with blood, while in my pocket were some of the stolen notes. Zertho told me, when we met next day, that, in a frenzy of madness at having lost almost every sou I possessed, I had attacked Holroyde suddenly, murdered him, and filched his winnings from his pocket. He said, however, he would preserve my secret, and did so until a few weeks ago, when Liane refused to become his wife. Then he declared that if I did not compel her to marry him he would denounce me. I begged him to at least spare Liane, but he was inexorable. Therefore I was compelled to make confession to her, and she, rather than I should pay the terrible penalty, sacrificed all her love and happiness for my sake." His voice was broken with emotion, and although his lips moved, he could utter no further words. George, standing beside his well-beloved, grasped her tiny hand and pressed it tenderly. At last he knew the secret of her acceptance of Zertho's offer, and recognised all the tortures she must have suffered in order to save her father from degradation and shame. "He lies!" Zertho cried, his sallow face bloodless. He saw how ingeniously he had been entrapped. "It was he himself who killed Holroyde." "If so," exclaimed Max Richards, "why have you paid me so well for my silence?" He did not reply. "You are silent," he went on. "Then I will tell you. You were shrewd enough to see that while I held my tongue you would still hold Captain Brooker in your power, and through the pressure you could place upon him, secure Liane as your wife. I knew this all along, although you believed me to be entirely ignorant of it. Still I allowed you to pay me, and I can assure you that the money you gave me with such bad grace often came in very useful," he laughed. "I am not a Prince, and although I may be an adventurer, I thank Heaven I'm not an assassin." "I paid you all you demanded, every penny, yet now you turn upon me. It is the way of all blackmailers," Zertho cried, still livid with anger. "I speak the truth in order to save from your merciless clutches one woman whose fair name has never been besmirched. I speak for Liane's sake." Zertho turned from him with a fierce imprecation on his lips, declaring that the whole story was a tissue of falsehoods, and denouncing his companion Brooker as the actual assassin. "You forget," said Richards, "that in addition to myself there was a second witness, Nelly Bridson, the girl with whom your victim had carried on a mild and harmless flirtation prior to meeting Mariette. You forget that she was with me, and actually saw you commit the deed." This truth rendered him voiceless. "May I, in future, enjoy an absolutely clear conscience that I had no hand in the actual crime?" the Captain asked earnestly, turning to Richards. "Certainly," he answered, quickly. "Both Nelly and myself saw every movement clearly, for the moon was shining bright as day. We heard you shout in horror and dismay to the assassin; we saw the blow struck; we saw the theft committed, and watched you pick up the knife, which you threw down again instantly at the moment when I rushed forward." "I was, alas, only half-conscious of my actions," he answered. "But the enormity of the crime must have sobered me instantly, for I remember a man approaching--who it was I was not aware until this moment--and knowing that we had been discovered and were in peril, flew for my life back to the Promenade, reaching home by a circuitous route about midnight." "You need have no further fear of this man," Richards assured him. "His plan was ingenious, to shift the crime from his own shoulders to yours, and at the same time to marry Liane, but fortunately his own actions convict him. Liane has shown bravery and self-denial, which should further endear her to the heart of the man who loves her, and if the truth I have told brings back her happiness and peace of mind I shall not have spoken in vain." "I have much to thank you for," Liane faltered, her face bright with a new-born happiness. "You have indeed revived within me hope, life and love. I knew this man was crafty and cruel, but I never dreamed that he himself had committed the crime with which he charged my father. I saw that he was inexorable and relentless, and was compelled to wrench myself from George, whom I loved, and promise to become the wife of--of this assassin." "Assassin!" cried Zertho. "No, the prospect of becoming Princess d'Auzac proved too attractive for you! It was because both you and your father wanted money and position, that you were ready to become my wife." "We desired nothing from you," she answered proudly. "Both of us detested you when you found us in England, and thrust yourself upon us. Upon the gold of the guilty there always lies a curse." But shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he said nothing. He fidgetted, anxious to escape, for although he preserved a calm, insolent, almost indifferent manner, he nevertheless knew that concealment of the truth was now no longer possible. At the very instant when he had felt his position the most secure, his perfidy, his cunning, and his crime had been laid bare before them all. He clenched his hands, muttering an oath behind his set teeth, while his dark eyes, with a glance of hatred in them, flashed with an unnatural brilliance. For a few moments no one spoke. The silence was complete save for the roar of the waves on the rocks outside and the sobs that now and then escaped Liane. She clung to George, burying her beautiful head upon his shoulder. At last Mariette spoke, saying,-- "There is yet another fact which is, in itself, sufficient proof of this man's unscrupulousness. One witness of his crime still lives; the other, Nelly Bridson, is dead. Nelly was once my friend. Unknown to Captain Brooker I knew her intimately as a bright girl months before Charles Holroyde met and admired her. Indeed, it was by her that I was introduced to the man who afterwards loved me, and was so brutally done to death. When at last she became aware that her lover had forsaken her some ill-feeling arose between us. I knew that she must hate me, but I treated her jealousy with unconcern, and remained towards her the same as before. In my heart, however, I envied her her youth and good looks, and feared that Charles Holroyde might return to his first love. But, alas! he was murdered mysteriously--by whom I knew not, until three days ago, when Max Richards divulged to me the truth. Then I resolved that punishment should fall upon the guilty. Well, I hated Nelly because I knew that Holroyde had admired her, and I likewise hated Liane, entertaining a suspicion that because she always avoided me she had spoken of me detrimentally to the man whom I loved. After Holroyde's death I left the Riviera and went to Paris, to Wiesbaden, to Vienna, caring little whither I went, until at last, about a year afterwards, I returned to Monte Carlo, and heard from one of Captain Brooker's friends that he and the girls had left long ago for England, where they had resolved to live in the future. Immediately after my lover's death luck had forsaken me entirely, and I passed a spurious bank-note for a large amount at Marseilles. The police were endeavouring to find me, and it was to avoid arrest that I was travelling. I wrote several times to Nelly and received replies, stating how happy they were in their country home in England, and how much more peaceful and enjoyable it was than at Nice. Still there was one matter upon which I desired to see her, a matter connected with the family of the man who was dead. He had, I believed, told her of his relations in England, but he had spoken no word of them to me. I had in my possession a Cosway miniature he had one day left at my house, an antique portrait of an elderly lady, beautifully painted on ivory and set round with brilliants. He had mentioned to me that it was an heirloom, and I desired to return it to the family if I could find them. With that object I went to England, and one summer's evening met Nelly by appointment in a country lane a short distance from Stratfield Mortimer." "You met her?" Captain Brooker exclaimed. "She never told me so." "She had, alas, no opportunity," Mariette answered. "For it was on that evening she met with her death. She had ridden her cycle, and I found her resting in the gateway she had indicated in her letter. She seemed unusually nervous, I noticed, nevertheless I attributed it to the fact that she regarded me as her rival, even though the man we both loved was dead. For nearly an hour we remained together chatting, until the sunset faded and dusk crept on. I asked her what the man had told her regarding his family, and showed her the antique miniature. Then she told me a fact which held me speechless in amazement. Charles Holroyde was no other than the son of a man living close by that spot, Sir John Stratfield." "My brother!" cried George. "Impossible!" "It was the truth. He had told her everything. The father of Charles Holroyde was actually living within a mile of that spot, and the portrait was one of Lady Anne Stratfield, a noted beauty, which was painted by the fashionable miniaturist, Cosway, shortly before his death. At first I could not credit that he was actually Sir John's son, but she brought proof positive to show that what she said was correct, and at her request I gave her the miniature to return to Sir John. She promised to call next day and give it into his hands, saying that it came from a person who desired to remain anonymous." "Why did you not come to the Court yourself?" George asked quickly. "I had no desire to meet the father of my dead lover," she replied. "But he must have been acquainted with you, because he mentioned you in his will." "Yes," she answered reflectively, "he must, I suppose, have known of me." "Then what occurred afterwards?" Brooker eagerly inquired. "Tell us the events of that night in their proper sequence." "After we had talked for some time, she telling me how happy both she and Liane were, and how the latter had become engaged clandestinely to the Baronet's son, George, she rode beside me as far as the lodge gates of the Court, where we parted. Then she remounted and rode back in the direction of the spot where she was afterwards discovered, while I strolled slowly on to the station, whence I returned to London. It was dusk before I left Stratfield Mortimer, but as I changed at Reading to enter the train for Paddington, I caught a glimpse of a face I thought I knew. It was only for a single instant, but the face was one that once seen is never forgotten. It was the face of Zertho." "You saw me!" he gasped. "Yes. You were in a crowd on Reading platform, and were about to enter the same train as myself, but changing your mind, suddenly left the station hurriedly," she said. "At that time, remember, I had no idea that you were in England, for Nelly had not mentioned your visit. Two days later, however, I was appalled by reading in the papers that poor Nelly had been murdered almost immediately after I had left her, and quite close to the spot where we had at first stood. Afterwards in the report of the inquest, I saw that you were present and had given evidence. Then there was silence. The affair was an enigma, and the police possessed no clue. The papers mentioned a broad mark a foot wide upon the dust, which they regarded as mysterious. It was made by my skirt which swept the road. I alone held the key to the enigma. In order to assure myself that my suspicions were not unfounded, I returned to Reading, made careful inquiries there, and when I had satisfied myself, left England with the knowledge I had obtained still in my possession." "What did you discover?" inquired George, quickly, while Liane still clung to him tremblingly. "I discovered absolute proof of the identity of Nolly's assassin. It was Zertho d'Auzac!" CHAPTER TWENTY. AT CROSS LANE. "You lie!" the Prince cried indignantly. "There is no proof." "Listen!" Mariette retorted in a firm, harsh tone, gazing at him steadily. "Listen while I recall to your memory the events of that fateful night. In my inquiries I traced your progress step by step, and every movement is entirely plain to me. You went to England with solely one object in view, namely, to get rid of Nelly Bridson, the woman who could convict you of murder." "I deny that I had any hand whatever in the affair," he protested. "Why, she went with me to the station and saw me off to Reading! It was given in evidence that the police inquired of the station officials at Stratfield Mortimer, and also at Reading, and were entirely satisfied that there was no suspicion upon me. Therefore, whatever you say is utterly worthless," he added, turning from her contemptuously. "We shall see," she replied. "If you have so conveniently forgotten what your movements were, I will describe them. It is quite true that Nelly saw you off to Reading. But prior to this, while alone in the dining-room of Captain Brooker's cottage, you found lying about the letter I had written her making the appointment. Curiosity prompted you to read its contents, and you therefore knew that at seven o'clock she would be in Cross Lane. You bade her farewell at eight minutes past six, and your train arrived at Reading at twenty minutes past. You immediately took a fly back towards Stratfield, but dismissed the man at Threemile Cross, and after watching the conveyance out of sight, took a cut across the fields for about a mile and a half to Cross Lane, thus completely doubling. It was growing dark when you reached the railway bridge, but you saw your victim coming from the opposite direction, and drew back half-way up the steep ascent, where you knew she must pass slowly. Suspecting no danger, the light-hearted girl allowed her machine to run swiftly down the incline, then pedalled hard for the ascent, when suddenly you raised your weapon, took deliberate aim and fired. With a cry she dropped sideways on her feet, the machine falling with her. Then she blindly staggered forward two or three paces, and sank to earth, dying. For an instant you waited, but even while you looked the poor girl sighed heavily and passed away. Then, fearing detection, you turned and fled back across the fields to Reading station, where I saw you an hour later." "It's an absolute falsehood!" he cried. "I went direct to London after leaving the girl." "You did not, for I found the man who drove you to Threemile Cross, and who will give evidence against you on your trial." "You have!" he gasped. "You will hand me over to the police?" he added hoarsely. "Certainly," she answered, firmly. "The police of Reading and the police of Nice will alike be anxious to give you free lodgings in a chamber scarcely as comfortable as any in the Villa Chevrier. For a good many months the mystery of Charles Holroyde's death has puzzled them, but it will remain an enigma no longer." "Then Brooker will suffer also," he cried. "No, he will not," replied the inventor of "The Agony of Monte Carlo," quickly. "My evidence will prevent that. I saw you commit the murder, and likewise witnessed how Brooker endeavoured to prevent you." "Again," cried Mariette, "there is yet another fact. From inquiries I have made it is plain that some months prior to Nelly's death she, by word or action, had betrayed her knowledge of your crime committed in Nice." "I recollect now," cried Liane, suddenly. "She always loathed Zertho, a fact which often caused me some surprise, he having made her several handsome presents after his sudden change of fortune. Once, too, I chanced to remark in jest that I might possibly become Princess d'Auzac, whereupon she answered, `No, never. I could prevent that.'" "This exactly proves my contention," exclaimed Mariette, excitedly turning to the others. "Nelly had betrayed her knowledge of his secret, and he was in deadly fear of her. He committed the second crime so that the first should remain concealed. It was not until months afterwards, when Richards disclosed his identity, and, having had a run of ill-luck at the tables, offered to preserve silence for a momentary consideration, that he knew there was a second witness. Nelly had never told him that she had a companion on that fateful night, and he felt assured that the man who had so suddenly sprung upon them could not again identify him. Only when Richards came forward did he realise the truth that in taking Nelly Bridson's life he had failed to efface his first crime, and had placed himself in deadlier peril." A deep silence fell. The man accused stood motionless, his dark, sallow face livid, his eyes, with a haunting look of abject terror in them, fixed upon the carpet. His hands were clenched, his head bent, his body rigid. This sudden and unexpected exposure held him dumb. At last Liane spoke in a low musical voice, a little strained perhaps, but her tone showed that at last the crushing weight of Zertho's accusation of her father had been lifted from her mind, and she already felt her freedom to love George Stratfield. "There is yet one thing unexplained," she said. "I have a confession to make." "A confession!" gasped her lover. "What?" "On that fatal evening when poor Nelly was so brutally killed I had an appointment to meet you at the spot," she answered. "And I kept it." "You did? Why, I thought you were prevented." "I was, but I arrived there late. Unconscious of the fearful tragedy, I walked there, and in the twilight waited in the gateway leading to the meadow, the very spot where Mariette and Nelly had been standing an hour before. While there the high wind blew my hair about and several of the pins fell out. I picked them up, all save one--the one you discovered." "It was yours!" he cried dismayed. "Yes, mine," she replied. "I waited there alone about ten minutes, then passed beneath the railway bridge and there saw straight before me, a little way beyond, Nelly lying beside her machine. We had quarrelled earlier in the day over a trifling matter and she had uttered some rather insulting words: therefore, believing that she had merely had a fall and would recover in a few minutes, I left her lying where she was. I saw no blood, and never dreamt that she was dead. At her throat was the brooch Charles Holroyde had given her, an ornament upon which she set great store. Suddenly the temptation to annoy her came over me, and I bent and snatched it off. At that moment you had already discovered the crime, and gone for assistance. It was my intention to keep the brooch, so that she might believe it had been stolen. Judge my horror when a few hours later I knew the ghastly truth, while in my possession there remained the missing brooch about which the papers afterwards made so many comments. Again, the hairpin you discovered being one of mine was still another fact which caused me the greatest terror, lest the police should ascertain from whose hair the pin had fallen. In order to make it appear that I had not been to Cross Lane I that night wrote a letter to you regretting that I was prevented from meeting you, and early next morning tore it into fragments and cast it at the roadside, where it was subsequently discovered by the detectives. Yet the fear that the brooch might be discovered in my possession was ever upon me, so one night I took all my remaining pins, together with the brooch, and buried them in the garden, where, I suppose, they still remain. Ever since that day until now I have feared lest my theft should be discovered and my presence at the scene of the tragedy proved, for I saw how suspicious were the circumstances, especially as we had had a slight difference earlier that day and someone might have overheard our high words. For months my life has been overshadowed by a terrible dread, but now that I know the truth I hesitate no longer to speak." "And the miniature we discovered by Nelly's side was the one you gave her to return to my family?" George exclaimed, turning quickly to Mariette, astounded at the remarkable explanation. "Yes. She said she knew you, and that you loved Liane. Therefore she would return it to your father without stating whence it had come." "But you say that Charles Holroyde was my brother," he exclaimed, puzzled. "I do not understand." "Think for a moment, and you will see that all I have spoken is the truth," she answered. "Before his death he told me the whole of the circumstances; how your mother, Lady Stratfield, died a few months after your birth, and how your father, a year afterwards, married another lady, whom he subsequently divorced. The latter, a lady of means, came and lived in France, where Charles was educated, but when he knew how unjustly your father had treated his mother he declined to take the name of Stratfield, and preferred his mother's maiden name. He--" "Ah, yes, I remember?" cried George, amazed. "It was my father's unhappy second marriage that had caused him to become gloomy, misanthropic, and a hater of womankind. The subject was scarcely ever mentioned between us, but now I distinctly remember that the lady's name was Holroyde. I knew that she had a son, but have always been led to suppose that he died when only a few months old." "No," Mariette replied. "He was foully murdered for the money he had won at roulette by that man standing there," and she pointed towards Zertho, who stood trembling, crushed by her terrible denunciation. "Fancy poor Charlie Holroyde actually being your brother!" Liane exclaimed, looking up tenderly into the face of the man she so fondly loved. "Yet it is not surprising, for, strangely enough, I have many times thought that your face strongly resembled his. But my father is cleared of the terrible stigma, and no suspicion can now be cast upon me, therefore we have nothing to fear." "True, darling," he answered. "We have nothing to fear, save one thing." "What is that?" she inquired eagerly. He hesitated. His words were overheard by all in the room, and every eye was upon him. The man accused moved across to the table and stood leaning against it, swaying unsteadily. His passage was still barred resolutely. "You forget the offer of marriage which, under my father's will, I am compelled to make to Mariette, if I am not to remain a pauper all my days." As he spoke there was a quick movement behind him, a flood of golden sunlight suddenly lit up the room as the jalousies of one of the windows were dashed open, and as he turned he saw the figure of Zertho disappearing through the window. With a cry, the fugitive leaped down upon the flower-bed outside, hat in hand, and an instant later had gained the road and was flying down through the fortifications towards La Condamine. For scarcely a second Max Richards hesitated, then rushed after him to give him into the hands of the police. Zertho had long been watching his opportunity, and, being strong and athletic, had reached the window at a single bound, and had escaped almost before they could realise what had occurred. For a few moments all were dismayed, but were quickly reassured by Mariette, who declared that the police must sooner or later arrest him. Then, turning to George, she added,-- "You have spoken of your father's will. Well, your solicitors may make the offer, but I shall refuse." "You will refuse!" cried Liane, joyously. "Yes," she answered, smiling in contentment. "I shall refuse because I am already engaged to marry Max, the man whose words have cleared your father, and whose evidence will convict the man who has held you so long beneath the thrall of terror." "You are to marry Max!" Liane exclaimed, surprised. "Yes. We have known each other some years now, and as I have recently won sufficient money which, invested, will bring us in a modest income, we have agreed to marry and relinquish gambling. One of our promises to each other is that after marriage neither of us shall enter the Casino on any pretext whatsoever. I shall certainly keep it, and I feel assured that Max will." "I'm sure you have our heartiest congratulations," Captain Brooker said, smiling. "I've known Max a long time, and although once he has been one of us and an outsider, he is, nevertheless, at heart a gentleman." Mariette, known as "The Golden Hand," and believed by _habitues_ of Monte Carlo to be thoroughly unscrupulous, and an adventuress of the very worst type, was now an entirely different person to the woman who flung down her gold so recklessly upon the tables. Her life had not been altogether blameless, nevertheless there was still sufficient generosity, tenderness, and love within her heart to render her a devoted wife with a man who would love and cherish her. "Make your offer to marry me as soon as you wish," she laughed. "You know what my reply will be." "A reply," he said, "that will bring me fifty thousand pounds." "You are indeed my friend, Mariette," Liane said, stretching forth her hand. "Forgive me for believing that you were my enemy." The other grasped it warmly, answering,-- "I have forgiven all--everything save the terrible offences of the man who has fled, offences before God and man that are beyond atonement." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. RED AND BLACK. The fugitive was already out of sight when his pursuer gained the road. In the crooked streets of Monaco, with their dark arches, narrow passages and steep inclines, it is easy to evade pursuit, and Zertho, to whom the place was well-known, was fully aware that if he could gain the foot of the rock he could get clean away. He crushed his hat on his head and ran swiftly as a deer. Max knew the road the accused man must take, and dashed after him, hatless, as fast as his legs would carry him. Suddenly, however, he entered a crooked lane, only to find himself in a _cul-de-sac_. He quickly retraced his steps and gained the square in front of the Palace, but by this time the man he was pursuing was already at the foot of the rock. Rushing up to the wall of the fortifications he peered over, and saw far below the fugitive spring into a open cab and drive rapidly towards La Condamine. To overtake him now was impossible. The police must take up the chase. He ran back to the Villa Fortunee to tell Mariette and the others of his failure and obtain her sanction to invoke the aid of police, while the other sat bolt upright in the cab, staring straight before him, not daring to glance behind. Yet all seemed peaceful in that calm sunset hour. Along the boulevard around the bay he drove at a spanking pace, but in front the road to Monte Carlo rose steeply, and soon they were only travelling at walking pace. "Quicker!" he cried, impatiently to the driver; and with an oath added: "Whip your horses! Quicker!" "Impossible, m'sieur," the man answered without turning towards him. The moments that went by during that slow ascent seemed hours. Each instant he expected to hear loud cries and demands as the police bore down upon him. He knew that his face must betray the deadly terror that held him paralysed. Like a fox going to cover he had headed instinctively for Monte Carlo, but knew not how he was about to act, or whither he was going. He knew that he must fly to save his liberty and life, and had a vague idea that if he crossed into Italy the pursuit would thereby be delayed. "Where to, m'sieur?" inquired the driver, when at last they gained the brow of the hill. "The Casino! Quick!" he answered, after an instant's reflection. Then to himself, he muttered behind his set teeth: "One throw. My last chance. Life or death!" He sprang from the cab, tossed the man a ten-franc piece, and ran up the red-carpeted steps to the atrium, showed his white ticket to the two doorkeepers, and entered the hot, garish gaming-rooms. The atmosphere was troubled, faint with the thousand perfumes exhaled from the tightly-laced corsets of the women. Charming and pretty as many of the latter are, they are, nevertheless, designedly or unconsciously, the most active and dangerous companions at the tables. Their influence upon their fellow-players is always on the side of the bank. Queen Roulette is the most absorbing and most imperious of all mistresses. The most determined, young or old, audacious or timid, find themselves powerless to resist her, for when the fatal fascination creeps upon them she engages their brain, saps their spirit, holds captive their senses, breaks asunder their resolutions, and lures them to their ruin. She is indeed an enchantress infernal. The jingle and chatter jarred upon his unstrung nerves. For a moment he stood nauseated, half-dazed by the thousand memories, hideous spectres of a guilty past, that crowded upon him. But again he walked forward blindly, on past several of the tables encircled by their hot, eager crowds, until he came to the Moorish room. As he was passing a man rose wearily from the roulette-table with a roll of notes in his hand, and instantly he took his chair. He cast a furtive glance around the circle of faces, pale beneath the green-shaded oil lamps suspended from the long brass chains. The emotions of hope, disgust, anxiety, or greed were displayed on each of the perspiring countenances ranged around that table. Next him was a beautiful woman well-known in Riviera society, winning, and therefore a little excited, her cheeks burning with two bright spots, her eyes shining like lamps; and she looked like a girl as she now and then heaved a deep sigh. Next her a blotchy-faced man, smelling strongly of rank cigars, was playing and losing heavily, his countenance betraying nothing more than a half-hearted smile, while opposite a staid matron made room for her daughter, and handed her money to put on, believing, as so many believe, that innocence is a kind of "mascot." He lowered his gaze. The deathly pallor of his own cheeks had attracted notice. It seemed as though these people, many of them personally known to him, held him in suspicion. He paused in hesitation, holding his breath the while, trying to calm the wild tumultuous throbbing of his heart. "_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_!" The red and black disc in the centre of the table was revolving, the money was already placed within the squares, and the little ivory ball had already been launched when, with sudden resolve, he drew from his pocket a louis and tossed it carelessly upon the scarlet diamond. "Gain, I fly!" he murmured to himself. "Lose, I remain." In flinging the coin his hand had lost its deftness, for instead of falling flat, it fell upon its edge and rolled from the "red" over the line into the "impair." At that instant sounded the monotonous wearying cry,-- "_Rien ne va plus_!" Then there was a moment's hush, the ball fell with a click into its socket, and the croupier's rake came swiftly before his fevered eyes and swept away the coin he had staked. He had lost, and would remain. Glancing round, his lips curled in a bitter smile; at the same moment, however, he placed his trembling hand to his mouth, as if to stifle an imprecation. Glaring, rigid and desperate he sat, his dark eyes, the eyes that had been so admired by the women, fixed upon the ever-revolving disc of black and red now holding him in fascination. Suddenly, as another game was being played, a spasm of excruciating pain caused him to clap both hands to his brow and utter a low groan. It was the gasp of a dying man, but amid the terrible excitement of play it passed unnoticed, and none dreamed the truth until a moment or two later when, with a wild, despairing shriek which rang through the hot gilded rooms and caused an instant's hush, he half-rose from his chair and fell forward upon the table lifeless, scattering the gold, silver and notes staked by the players, and causing a terrible scene of alarm and confusion. His heart had always been weak, and the sudden excitement of play had caused a rupture which had proved fatal. Such was the official account of the affair given in the papers, for the administration of the Casino were careful not to let the public know that in the dead man's pocket was found a tiny bottle labelled "Quinine," containing several white tabloids which, on analysis, were found to be of strychnine. Nevertheless, it is not surprising that the public remained in ignorance of this last-mentioned fact, when it is remembered that the Administration of the Cercle des Etrangers spends some hundreds of thousands of francs annually among the journals and journalists in order to conceal the many suicides which take place in their world-famous combination of paradise and hell. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. CONCLUSION. George and Liane, fervent in their newly-found happiness, were married shortly afterwards in the village church of Stratfield Mortimer, the old time-worn place where for generations his family had been christened, married, and placed to rest, each latter event being recorded upon the tarnished monumental brasses. By Mariette's refusal he received the sum stipulated by his father's will, and for a year they lived high up on Sydenham Hill, in a house which set its face towards the deep valley wherein murky London lies ever beneath its smoke-pall, George journeying each day to his gloomy chambers into which no ray of sunlight had ever been known to penetrate. By the death of his elder brother, the result of an accident while hunting last winter, he, however, suddenly found himself the possessor of Stratfield with its handsome income, and to-day both he and Liane live at the Court, and are prominent figures in the county. Liane's sweet, beautiful face, graceful bearing and vivacious _chic_, cause her to be admired everywhere, and among the many charming young hostesses of Berkshire no one is so popular. Mariette, no longer known as "The Golden Hand," has married Max Richards, and still lives in her pretty villa where the salon windows open upon the blue Mediterranean. Each spring Liane and George spend a few weeks with them, while they, in return, come to England in summer, and are welcome guests at Stratfield. Through many months it was a profound mystery how old Sir John became aware of Mariette's existence, but this was cleared up quite unexpectedly one day by George, who, in turning over some of his father's papers, discovered a letter written by his unknown brother Charles, who informed the old Baronet that he had lost a considerable sum at cards to a certain Captain Brooker, and also stated that he was about to marry, and gave Mariette's name and some facts concerning her. From this letter the old gentleman would no doubt suspect her to be an adventuress, and therefore, in his paroxysm of anger at George's refusal to renounce Liane, he made a provision in his will that this unknown woman should marry him, instead of the son he had discarded, and of whose death he was unaware. In the great oak-panelled drawing-room at Stratfield, with its quaint diamond panes, deep-set mullioned windows and polished floor, there now hangs Cosway's beautiful miniature of Lady Anne, and each time husband and wife glance at it they remember how very near they once were to eternal separation and blank despair. But devoted to one another, their life is now one of unalloyed happiness. The clouds have lifted, and their days are as bright and joyous as they once long ago imagined in their day-dreams. The Captain is back in his old-fashioned ivied cottage in the village, but dines each evening at the Court, where the cigars are choice and the wines well-matured. Only once have George and Liane walked together to that fateful spot beyond the railway bridge in Cross Lane. But for both of them its sight brought back memories so bitter that by mutual agreement they now always avoid passing that unfrequented way. To that estimable body of men, the Berkshire Constabulary, the motive of the assassination of Nelly Bridson and the identity of her assassin remain still a mystery, as they will for ever. The End. 
48022	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page mages generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/aurorafloyd01bradgoog Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work. Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48020 Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48021 AURORA FLOYD. by M. E. BRADDON, Author of "Lady Audley's Secret." In Three Volumes. VOL. III. Fifth Edition. London: Tinsley Brothers, 18 Catherine Steeet, Strand. 1863. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. AT THE GOLDEN LION II. MY WIFE! MY WIFE! WHAT WIFE? I HAVE NO WIFE III. AURORA'S FLIGHT IV. JOHN MELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR VI. TALBOT BULSTRODE'S ADVICE VII. ON THE WATCH VIII. CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER IX. THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON WITH WHICH JAMES CONYERS HAD BEEN SLAIN X. UNDER A CLOUD XI. REUNION XII. THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM XIII. OFF THE SCENT XIV. TALBOT BULSTRODE MAKES ATONEMENT FOR THE PAST CHAPTER I. AT THE GOLDEN LION. Mr. William Dork, the constable, reached Doncaster at about a quarter-past one o'clock upon the morning after the murder, and drove straight to the Reindeer. That hotel had been closed for a couple of hours, and it was only by the exercise of his authority that Mr. Dork obtained access, and a hearing from the sleepy landlord. The young man who had driven Mr. Prodder was found after considerable difficulty, and came stumbling down the servants' staircase in a semi-somnolent state to answer the constable's inquiries. He had driven the seafaring gentleman, whose name he did not know, direct to the Doncaster station, in time to catch the mail-train, which started at 12.50. He had parted with the gentleman at the door of the station three minutes before the train started. This was all the information that Mr. Dork could obtain. If he had been a sharp London detective, he might have made his arrangements for laying hands upon the fugitive sailor at the first station at which the train stopped; but being merely a simple rural functionary, he scratched his stubbled head, and stared at the landlord of the Reindeer in utter mental bewilderment. "He was in a devil of a hurry, this chap," he muttered rather sulkily. "What did he want to coot away for?" The young man who had acted as charioteer could not answer this question. He only knew that the seafaring gentleman had promised him half a sovereign if he caught the mail-train, and that he had earned his reward. "Well, I suppose it aint so very particklar," said Mr. Dork, sipping a glass of rum, which he had ordered for his refreshment. "You'll have to appear to-morrow, and you can tell nigh as much as t'other chap," he added, turning to the young man. "You was with him when the shot were fired, and you warn't far when he found the body. You'll have to appear and give evidence whenever the inquest's held. I doubt if it'll be to-morrow; for there won't be much time to give notice to the coroner." Mr. Dork wrote the young man's name in his pocket-book, and the landlord vouched for his being forthcoming when called upon. Having done thus much, the constable left the inn, after drinking another glass of rum, and refreshing John Mellish's horse with a handful of oats and a drink of water. He drove at a brisk pace back to the Park stables, delivered the horse and gig to the lad who had waited for his coming, and returned to his comfortable dwelling in the village of Meslingham, about a mile from the Park gates. I scarcely know how to describe that long, quiet, miserable day which succeeded the night of the murder. Aurora Mellish lay in a dull stupor, not able to lift her head from the pillows upon which it rested, scarcely caring to raise her eyelids from the aching eyes they sheltered. She was not ill, nor did she affect to be ill. She lay upon the sofa in her dressing-room, attended by her maid, and visited at intervals by John, who roamed hither and thither about the house and grounds, talking to innumerable people, and always coming to the same conclusion, namely, that the whole affair was a horrible mystery, and that he heartily wished the inquest well over. He had visitors from twenty miles round his house,--for the evil news had spread far and wide before noon,--visitors who came to condole and to sympathize, and wonder, and speculate, and ask questions, until they fairly drove him mad. But he bore all very patiently. He could tell them nothing except that the business was as dark a mystery to him as it could be to them, and that he had no hope of finding any solution to the ghastly enigma. They one and all asked him the same question: "Had any one a motive for killing this man?" How could he answer them? He might have told them that if twenty persons had had a powerful motive for killing James Conyers, it was possible that a one-and-twentieth person who had no motive might have done the deed. That species of argument which builds up any hypothesis out of a series of probabilities may, after all, lead very often to false conclusions. Mr. Mellish did not attempt to argue the question. He was too weary and sick at heart, too anxious for the inquest to be over, and be free to carry Aurora away with him, and turn his back upon the familiar place, which had been hateful to him ever since the trainer had crossed its threshold. "Yes, my darling," he said to his wife, as he bent over her pillow, "I shall take you away to the south of France directly this business is settled. You shall leave the scene of all past associations, all bygone annoyances. We will begin the world afresh." "God grant that we may be able to do so," Aurora answered gravely. "Ah, my dear, I cannot tell you that I am sorry for this man's death. If he had died nearly two years ago, when I thought he did, how much misery he would have saved me!" Once in the course of that long summer's afternoon Mr. Mellish walked across the park to the cottage at the north gates. He could not repress a morbid desire to look upon the lifeless clay of the man whose presence had caused him such vague disquietude, such instinctive terror. He found the "Softy" leaning on the gate of the little garden, and one of the grooms standing at the door of the death-chamber. "The inquest is to be held at the Golden Lion, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning," Mr. Mellish said to the men. "You, Hargraves, will be wanted as a witness." He walked into the darkened chamber. The groom understood what he came for, and silently withdrew the white drapery that covered the trainer's dead face. Accustomed hands had done their awful duty. The strong limbs had been straightened. The lower jaw, which had dropped in the agony of sudden death, was supported by a linen bandage; the eyelids were closed over the dark-violet eyes; and the face, which had been beautiful in life, was even yet more beautiful in the still solemnity of death. The clay which in life had lacked so much, in its lack of a beautiful soul to light it from within, found its level in death. The worthless soul was gone, and the physical perfection that remained had lost its only blemish. The harmony of proportion, the exquisitely-modelled features, the charms of detail,--all were left; and the face which James Conyers carried to the grave was handsomer than that which had smiled insolent defiance upon the world in the trainer's lifetime. John Mellish stood for some minutes looking gravely at that marble face. "Poor fellow!" thought the generous-hearted young squire; "it was a hard thing to die so young. I wish he had never come here. I wish Lolly had confided in me, and let me make a bargain with this man to stop away and keep her secret. Her secret! her father's secret more likely. What secret could she have had, that a groom was likely to discover? It may have been some mercantile business, some commercial transaction of Archibald Floyd's, by which the old man fell into his servant's power. It would be only like my glorious Aurora, to take the burden upon her own shoulders, and to bear it bravely through every trial." It was thus that John Mellish had often reasoned upon the mystery which divided him from his wife. He could not bear to impute even the shadow of evil to her. He could not endure to think of her as a poor helpless woman entrapped into the power of a mean-spirited hireling, who was only too willing to make his market out of her secrets. He could not tolerate such an idea as this; and he sacrificed poor Archibald Floyd's commercial integrity for the preservation of Aurora's womanly dignity. Ah, how weak and imperfect a passion is this boundless love! How ready to sacrifice others for that one loved object, which _must_ be kept spotless in our imaginations, though a hecatomb of her fellow-creatures are to be blackened and befouled for her justification! If Othello could have established Desdemona's purity by the sacrifice of the reputation of every lady in Cyprus, do you think he would have spared the fair inhabitants of the friendly isle? No; he would have branded every one of them with infamy, if he could by so doing have rehabilitated the wife he loved. John Mellish _would_ not think ill of his wife. He resolutely shut his eyes to all damning evidence. He clung with a desperate tenacity to his belief in her purity, and only clung the more tenaciously as the proofs against her became more numerous. The inquest was held at a road-side inn, within a quarter of a mile of the north gates--a quiet little place, only frequented on market-days by the country people going backwards and forwards between Doncaster and the villages beyond Meslingham. The coroner and his jury sat in a long bare room, in which the frequenters of the Golden Lion were wont to play bowls in wet weather. The surgeon, Steeve Hargraves, Jarvis, the young man from the Reindeer, William Dork the constable, and Mr. Mellish, were the only witnesses called: but Colonel Maddison and Mr. Lofthouse were both present during the brief proceedings. The inquiry into the circumstances of the trainer's death occupied a very short time. Nothing was elicited by the brief examination of the witnesses which in any way led to the elucidation of the mystery. John Mellish was the last person interrogated, and he answered the questions put to him with prompt decision. There was one inquiry, however, which he was unable to answer, although it was a very simple one. Mr. Hayward, the coroner, anxious to discover so much of the history of the dead man as might lead eventually to the discovery of his murderer, asked Mr. Mellish if his trainer had been a bachelor or a married man. "I really cannot answer that question," said John; "I should imagine that he was a single man, as neither he nor Mr. Pastern told me anything to the contrary. Had he been married, he would have brought his wife with him, I should suppose. My trainer, Langley, was married when he entered my service, and his wife and children have occupied the premises over my stables for some years." "You infer, then, that James Conyers was unmarried?" "Most decidedly." "And it is your opinion that he had made no enemies in the neighbourhood?" "It is next to impossible that he could have done so." "To what cause, then, do you attribute his death?" "To an unhappy accident. I can account for it in no other way. The path through the wood is used as a public thoroughfare, and the whole of the plantation is known to be infested with poachers. It was past ten o'clock at night when the shot was heard. I should imagine that it was fired by a poacher whose eyes deceived him in the shadowy light." The coroner shook his head. "You forget, Mr. Mellish," he said, "that the cause of death was not an ordinary gun-shot wound. The shot heard was the report of a pistol, and the deceased was killed by a pistol-bullet." John Mellish was silent. He had spoken in good faith as to his impression respecting the cause of the trainer's death. In the press and hurry, the horror and confusion of the two last days, the smaller details of the awful event had escaped his memory. "Do you know any one amongst your servants, Mr. Mellish," asked the coroner, "whom you would consider likely to commit an act of violence of this kind? Have you any one of an especially vindictive character in your household?" "No," answered John, decisively; "I can answer for my servants as I would for myself. They were all strangers to this man. What motive could they possibly have had to seek his death?" Mr. Hayward rubbed his chin, and shook his head reflectively. "There was this superannuated trainer whom you spoke of just now, Mr. Mellish," he said. "I am well aware that the post of trainer in your stables is rather a good thing. A man may save a good deal of money out of his wages and perquisites with such a master as you. This former trainer may not have liked being superseded by the deceased. He may have felt some animus towards his successor." "Langley!" cried John Mellish; "he is as good a fellow as ever breathed. He was not superseded; he resigned the active part of his work at his own wish, and he retained his full wages by mine. The poor fellow has been confined to his bed for the last week." "Humph," muttered the coroner. "Then you can throw no light upon this business, Mr. Mellish?" "None whatever. I have written to Mr. Pastern, in whose stables the deceased was employed, telling him of the circumstances of the trainer's death, and begging him to forward the information to any relative of the murdered man. I expect an answer by to-morrow's post; and I shall be happy to submit that answer to you." Prior to the examination of the witnesses, the jurymen had been conducted to the north lodge, where they had beheld the mortal remains of James Conyers. Mr. Morton had accompanied them, and had endeavoured to explain to them the direction which the bullet had taken, and the manner in which, according to his own idea, the shot must have been fired. The jurymen who had been empanelled to decide upon this awful question were simple agriculturists and petty tradesmen, who grudged the day's lost labour, and who were ready to accept any solution of the mystery which might be suggested to them by the coroner. They hurried back to the Golden Lion, listened deferentially to the evidence and to Mr. Hayward's address, retired to an adjoining apartment, where they remained in consultation for the space of about five minutes, and whence they emerged with a very rambling form of decision, which Mr. Hayward reduced into a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. Very little had been said about the disappearance of the seafaring man who had carried the tidings of the murder to Mr. Mellish's house. Nobody for a moment imagined that the evidence of this missing witness might have thrown some ray of light upon the mystery of the trainer's death. The seafaring man had been engaged in conversation with the young man from the Reindeer at the time when the shot was fired; he was therefore not the actual murderer; and strangely significant as his hurried flight might have been to the acute intelligence of a well-trained metropolitan police-officer, no one amongst the rustic officials present at the inquest attached any importance to the circumstance. Nor had Aurora's name been once mentioned during the brief proceedings. Nothing had transpired which in any way revealed her previous acquaintance with James Conyers; and John Mellish drew a deep breath, a long sigh of relief, as he left the Golden Lion and walked homewards. Colonel Maddison, Mr. Lofthouse, and two or three other gentlemen lingered on the threshold of the little inn, talking to Mr. Hayward, the coroner. The inquest was terminated; the business was settled; and the mortal remains of James Conyers could be carried to the grave at the pleasure of his late employer. All was over. The mystery of death and the secrets of life would be buried peacefully in the grave of the murdered man; and John Mellish was free to carry his wife away with him whithersoever he would. Free, have I said? No; for ever and for ever the shadow of that bygone mystery would hang like a funeral pall between himself and the woman he loved. For ever and for ever the recollection of that ghastly undiscovered problem would haunt him in sleeping and in waking, in the sunlight and in the darkness. His nobler nature, triumphing again and again over the subtle influences of damning suggestions and doubtful facts, was again and again shaken, although never quite defeated. He fought the battle bravely, though it was a very hard one, and it was to endure perhaps to the end of time. That voiceless argument was for ever to be argued; the spirits of Faith and Infidelity were for ever to be warring with each other in that tortured breast, until the end of life; until he died, perhaps, with his head lying upon his wife's bosom, with his cheek fanned by her warm breath; but ignorant to the very last of the real nature of that dark something, that nameless and formless horror with which he had wrestled so patiently and so long. "I'll take her away with me," he thought; "and when we are divided by a thousand miles of blue water from the scene of her secret, I will fall on my knees before her, and beseech her to confide in me." He passed by the north lodge with a shudder, and walked straight along the high road towards the principal entrance of the Park. He was close to the gates when he heard a voice, a strange suppressed voice, calling feebly to him to stop. He turned round and saw the "Softy" making his way towards him with a slow, shambling run. Of all human beings, except perhaps that one who now lay cold and motionless in the darkened chamber at the north lodge, this Steeve Hargraves was the last whom Mr. Mellish cared to see. He turned with an angry frown upon the "Softy," who was wiping the perspiration from his pale face with the ragged end of his neck-handkerchief, and panting hoarsely. "What is the matter?" asked John. "What do you want with me?" "It's th' coroner," gasped Stephen Hargraves,--"th' coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, th' parson. They want to speak to ye, sir, oop at the Loion." "What about?" Steeve Hargraves gave a ghastly grin. "I doan't know, sir," he whispered. "It's hardly loikely they'd tell me. There's summat oop, though, I'll lay; for Mr. Lofthouse was as whoite as ashes, and seemed strangely oopset about summat. Would you be pleased to step oop and speak to 'un directly, sir?--that was my message." "Yes, yes; I'll go," answered John absently. He had taken his hat off, and was passing his hand over his hot forehead in a half-bewildered manner. He turned his back upon the "Softy," and walked rapidly away, retracing his steps in the direction of the roadside inn. Stephen Hargraves stood staring after him until he was out of sight, and then turned and walked on slowly towards the turnstile leading into the wood. "_I_ know what they've found," he muttered; "and _I_ know what they want with him. He'll be some time oop there; so I'll slip across the wood and tell her. Yes,"--he paused, rubbing his hands, and laughing a slow voiceless laugh, which distorted his ugly face, and made him horrible to look upon,--"yes, it will be nuts for me to tell her." CHAPTER II. "MY WIFE! MY WIFE! WHAT WIFE? I HAVE NO WIFE." The Golden Lion had reassumed its accustomed air of rustic tranquillity when John Mellish returned to it. The jurymen had gone back to their different avocations, glad to have finished the business so easily; the villagers, who had hung about the inn to hear what they could of the proceedings, were all dispersed; and the landlord was eating his dinner, with his wife and family, in the comfortable little bar-parlour. He put down his knife and fork as John entered the sanded bar, and left his meal to receive such a distinguished visitor. "Mr. Hayward and Mr. Lofthouse are in the coffee-room, sir," he said. "Will you please to step this way?" He opened the door of a carpeted room, furnished with shining mahogany tables, and adorned by half a dozen gaudily-coloured prints of the Doncaster meetings, the great match between Voltigeur and Flying Dutchman, and other events which had won celebrity for the northern race-course. The coroner was sitting at the bottom of one of the long tables, with Mr. Lofthouse standing near him. William Dork, the Meslingham constable, stood near the door, with his hat in his hand, and with rather an alarmed expression dimly visible in his ruddy face. Mr. Hayward and Mr. Lofthouse were both very pale. One rapid glance was enough to show all this to John Mellish,--enough to show him this, and something more: a basin of blood-stained water before the coroner, and an oblong piece of wet paper, which lay under Mr. Hayward's clenched hand. "What is the matter? Why did you send for me?" John asked. Bewildered and alarmed as he had been by the message which had summoned him hurriedly back to the inn, he was still more so by the confusion evident in the coroner's manner as he answered this question. "Pray sit down, Mr. Mellish," he said. "I--I--sent for you--at--the--the advice of Mr. Lofthouse, who--who, as a clergyman and a family man, thought it incumbent upon me----" Reginald Lofthouse laid his hand upon the coroner's arm with a warning gesture. Mr. Hayward stopped for a moment, cleared his throat, and then continued speaking, but in an altered tone. "I have had occasion to reprehend William Dork for a breach of duty, which, though I am aware it may have been, as he says, purely unintentional and accidental----" "It was indeed, sir," muttered the constable submissively. "If I'd ha' know'd----" "The fact is, Mr. Mellish, that on the night of the murder, Dork, in examining the clothes of the deceased, discovered a paper, which had been concealed by the unhappy man between the outer material and the lining of his waistcoat. This paper was so stained by the blood in which the breast of the waistcoat was absolutely saturated, that Dork was unable to decipher a word of its contents. He therefore was quite unaware of the importance of the paper; and, in the hurry and confusion consequent on the very hard duty he has done for the last two days, he forgot to produce it at the inquest. He had occasion to make some memorandum in his pocket-book almost immediately after the verdict had been given, and this circumstance recalled to his mind the existence of the paper. He came immediately to me, and consulted me upon this very awkward business. I examined the document, washed away a considerable portion of the stains which had rendered it illegible, and have contrived to decipher the greater part of it." "The document is of some importance, then?" John asked. He sat at a little distance from the table, with his head bent and his fingers rattling nervously against the side of his chair. He chafed horribly at the coroner's pompous slowness. He suffered an agony of fear and bewilderment. Why had they called him back? What was this paper? How _could_ it concern him? "Yes," Mr. Hayward answered; "the document is certainly an important one. I have shown it to Mr. Lofthouse, for the purpose of taking his advice upon the subject. I have not shown it to Dork; but I detained Dork in order that you may hear from him how and where the paper was found, and why it was not produced at the inquest." "Why should I ask any questions upon the subject?" cried John, lifting his head suddenly, and looking from the coroner to the clergyman. "How should this paper concern me?" "I regret to say that it does concern you very materially, Mr. Mellish," the rector answered gently. John's angry spirit revolted against that gentleness. What right had they to speak to him like this? Why did they look at him with those grave, pitying faces? Why did they drop their voices to that horrible tone in which the bearers of evil tidings pave their way to the announcement of some overwhelming calamity? "Let me see this paper, then, if it concerns me," John said very carelessly. "Oh, my God!" he thought, "what is this misery that is coming upon me? What is this hideous avalanche of trouble which is slowly descending to crush me?" "You do not wish to hear anything from Dork?" asked the coroner. "No, no!" cried John savagely. "I only want to see that paper." He pointed as he spoke to the wet and blood-stained document under Mr. Hayward's hand. "You may go, then, Dork," the coroner said quietly; "and be sure you do not mention this business to any one. It is a matter of purely private interest, and has no reference to the murder. You will remember?" "Yes, sir." The constable bowed respectfully to the three gentlemen and left the room. He was very glad to be so well out of the business. "They needn't have _called_ me," he thought. (To _call_, in the northern _patois_, is to scold, to abuse.) "They needn't have said it was repri--what's its name--to keep the paper. I might have burnt it, if I'd liked, and said naught about it." "Now," said John, rising and walking to the table as the door closed upon the constable, "now then, Mr. Hayward, let me see this paper. If it concerns me, or any one connected with me, I have a right to see it." "A right which I will not dispute," the coroner answered gravely, as he handed the blood-stained document to Mr. Mellish. "I only beg you to believe in my heartfelt sympathy with you in this----" "Let me alone!" cried John, waving the speaker away from him as he snatched the paper from his hand; "let me alone! Can't you see that I'm nearly mad?" He walked to the window, and with his back to the coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, examined the blotched and blotted document in his hands. He stared for a long time at those blurred and half-illegible lines before he became aware of their full meaning. But at last the signification of that miserable paper grew clear to him, and with a loud cry of anguish he dropped into the chair from which he had risen, and covered his face with his strong right hand. He held the paper in the left, crumpled and crushed by the convulsive pressure of his grasp. "My God!" he ejaculated, after that first cry of anguish,--"my God! I never thought of this. I never could have imagined this." Neither the coroner nor the clergyman spoke. What could they say to him? Sympathetic words could have no power to lessen such a grief as this; they would only fret and harass the strong man in his agony; it was better to obey him; it was far better to let him alone. He rose at last, after a silence that seemed long to the spectators of his grief. "Gentlemen," he said, in a loud, resolute voice that resounded through the little room, "I give you my solemn word of honour that when Archibald Floyd's daughter married me, she believed this man, James Conyers, to be dead." He struck his clenched first upon the table, and looked with proud defiance at the two men. Then, with his left hand, the hand that grasped the blood-stained paper, thrust into his breast, he walked out of the room. He walked out of the room and out of the house, but not homewards. A grassy lane, opposite the Golden Lion, led away to a great waste of brown turf, called Harper's Common. John Mellish walked slowly along this lane, and out upon this quiet common-land, lonely even in the broad summer daylight. As he closed the five-barred gate at the end of the lane, and emerged upon the open waste, he seemed to shut the door of the world that lay behind him, and to stand alone with his great grief, under the low, sunless, summer sky. The dreary scene before him, and the gray atmosphere above his head, seemed in strange harmony with his grief. The reedy water-pools, unbroken by a ripple; the barren verdure, burnt a dull grayish brown by the summer sun; the bloomless heather, and the flowerless rushes,--all things upon which he looked took a dismal colouring from his own desolation, and seemed to make him the more desolate. The spoiled child of fortune,--the popular young squire, who had never been contradicted in nearly two-and-thirty years,--the happy husband, whose pride in his wife had touched upon that narrow boundary-line which separates the sublime from the ridiculous,--ah! whither had they fled, all these shadows of the happy days that were gone? They had vanished away; they had fallen into the black gulf of the cruel past. The monster who devours his children had taken back these happy ones, and a desolate man was left in their stead. A desolate man, who looked at a broad ditch and a rushy bank, a few paces from where he stood, and thought, "Was it I who leapt that dike a month ago to gather forget-me-nots for my wife?" He asked himself that question, reader, which we must all ask ourselves sometimes. Was he really that creature of the irrecoverable past? Even as I write this, I can see that common-land of which I write. The low sky, the sunburnt grass, the reedy water-pools, the flat landscape stretching far away on every side to regions that are strange to me. I can recall every object in that simple scene,--the atmosphere of the sunless day, the sounds in the soft summer air, the voices of the people near me; I can recall everything except--_myself_. This miserable _ego_ is the one thing that I cannot bring back; the one thing that seems strange to me; the one thing that I can scarcely believe in. If I went back to that northern common-land to-morrow, I should recognize every hillock, every scrap of furze, or patch of heather. The few years that have gone by since I saw it will have made a scarcely perceptible difference in the features of the familiar place. The slow changes of nature, immutable in her harmonious law, will have done their work according to that unalterable law; but this wretched me has undergone so complete a change, that if you could bring me back that _alter ego_ of the past, I should be unable to recognize the strange creature; and yet it is by no volcanic shocks, no rending asunder of rocky masses, no great convulsions, or terrific agonies of nature, that the change has come about; it is rather by a slow, monotonous wearing away of salient points; an imperceptible adulteration of this or that constituent part; an addition here, and a subtraction there, that the transformation takes place. It is hard to make a man believe in the physiologists, who declare that the hand which uses his pen to-day is not the same hand that guided the quill with which he wrote seven years ago. He finds it very difficult to believe this; but let him take out of some forgotten writing-desk, thrust into a corner of his lumber-room, those letters which he wrote seven years ago, and which were afterwards returned to him by the lady to whom they were addressed, and the question which he will ask himself, as he reads the faded lines, will most surely be, "Was it I who wrote this bosh? Was it I who called a lady with white eyelashes 'the guiding star of a lonely life'? Was it I who was 'inexpressibly miserable' with one _s_, and looked 'forward with unutterable anxiety to the party in Onslow Square, at which I once more should look into those soft blue eyes?' What party in Onslow Square? _Non mi recordo._ 'Those soft blue eyes' were garnished with white lashes, and the lady to whom the letters were written, jilted me, to marry a rich soap-boiler." Even the law takes cognizance of this wonderful transformation. The debt which Smith contracts in 1850 is null and void in 1857. The Smith of '50 may have been an extravagant rogue; the Smith of '57 may be a conscientious man, who would not cheat his creditors of a farthing. Shall Smith the second be called upon to pay the debts of Smith the first? I leave that question to Smith's conscience and the metaphysicians. Surely the same law should hold good in breach of promise of marriage. Smith the first may have adored Miss Brown; Smith the second may detest her. Shall Smith of 1857 be called upon to perform the contract entered into by that other Smith of 1850? The French criminal law goes still further. The murderer whose crime remains unsuspected for ten years can laugh at the police-officers who discover his guilt in the eleventh. Surely this must be because the real murderer is no longer amenable to justice; because the hand that struck the blow, and the brain that plotted the deed, are alike vanished. Poor John Mellish, with the world of the past crumbled at his feet, looked out at the blank future, and mourned for the people who were dead and gone. He flung himself at full length upon the stunted grass, and taking the crumpled paper from his breast, unfolded it and smoothed it out before him. It was a certificate of marriage. The certificate of a marriage which had been solemnized at the parish church of Dover, upon the 2nd of July, 1856, between James Conyers, bachelor, rough-rider, of London, son of Joseph Conyers, stage-coachman, and Susan, his wife, and Aurora Floyd, spinster, daughter of Archibald Floyd, banker, of Felden Woods, Kent. CHAPTER III. AURORA'S FLIGHT. Mrs. Mellish sat in her husband's room on the morning of the inquest, amongst the guns and fishing-rods, the riding-boots and hunting-whips, and all the paraphernalia of sportsmanship. She sat in a capacious wicker-work arm-chair, close to the open window, with her head lying back upon the chintz-covered cushions, and her eyes wandering far away across the lawn and flower-beds towards the winding pathway by which it was likely John Mellish would return from the inquest at the Golden Lion. She had openly defied Mrs. Powell, and had locked the door of this quiet chamber upon that lady's stereotyped civilities and sympathetic simperings. She had locked the door upon the outer world, and she sat alone in the pleasant window, the full-blown roses showering their scented petals upon her lap with every breath of the summer breeze, and the butterflies hovering about her. The old mastiff sat by her side, with his heavy head lying on her lap, and his big dim eyes lifted to her face. She sat alone, I have said; but Heaven knows she was not companionless. Black care and corroding anxiety kept her faithful company, and would not budge from her side. What companions are so adhesive as trouble and sorrow? what associates so tenacious, what friends so watchful and untiring? This wretched girl stood alone in the centre of a sea of troubles, fearful to stretch out her hands to those who loved her, lest she should drag them into that ocean which was rising to overwhelm her. "Oh, if I could suffer alone!" she thought; "if I could suffer all this misery alone, I think I would go through it to the last without complaining; but the shame, the degradation, the anguish, will come upon others more heavily than upon me. What will they not suffer? what will they not endure, if the wicked madness of my youth should become known to the world?" Those others, of whose possible grief and shame she thought with such cruel torture, were her father and John Mellish. Her love for her husband had not lessened by one iota her love for that indulgent father, on whom the folly of her girlhood had brought such bitter suffering. Her generous heart was wide enough for both. She had acknowledged no "divided duty," and would have repudiated any encroachment of the new affection upon the old. The great river of her love widened into an ocean, and embraced a new shore with its mighty tide; but that far-away source of childhood, from which affection first sprang in its soft infantine purity, still gushed in crystal beauty from its unsullied spring. She would perhaps scarcely have recognized the coldly-measured affection of mad Lear's youngest daughter--the affection which could divide itself with mathematical precision between father and husband. Surely love is too pure a sentiment to be so weighed in the balance. Must we subtract something from the original sum when we are called upon to meet a new demand? or has not affection rather some magic power by which it can double its capital at any moment when there is a run upon the bank? When Mrs. John Anderson becomes the mother of six children, she does not say to her husband, "My dear John, I shall be compelled to rob you of six-tenths of my affection in order to provide for the little ones." No; the generous heart of the wife grows larger to meet the claims upon the mother, as the girl's heart expanded with the new affection of the wife. Every pang of grief which Aurora felt for her husband's misery was doubled by the image of her father's sorrow. She could not divide these two in her own mind. She loved them, and was sorry for them, with an equal measure of love and sorrow. "If--if the truth should be discovered at this inquest," she thought, "I can never see my husband again; I can never look in his face any more. I will run away to the end of the world, and hide myself from him for ever." She had tried to capitulate with her fate; she had endeavoured to escape the full measure of retribution, and she had failed. She had done evil that good might come of it, in the face of that command which says that all such evil-doing shall be wasted sin, useless iniquity. She had deceived John Mellish in the hope that the veil of deception might never be rent in twain, that the truth might be undiscovered to the end, and the man she loved spared from cruel shame and grief. But the fruits of that foolish seed, sown long ago in the day of her disobedience, had grown up around her and hedged her in upon every side, and she had been powerless to cut a pathway for herself through the noxious weeds that her own hands had planted. She sat with her watch in her hand, and her eyes wandered every now and then from the gardens before her to the figures on the dial. John Mellish had left the house at a little after nine o'clock, and it was now nearly two. He had told her that the inquest would be over in a couple of hours, and that he would hurry home directly it was finished, to tell her the result. What would be the result of that inquest? What inquiries might be made? what evidence might, by some unhappy accident, be produced to compromise or to betray her? She sat in a dull stupor, waiting to receive her sentence. What would it be? Condemnation or release? _If_ her secret should escape detection, if James Conyers should be allowed to carry the story of his brief married life to the grave, what relief, what release for the wretched girl, whose worst sin had been to mistake a bad man for a good one; the ignorant trustfulness of a child who is ready to accept any shabby pilgrim for an exiled nobleman or a prince in disguise! It was half-past two, when she was startled by the sound of a shambling footstep upon the gravelled pathway underneath the verandah. The footstep slowly shuffled on for a few paces; then paused, then shuffled on again; and at last a face that she hated made itself visible at the angle of the window, opposite to that against which she sat. It was the white face of the "Softy," which was poked cautiously forward a few inches within the window-frame. The mastiff sprang up with a growl, and made as if he would have flown at that ugly leering face, which looked like one of the hideous decorations of a Gothic building; but Aurora caught the animal's collar with both her hands, and dragged him back. "Be quiet, Bow-wow," she said; "quiet, boy,--quiet." She still held him with one firm hand, soothing him with the other. "What do you want?" she asked, turning upon the "Softy" with a cold icy grandeur of disdain, which made her look like Nero's wife defying her false accusers. "What do you want with me? Your master is dead, and you have no longer an excuse for coming here. You have been forbidden the house and the grounds. If you forget this another time, I shall request Mr. Mellish to remind you." She lifted her disengaged hand and laid it upon the window-sash; she was going to draw it down, when Stephen Hargraves stopped her. "Don't be in such a hoory," he said; "I want to speak to you. I've coom straight from th' inquest. I thought you might want to know all about it. I coom out o' friendliness, though you did pay into me with th' horsewhip." Aurora's heart beat tempestuously against her aching breast. Ah! what hard duty that poor heart had done lately! what icy burdens it had borne, what horrible oppression of secrecy and terror had weighed upon it, crushing out all hope and peace! An agony of suspense and dread convulsed that tortured heart as the "Softy" tempted her, tempted her to ask him the issue of the inquest, that she might receive from his lips the sentence of life or death. She little knew how much of her secret this man had discovered; but she knew that he hated her, and that he suspected enough to know his power of torturing her. She lifted her proud head and looked at him with a steady glance of defiance. "I have told you that your presence is disagreeable," she said. "Stand aside, and let me shut the window." The "Softy" grinned insolently, and holding the window-frame with one of his broad hands, put his head into the room. Aurora rose to leave the window; but he laid the other hand upon her wrist, which shrunk instinctively from contact with his hard horny palm. "I tell you I've got summat particklar to say to you," he whispered. "You shall hear all about it. I was one of th' witnesses at th' inquest, and I've been hanging about ever since, and I know everything." Aurora flung her head back disdainfully, and tried to wrench her wrist from that strong grasp. "Let me go!" she said. "You shall suffer for this insolence when Mr. Mellish returns." "But he won't be back just yet awhile," said the "Softy," grinning. "He's gone back to the Golden Lion. Th' coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, th' parson, sent for him to tell him summat--_summat about you!_" hissed Mr. Stephen Hargraves, with his dry white lips close to Aurora's ear. "What do you mean?" cried Mrs. Mellish, still writhing in the "Softy's" grasp, still restraining her dog from flying at him with her disengaged hand; "what do you mean?" "I mean what I say," answered Steeve Hargraves; "I mean that it's all found out. They know everything; and they've sent for Mr. Mellish to tell him. They've sent for him to tell him what you was to him that's dead." A low wail broke from Aurora's lips. She had expected to hear this, perhaps; she had, at any rate, dreaded it; she had only fought against receiving the tidings from this man; but he had conquered her; he had conquered her as the dogged obstinate nature, however base, however mean, will always conquer the generous and impulsive soul. He had secured his revenge, and had contrived to be the witness of her agony. He released her wrist as he finished speaking, and looked at her--looked at her with an insolently triumphant leer in his small eyes. She drew herself up, proudly still, proudly and bravely in spite of all, but with her face changed--changed from its former expression of restless pain to the dull blankness of despair. "They found th' certificate," said the "Softy." "He'd carried it about with him, sewed up in's waistco-at." The certificate! Heaven have pity upon her girlish ignorance! She had never thought of that; she had never remembered that miserable scrap of paper which was the legal evidence of her folly. She had dreaded the presence of that husband who had arisen, as if from the grave, to pursue and torment her; but she had forgotten that other evidence of the parish register, which might also arise against her at any moment. She had feared the finding of something--some letter--some picture--some accidental record amongst the possessions of the murdered man; but she had never thought of this most conclusive evidence, this most incontrovertible proof. She put her hand to her head, trying to realize the full horror of her position. The certificate of her marriage with her father's groom was in the hands of John Mellish. "What will he think of me?" she thought. "How would he ever believe me if I were to tell him that I had received what I thought positive evidence of James Conyers's death a year before my second marriage? How _could_ he believe in me? I have deceived him too cruelly to dare to ask his confidence." She looked about, trying to collect herself, trying to decide upon what she ought to do, and in her bewilderment and agony forgot for a moment the greedy eyes which were gloating upon her misery. But she remembered herself presently, and turning sternly upon Stephen Hargraves, spoke to him with a voice which was singularly clear and steady. "You have told me all that you have to tell," she said; "be so good as to get out of the way while I shut the window." The "Softy" drew back and allowed her to close the sashes; she bolted the window, and drew down the Venetian blind, effectually shutting out her spy, who crept away slowly and reluctantly towards the shrubbery, through which he could make his way safely out of the grounds. "I've paid her out," he muttered, as he shambled off under the shelter of the young trees; "I've paid her out pretty tidy. It's almost better than money," he said, laughing silently--"it's almost better than money to pay off them kind of debts." Aurora seated herself at John Mellish's desk, and wrote a few hurried lines upon a sheet of paper that lay uppermost amongst letters and bills. "My dear Love,"--she wrote,--"I cannot remain here to see you after the discovery which has been made to-day. I am a miserable coward; and I cannot meet your altered looks, I cannot hear your altered voice. I have no hope that you can have any other feeling for me than contempt and loathing. But on some future day, when I am far away from you, and the bewilderment of my present misery has grown less, I will write and explain everything. Think of me mercifully, if you can; and if you can believe that, in the wicked concealments of the last few weeks, the mainspring of my conduct has been my love for you, you will only believe the truth. God bless you, my best and truest. The pain of leaving you for ever is less than the pain of knowing that you had ceased to love me. Good-bye." She lighted a taper, and sealed the envelope which contained this letter. "The spies who hate and watch me shall not read this," she thought, as she wrote John's name upon the envelope. She left the letter upon the desk, and, rising from her seat, looked round the room,--looked with a long lingering gaze, that dwelt on each familiar object. How happy she had been amongst all that masculine litter! how happy with the man she had believed to be her husband! how innocently happy before the coming down of that horrible storm-cloud which had overwhelmed them both! She turned away with a shudder. "I have brought disgrace and misery upon all who have loved me," she thought. "If I had been less cowardly,--if I had told the truth,--all this might have been avoided, if I had confessed the truth to Talbot Bulstrode." She paused at the mention of that name. "I will go to Talbot," she thought. "He is a good man. I will go to him; I shall have no shame now in telling him all. He will advise me what to do; he will break this discovery to my poor father." Aurora had dimly foreseen this misery when she had spoken to Lucy Bulstrode at Felden; she had dimly foreseen a day in which all would be discovered, and she would fly to Lucy to ask for a shelter. She looked at her watch. "A quarter past three," she said. "There is an express that leaves Doncaster at five. I could walk the distance in the time." She unlocked the door, and ran up-stairs to her own rooms. There was no one in the dressing-room; but her maid was in the bedroom, arranging some dresses in a huge wardrobe. Aurora selected her plainest bonnet and a large gray cloak, and quietly put them on before the cheval glass in one of the pretty French windows. The maid, busy with her own work, did not take any particular notice of her mistress's actions; for Mrs. Mellish was accustomed to wait upon herself, and disliked any officious attention. "How pretty the rooms look!" Aurora thought, with a weary sigh; "how simple and countrified! It was for _me_ that the new furniture was chosen,--for me that the bath-room and conservatory were built." She looked through the vista of brightly-carpeted rooms. Would they ever seem as cheerful as they had once done to their master? Would he still occupy them, or would he lock the doors, and turn his back upon the old house in which he had lived such an untroubled life for nearly two-and-thirty years? "My poor boy, my poor boy!" she thought. "Why was I ever born to bring such sorrow upon him?" There was no egotism in her sorrow for his grief. She knew that he had loved her, and she knew that his parting would be the bitterest agony of his life; but in the depth of mortification which her own womanly pride had undergone, she could not look beyond the present shame of the discovery made that day, to a future of happiness and release. "He will believe that I never loved him," she thought. "He will believe that he was the dupe of a designing woman, who wished to regain the position she had lost. What will he not think of me that is base and horrible?" The face which she saw in the glass was very pale and rigid; the large dark eyes dry and lustrous, the lips drawn tightly down over the white teeth. "I look like a woman who could cut her throat in such a crisis as this," she thought. "How often I have wondered at the desperate deeds done by women! I shall never wonder again." She unlocked her dressing-case, and took a couple of bank-notes and some loose gold from one of the drawers. She put these in her purse, gathered her cloak about her, and walked towards the door. She paused on the threshold to speak to her maid, who was still busy in the inner room. "I am going into the garden, Parsons," she said; "tell Mr. Mellish that there is a letter for him in his study." The room in which John kept his boots and racing accounts was called a "study" by the respectful household. The dog Bow-wow lifted himself lazily from his tiger-skin rug as Aurora crossed the hall, and came sniffing about her, and endeavoured to follow her out of the house. But she ordered him back to his rug, and the submissive animal obeyed her, as he had often done in his youth, when his young mistress used to throw her doll into the water at Felden, and send the faithful mastiff to rescue that fair-haired waxen favourite. He obeyed her now, but a little reluctantly; and he watched her suspiciously as she descended the flight of steps before the door. She walked at a rapid pace across the lawn, and into the shrubbery, going steadily southwards, though by that means she made her journey longer; for the north lodge lay towards Doncaster. In her way through the shrubbery she met two people, who walked closely side by side, engrossed in a whispering conversation, and who both started and changed countenance at seeing her. These two people were the "Softy" and Mrs. Powell. "So," she thought, as she passed this strangely-matched pair, "my two enemies are laying their heads together to plot my misery. It is time that I left Mellish Park." She went out of a little gate, leading into some meadows. Beyond these meadows there was a long shady lane that led behind the house to Doncaster. It was a path rarely chosen by any of the household at the Park, as it was the longest way to the town. Aurora stopped at about a mile from the house which had been her own, and looked back at the picturesque pile of building, half hidden under the luxuriant growth of a couple of centuries. "Good-bye, dear home, in which I was an impostor and a cheat," she said; "good-bye, for ever and for ever, my own dear love." While Aurora uttered these few words of passionate farewell, John Mellish lay upon the sun-burnt grass, staring absently at the still water-pools under the gray sky,--pitying her, praying for her, and forgiving her from the depth of his honest heart. CHAPTER IV. JOHN MELLISH FINDS HIS HOME DESOLATE. The sun was low in the western sky, and distant village clocks had struck seven, when John Mellish walked slowly away from that lonely waste of stunted grass called Harper's Common, and strolled homewards in the peaceful evening. The Yorkshire squire was still very pale. He walked with his head bent forward upon his breast, and the hand that grasped the crumpled paper thrust into the bosom of his waistcoat; but a hopeful light shone in his eyes, and the rigid lines of his mouth had relaxed into a tender smile--a smile of love and forgiveness. Yes, he had prayed for her and forgiven her, and he was at peace. He had pleaded her cause a hundred times in the dull quiet of that summer's afternoon, and had excused her and forgiven her. Not lightly, Heaven is a witness; not without a sharp and cruel struggle, that had rent his heart with tortures undreamed of before. This revelation of the past was such bitter shame to him; such horrible degradation; such irrevocable infamy. His love, his idol, his empress, his goddess--it was of her he thought. By what hellish witchcraft had she been ensnared into the degrading alliance, recorded in this miserable scrap of paper? The pride of five unsullied centuries arose, fierce and ungovernable, in the breast of the country gentleman, to resent this outrage upon the woman he loved. O God! had all his glorification of her been the vain-boasting of a fool who had not known what he talked about? He was answerable to the world for the past as well as for the present. He had made an altar for his idol, and had cried aloud to all who came near her, to kneel down and perform their worship at her shrine; and he was answerable to these people for the purity of their divinity. He could not think of her as less than the idol which his love had made her--perfect, unsullied, unassailable. Disgrace, where she was concerned, knew in his mind no degrees. It was not his own humiliation he thought of when his face grew hot as he imagined the talk there would be in the country if this fatal indiscretion of Aurora's youth ever became generally known; it was the thought of her shame that stung him to the heart. He never once disturbed himself with any prevision of the ridicule which was likely to fall upon himself. It was here that John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode were so widely different in their manner of loving and suffering. Talbot had sought a wife who should reflect honour upon himself, and had fallen away from Aurora at the first trial of his faith, shaken with horrible apprehensions of his own danger. But John Mellish had submerged his very identity into that of the woman he loved. She was his faith and his worship, and it was for her departed glory that he wept in this cruel day of shame. The wrong which he found so hard to forgive was not her wrong against him; but that other and more fatal wrong against herself. I have said that his affection was universal, and partook of all the highest attributes of that sublime self-abnegation which we call Love. The agony which he felt to-day was the agony which Archibald Floyd had suffered years before. It was vicarious torture, endured for Aurora, and not for himself; and in his struggle against that sorrowful anger which he felt for her folly, every one of her perfections took up arms upon the side of indignation, and fought against their own mistress. Had she been less beautiful, less queenly, less generous, great and noble, he might have forgiven her that self-inflicted shame more easily. But she was so perfect; and how could she, how could she? He unfolded the wretched paper half a dozen times, and read and re-read every word of that commonplace legal document, before he could convince himself that it was not some vile forgery, concocted by James Conyers for purposes of extortion. But he prayed for her, and forgave her. He pitied her with more than a mother's tender pity, with more than a sorrowful father's anguish. "My poor dear!" he said, "my poor dear! she was only a school-girl when this certificate was first written: an innocent child; ready to believe in any lies told her by a villain." A dark frown obscured the Yorkshireman's brow as he thought this; a frown that would have promised no good to Mr. James Conyers, had not the trainer passed out of the reach of all earthly good and evil. "Will God have mercy upon a wretch like that?" thought John Mellish; "will that man be forgiven for having brought disgrace and misery upon a trusting girl?" It will perhaps be wondered at, that John Mellish, who suffered his servants to rule in his household, and allowed his butler to dictate to him what wines he should drink; who talked freely to his grooms, and bade his trainer sit in his presence,--it will be wondered at, perhaps, that this frank, free-spoken, simple-mannered young man should have felt so bitterly the shame of Aurora's unequal marriage. It was a common saying in Doncaster, that Squire Mellish of the Park had no pride; that he would clap poor folks on the shoulder and give them good-day as he lounged in the quiet street; that he would sit upon the cornchandler's counter, slashing his hunting-whip upon those popular tops, about which a legend was current, to the effect that they were always cleaned with champagne,--and discussing the prospects of the September Meeting; and that there was not within the three Ridings, a better landlord or a nobler-hearted gentleman. And all this was perfectly true. John Mellish was entirely without personal pride; but there was another pride, which was wholly inseparable from his education and position, and this was the pride of caste. He was strictly conservative; and although he was ready to talk to his good friend the saddler, or his trusted retainer the groom, as freely as he would have held converse with his equals, he would have opposed all the strength of his authority against the saddler had that honest tradesman attempted to stand for his native town, and would have annihilated the groom with one angry flash of his bright blue eyes had the servant infringed by so much as an inch upon the broad extent of territory that separated him from his master. The struggle was finished before John Mellish arose from the brown turf and turned towards the home which he had left early that morning, ignorant of the great trouble that was to fall upon him, and only dimly conscious of some dark foreboding of the coming of an unknown horror. The struggle was over, and there was now only hope in his heart--the hope of clasping his wife to his breast, and comforting her for all the past. However bitterly he might feel the humiliation of this madness of her ignorant girlhood, it was not for him to remind her of it; his duty was to confront the world's slander or the world's ridicule, and oppose his own breast to the storm, while she was shielded by the great shelter of his love. His heart yearned for some peaceful foreign land, in which his idol would be far away from all who could tell her secret, and where she might reign once more glorious and unapproachable. He was ready to impose any cheat upon the world, in his greediness of praise and worship for her--for her. How tenderly he thought of her, walking slowly homewards in that tranquil evening! He thought of her waiting to hear from him the issue of the inquest, and he reproached himself for his neglect when he remembered how long he had been absent. "But my darling will scarcely be uneasy," he thought; "she will hear all about the inquest from some one or other, and she will think that I have gone into Doncaster on business. She will know nothing of the finding of this detestable certificate. No one need know of it. Lofthouse and Hayward are honourable men, and they will keep my poor girl's secret; they will keep the secret of her foolish youth,--my poor, poor girl!" He longed for that moment which he fancied so near; the moment in which he should fold her in his arms and say, "My dearest one, be at peace; there is no longer any secret between us. Henceforth your sorrows are my sorrows, and it is hard if I cannot help you to carry the load lightly. We are one, my dear. For the first time since our wedding-day, we are truly united." He expected to find Aurora in his own room, for she had declared her intention of sitting there all day; and he ran across the broad lawn to the rose-shadowed verandah that sheltered his favourite retreat. The blind was drawn down and the window bolted, as Aurora had bolted it in her wish to exclude Mr. Stephen Hargraves. He knocked at the window, but there was no answer. "Lolly has grown tired of waiting," he thought. The second dinner-bell rang in the hall while Mr. Mellish lingered outside this darkened window. The commonplace sound reminded him of his social duties. "I must wait till dinner is over, I suppose, before I talk to my darling," he thought. "I must go through all the usual business, for the edification of Mrs. Powell and the servants, before I can take my darling to my breast, and set her mind at ease for ever." John Mellish submitted himself to the indisputable force of those ceremonial laws which we have made our masters, and he was prepared to eat a dinner for which he had no appetite, and wait two hours for that moment for whose coming his soul yearned, rather than provoke Mrs. Powell's curiosity by any deviation from the common course of events. The windows of the drawing-room were open, and he saw the glimmer of a pale muslin dress at one of them. It belonged to Mrs. Powell, who was sitting in a contemplative attitude, gazing at the evening sky. She was not thinking of that western glory of pale crimson and shining gold. She was thinking that if John Mellish cast off the wife who had deceived him, and who had never legally been his wife, the Yorkshire mansion would be a fine place to live in; a fine place for a housekeeper who knew how to obtain influence over her master, and who had the secret of his married life and his wife's disgrace to help her on to power. "He's such a blind, besotted fool about her," thought the ensign's widow, "that if he breaks with her to-morrow, he'll go on loving her just the same, and he'll do anything to keep her secret. Let it work which way it will, they're in my power--they're both in my power; and I'm no longer a poor dependent, to be sent away, at a quarter's notice, when it pleases them to be tired of me." The bread of dependence is not a pleasant diet; but there are many ways of eating the same food. Mrs. Powell's habit was to receive all favours grudgingly, as she would have given, had it been her lot to give instead of to receive. She measured others by her own narrow gauge, and was powerless to comprehend or believe in the frank impulses of a generous nature. She knew that she was a useless member of poor John's household, and that the young squire could have easily dispensed with her presence. She knew, in short, that she was retained by reason of Aurora's pity for her friendlessness; and having neither gratitude nor kindly feelings to give in return for her comfortable shelter, she resented her own poverty of nature, and hated her entertainers for their generosity. It is a property of these narrow natures so to resent the attributes they can envy, but cannot even understand; and Mrs. Powell had been far more at ease in households in which she had been treated as a lady-like drudge than she had ever been at Mellish Park, where she was received as an equal and a guest. She had eaten the bitter bread upon which she had lived so long in a bitter spirit; and her whole nature had turned to gall from the influence of that disagreeable diet. A moderately-generous person can bestow a favour, and bestow it well; but to receive a boon with perfect grace requires a far nobler and more generous nature. John Mellish approached the open window at which the ensign's widow was seated, and looked into the room. Aurora was not there. The long saloon seemed empty and desolate. The decorations of the temple looked cold and dreary, for the deity was absent. "No one here!" exclaimed Mr. Mellish, disconsolately. "No one here but me," murmured Mrs. Powell, with an accent of mild deprecation. "But where is my wife, ma'am?" He said those two small words, "my wife," with such a tone of resolute defiance, that Mrs. Powell looked up at him as he spoke, and thought, "He has seen the certificate." "Where is Aurora?" repeated John. "I believe that Mrs. Mellish has gone out." "Gone out! where?" "You forget, sir," said the ensign's widow reproachfully,--"you appear to forget your special request that I should abstain from all supervision of Mrs. Mellish's arrangements. Prior to that request, which I may venture to suggest was unnecessarily emphatic, I had certainly considered myself, as the humble individual chosen by Miss Floyd's aunt, and invested by her with a species of authority over the young lady's actions, in some manner responsible for----" John Mellish chafed horribly under the merciless stream of long words, which Mrs. Powell poured upon his head. "Talk about that another time, for Heaven's sake, ma'am," he said impatiently. "I only want to know where my wife is. Two words will tell me that, I suppose?" "I am sorry to say that I am unable to afford you any information upon that subject," answered Mrs. Powell; "Mrs. Mellish quitted the house at half-past three o'clock, dressed for walking. I have not seen her since." Heaven forgive Aurora for the trouble it had been her lot to bring upon those who best loved her! John's heart grew sick with terror at this first failure of his hope. He had pictured her waiting to receive him, ready to fall upon his breast in answer to his passionate cry, "Aurora, come! come, dear love! the secret has been discovered, and is forgiven." "Somebody knows where my wife has gone, I suppose, Mrs. Powell?" he said fiercely, turning upon the ensign's widow in his wrathful sense of disappointment and alarm. He was only a big child, after all, with a child's alternate hopefulness and despair; with a child's passionate devotion for those he loved, and ignorant terror of danger to those beloved ones. "Mrs. Mellish may have made a confidante of Parsons," replied the ensign's widow; "but she certainly did not enlighten _me_ as to her intended movements. Shall I ring the bell for Parsons?" "If you please." John Mellish stood upon the threshold of the French window, not caring to enter the handsome chamber of which he was the master. Why should he go into the house? It was no home for him without the woman who had made it so dear and sacred; dear, even in the darkest hour of sorrow and anxiety; sacred, even in despite of the trouble his love had brought upon him. The maid Parsons appeared in answer to a message sent by Mrs. Powell; and John strode into the room and interrogated her sharply as to the departure of her mistress. The girl could tell very little, except that Mrs. Mellish had said that she was going into the garden, and that she had left a letter in the study for the master of the house. Perhaps Mrs. Powell was even better aware of the existence of this letter than the Abigail herself. She had crept stealthily into John's room after her interview with the "Softy" and her chance encounter of Aurora. She had found the letter lying on the table, sealed with a crest and monogram that were engraved upon a blood-stone worn by Mrs. Mellish amongst the trinkets on her watch-chain. It was not possible therefore to manipulate this letter with any safety, and Mrs. Powell had contented herself by guessing darkly at its contents. The "Softy" had told her of the fatal discovery of the morning, and she instinctively comprehended the meaning of that sealed letter. It was a letter of explanation and farewell, perhaps; perhaps only of farewell. John strode along the corridor that led to his favourite room. The chamber was dimly lighted by the yellow evening sunlight which streamed from between the Venetian blinds, and drew golden bars upon the matted floor. But even in that dusky and uncertain light he saw the white patch upon the table, and sprang with tigerish haste upon the letter his wife had left for him. He drew up the Venetian blind, and stood in the embrasure of the window, with the evening sunlight upon his face, reading Aurora's letter. There was neither anger nor alarm visible in his face as he read; only supreme love and supreme compassion. "My poor darling! my poor girl! How could she think that there could ever be such a word as good-bye between us! Does she think so lightly of my love as to believe that it could fail her now, when she wants it most? Why, if that man had lived," he thought, his face darkening with the memory of that unburied clay which yet lay in the still chamber at the north lodge,--"if that man had lived, and had claimed her, and carried her from me by the right of the paper in my breast, I would have clung to her still; I would have followed wherever he went, and would have lived near him, that she might have known where to look for a defender from every wrong: I would have been his servant, the willing servant and contented hanger-on of a boor, if I could have served her by enduring his insolence. So, my dear, my dear," murmured the young squire, with a tender smile, "it was worse than foolish to write this letter to me, and even more useless than it was cruel to run away from the man who would follow you to the farthest end of this wide world." He put the letter into his pocket, and took his hat from the table. He was ready to start--he scarcely knew for what destination; for the end of the world, perhaps--in his search for the woman he loved. But he was going to Felden Woods before beginning the longer journey, as he fully believed that Aurora would fly to her father in her foolish terror. "To think that anything could ever happen to change or lessen my love for her," he said; "foolish girl! foolish girl!" He rang for his servant, and ordered the hasty packing of his smallest portmanteau. He was going to town for a day or two, and he was going alone. He looked at his watch; it was only a quarter after eight, and the mail left Doncaster at half-past twelve. There was plenty of time, therefore; a great deal too much time for the feverish impatience of Mr. Mellish, who would have chartered a special engine to convey him, had the railway officials been willing. There were four long hours during which he must wait, wearing out his heart in his anxiety to follow the woman he loved, to take her to his breast and comfort and shelter her, to tell her that true love knows neither decrease nor change. He ordered the dog-cart to be got ready for him at eleven o'clock. There was a slow train that left Doncaster at ten; but as it reached London only ten minutes before the mail, it was scarcely desirable as a conveyance. Yet after the hour had passed for its starting, Mr. Mellish reproached himself bitterly for that lost ten minutes, and was tormented by a fancy that, through the loss of those very ten minutes, he should miss the chance of an immediate meeting with Aurora. It was nine o'clock before he remembered the necessity of making some pretence of sitting down to dinner. He took his place at the end of the long table, and sent for Mrs. Powell, who appeared in answer to his summons, and seated herself with a well-bred affectation of not knowing that the dinner had been put off for an hour and a half. "I'm sorry I've kept you so long, Mrs. Powell," he said, as he sent the ensign's widow a ladleful of clear soup, that was of the temperature of lemonade. "The truth is, that I--I--find I shall be compelled to run up to town by the mail." "Upon no unpleasant business, I hope?" "Oh, dear no, not at all. Mrs. Mellish has gone up to her father's place, and--and--has requested me to follow her," added John, telling a lie with considerable awkwardness, but with no very great remorse. He did not speak again during dinner. He ate anything that his servants put before him, and took a good deal of wine; but he ate and drank alike unconsciously, and when the cloth had been removed, and he was left alone with Mrs. Powell, he sat staring at the reflection of the wax-candles in the depths of the mahogany. It was only when the lady gave a little ceremonial cough, and rose with the intention of simpering out of the room, that he roused himself from his long reverie, and looked up suddenly. "Don't go just this moment, if you please, Mrs. Powell," he said. "If you'll sit down again for a few minutes, I shall be glad. I wished to say a word or two to you before I leave Mellish Park." He rose as he spoke, and pointed to a chair. Mrs. Powell seated herself, and looked at him earnestly; with an eager, viperish earnestness, and a nervous movement of her thin lips. "When you came here, Mrs. Powell," said John, gravely, "you came as my wife's guest, and as my wife's friend. I need scarcely say that you could have had no better claim upon my friendship and hospitality. If you had brought a regiment of dragoons with you, as the condition of your visit, they would have been welcome; for I believed that your coming would give pleasure to my poor girl. If my wife had been indebted to you for any word of kindness, for any look of affection, I would have repaid that debt a thousand-fold, had it lain in my power to do so by any service, however difficult. You would have lost nothing by your love for my poor motherless girl, if any devotion of mine could have recompensed you for that tenderness. It was only reasonable that I should look to you as the natural friend and counsellor of my darling; and I did so, honestly and confidently. Forgive me if I tell you that I very soon discovered how much I had been mistaken in entertaining such a hope. I soon saw that you were no friend to my wife." "Mr. Mellish!" "Oh, my dear madam, you think because I keep hunting-boots and guns in the room I call my study, and because I remember no more of the Latin that my tutor crammed into my head than the first line of the Eton Syntax,--you think, because I'm not clever, that I must needs be a fool. That's your mistake, Mrs. Powell; I'm not clever enough to be a fool, and I've just sufficient perception to see any danger that assails those I love. You don't like my wife; you grudge her her youth and her beauty, and my foolish love for her; and you've watched, and listened, and plotted--in a lady-like way, of course--to do her some evil. Forgive me if I speak plainly. Where Aurora is concerned, I feel very strongly. To hurt her little finger is to torture my whole body. To stab her once is to stab me a hundred times. I have no wish to be discourteous to a lady; I am only sorry that you have been unable to love a poor girl who has rarely failed to win friends amongst those who have known her. Let us part without animosity, but let us understand each other for the first time. You do not like us, and it is better that we should part before you learn to hate us." The ensign's widow waited in utter stupefaction until Mr. Mellish stopped, from want of breath, perhaps, rather than from want of words. All her viperish nature rose in white defiance of him as he walked up and down the room, chafing himself into a fury with his recollection of the wrong she had done him in not loving his wife. "You are perhaps aware, Mr. Mellish," she said, after an awful pause, "that under such circumstances the annual stipend due to me for my services cannot be expected to cease at your caprice; and that, although you may turn me out of doors,"--Mrs. Powell descended to this very commonplace locution, and stooped to the vernacular in her desire to be spiteful,--"you must understand that you will be liable for my salary until the expiration of----" "Oh, pray do not imagine that I shall repudiate any claim you may make upon me, Mrs. Powell," said John, eagerly; "Heaven knows it has been no pleasure to me to speak as plainly as I have spoken to-night. I will write a cheque for any amount you may consider proper as compensation for this change in our arrangements. I might have been more polite, perhaps; I might have told you that my wife and I think of travelling on the Continent, and that we are, therefore, breaking up our household. I have preferred telling you the plain truth. Forgive me if I have wounded you." Mrs. Powell rose, pale, menacing, terrible; terrible in the intensity of her feeble wrath, and in the consciousness that she had power to stab the heart of the man who had affronted her. "You have merely anticipated my own intention, Mr. Mellish," she said. "I could not possibly have remained a member of your household after the very unpleasant circumstances that have lately transpired. My worst wish is, that you may find yourself involved in no greater trouble through your connection with Mr. Floyd's daughter. Let me add one word of warning before I have the honour of wishing you good evening. Malicious people might be tempted to smile at your enthusiastic mention of your 'wife;' remembering that the person to whom you allude is Aurora Conyers, the widow of your groom, and that she has never possessed any legal claim to the title you bestow upon her." If Mrs. Powell had been a man, she would have found her head in contact with the Turkey carpet of John's dining-room before she could have concluded this speech; as she was a woman, John Mellish stood looking her full in the face, waiting till she had finished speaking. But he bore the stab she inflicted without flinching under its cruel pain, and he robbed her of the gratification she had hoped for. He did not let her see his anguish. "If Lofthouse has told her the secret," he cried, when the door had closed upon Mrs. Powell, "I'll horsewhip him in the church." CHAPTER V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. Aurora found a civil railway official at the Doncaster station, who was ready to take a ticket for her, and find her a comfortable seat in an empty carriage; but before the train started, a couple of sturdy farmers took their seats upon the spring cushions opposite Mrs. Mellish. They were wealthy gentlemen, who farmed their own land, and travelled express; but they brought a powerful odour of the stable-yard into the carriage, and they talked with that honest northern twang which always has a friendly sound to the writer of this story. Aurora, with her veil drawn over her pale face, attracted very little of their attention. They talked of farming-stock and horse-racing, and looked out of the window every now and then to shrug their shoulders at somebody else's agriculture. I believe they were acquainted with the capabilities of every acre of land between Doncaster and Harrow, and knew how it might have been made "worth ten shillin' an acre more than it was, too, sir," as they perpetually informed each other. How wearisome their talk must have seemed to the poor lonely creature who was running away from the man she loved,--from the man who loved her, and would love to the end of time! "I didn't mean what I wrote," she thought. "My poor boy would never love me less. His great heart is made up of unselfish love and generous devotion. But he would be so sorry for me; he would be so sorry! He could never be proud of me again; he could never boast of me any more. He would be always resenting some insult, or imagining some slight. It would be too painful for him. He would see his wife pointed at as the woman who had married her groom. He would be embroiled in a hundred quarrels, a hundred miseries. I will make the only return that I can ever make to him for his goodness to me: I will give him up, and go away and hide myself from him for ever." She tried to imagine what John's life would be without her. She tried to think of him in some future time, when he should have worn out his grief, and reconciled himself to her loss. But she could not, she could not! She could not endure any image of _him_ in which he was separated from his love for her. "How should I ever think of him without thinking of his love for me?" she thought. "He loved me from the first moment in which he saw me. I have never known him except as a lover; generous, pure, and true." And in this mind Aurora watched the smaller stations, which looked like mere streaks of whitened woodwork as the express tore past them; though every one of them was a milestone upon the long road which was separating her from the man she loved. Ah, careless wives, who think it a small thing, perhaps, that your husbands are honest and generous, constant and true, and who are apt to grumble because your next-door neighbours have started a carriage, while you are fain to be content with eighteenpenny airings in vehicles procured at the nearest cab-stand,--stop and think of this wretched girl, who in this hour of desolation recalled a thousand little wrongs she had done to her husband, and would have laid herself under his feet to be walked over by him could she have thus atoned for her petty tyrannies, her pretty caprices! Think of her in her loneliness, with her heart yearning to go back to the man she loved, and with her love arrayed against herself and pleading for him. She changed her mind a hundred times during that four hours' journey; sometimes thinking that she would go back by the next train, and then again remembering that her first impulse had been, perhaps, after all, only too correct, and that John Mellish's heart had turned against her in the cruel humiliation of that morning's discovery. Have you ever tried to imagine the anger of a person whom you have never seen angry? Have you ever called up the image of a face that has never looked on you except in love and gentleness, and invested that familiar countenance with the blank sternness of estrangement? Aurora did this. She acted over and over again in her weary brain the scene that might have taken place between her husband and herself. She remembered that scene in the hackneyed stage-play, which everybody affects to ridicule and secretly weeps at. She remembered Mrs. Haller and the Stranger, the children, the Countess, the cottage, the jewels, the parchments, and all the old familiar properties of that well-known fifth act in the simple, social tragedy; and she pictured to herself John Mellish retiring into some distant country with his rheumatic trainer Langley, and becoming a misanthropical hermit, after the manner of the injured German. What was her life to be henceforth? She shut her eyes upon that blank future. "I will go back to my father," she thought; "I will go back to him again, as I went before. But this time there shall be no falsehoods, no equivocations; and this time nothing shall tempt me to leave him again." Amid all her perplexities, she clung to the thought that Lucy and Talbot would help her. She would appeal to passionless Talbot Bulstrode in behalf of her poor heart-broken John. "Talbot will tell me what is right and honourable to be done," she thought. "I will hold by what he says. He shall be the arbiter of my future." I do not believe that Aurora had ever entertained any very passionate devotion for the handsome Cornishman; but it is very certain that she had always respected him. It may be that any love she had felt for him had grown out of that very respect, and that her reverence for his character was made all the greater by the contrast between him and the base-born schemer for whom her youth had been sacrificed. She had submitted to the decree which had separated her from her affianced lover, for she had believed in its justice; and she was ready now to submit to any decision pronounced by the man, in whose sense of honour she had unbounded confidence. She thought of all these things again and again and again, while the farmers talked of sheep and turnips, of Thorley's food, swedes, and beans, and corn, and clover, and of mysterious diseases, which they discussed gravely, under such terms as "red gum," "finger and toe," &c. They alternated this talk with a dash of turf scandal; and even in the all-absorbing perplexities of her domestic sorrows, Mrs. Mellish could have turned fiercely upon these innocent farmers when they pooh-poohed John's stable, and made light of the reputation of her namesake the bay filly, and declared that no horse that came out of the squire's stables was ever anything better than a plater or a screw. The journey came to an end, only too quickly, it seemed to Aurora: too quickly, for every mile widened the gulf she had set between herself and the home she loved; every moment only brought the realization of her loss more fully home to her mind. "I will abide by Talbot Bulstrode's advice," she kept saying to herself; indeed, this thought was the only reed to which she clung in her trouble. She was not a strong-minded woman. She had the generous, impulsive nature which naturally turns to others for help and comfort. Secretiveness had no part in her organization, and the one concealment of her life had been a perpetual pain and grief to her. It was past eight o'clock when she found herself alone amidst the bustle and confusion of the King's Cross terminus. She sent a porter for a cab, and ordered the man to drive to Halfmoon Street. It was only a few days since she had met Lucy and Talbot at Felden Woods, and she knew that Mr. Bulstrode and his wife were detained in town, waiting for the prorogation of the House. It was Saturday evening, and therefore a holiday for the young advocate of the Cornish miners and their rights; but Talbot spent his leisure amongst Blue-books and Parliamentary Minutes, and poor Lucy, who might have been shining, a pale star, at some crowded _conversazione_, was compelled to forego the pleasure of struggling upon the staircase of one of those wise individuals who insist upon inviting their acquaintances to pack themselves into the smallest given space consistent with the preservation of life, and trample upon each other's lace flounces and varnished boots with smiling equanimity. Perhaps, in the universal fitness of things, even these fashionable evenings have a certain solemn purpose, deeply hidden under considerable surface-frivolity. It may be that they serve as moral gymnasia, in which the thews and sinews of social amenity are racked and tortured, with a view to their increased power of endurance. It is good for a man to have his favourite corn trodden upon, and yet be compelled to smile under the torture; and a woman may learn her first great lesson in fortitude from the destruction of fifty guineas' worth of Mechlin, and the necessity of assuring the destroyer that she is rather gratified than otherwise by the sacrifice. _Noblesse oblige._ It is good to "suffer and be strong." Cold coffee and tepid ice-cream may not be the most strengthening or delightful of food; but there may be a moral diet provided at these social gatherings which is not without its usefulness. Lucy willingly abandoned her own delights; for she had that ladylike appreciation of society which had been a part of her education. Her placid nature knew no abnormal tendencies. She liked the amusements that other girls of her position liked. She had none of the eccentric predilections which had been so fatal to her cousin. She was not like that lovely and illustrious Spanish lady who is said to love the cirque better than the opera, and to have a more intense appreciation of a series of flying plunges through tissue-paper-covered hoops than of the most elaborate _fioriture_ of tenor or soprano. She gave up something, therefore, in resigning the stereotyped gaieties of the London season. But Heaven knows, it was very pleasant to her to make the sacrifice. Her inclinations were fatted lambs, which she offered willingly upon the altar of her idol. She was never happier than when sitting by her husband's side, making extracts from the Blue-books to be quoted in some pamphlet that he was writing; or if she was ever happier, it was only when she sat in the ladies' gallery, straining her eyes athwart the floriated iron fretwork, which screened her from any wandering glances of distracted members, in her vain efforts to see her husband in his place on the Government benches, and very rarely seeing more than the crown of Mr. Bulstrode's hat. She sat by Talbot's side upon this evening, busy with some pretty needlework, and listening with patient attention to her husband's perusal of the proof-sheets of his last pamphlet. It was a noble specimen of the stately and ponderous style of writing, and it abounded in crushing arguments and magnificent climaxes, which utterly annihilated somebody (Lucy didn't exactly make out who), and most incontrovertibly established something, though Mrs. Bulstrode couldn't quite understand what. It was enough for her that he had written that wonderful composition, and that it was his rich baritone voice that rolled out the studied Johnsonese. If he had pleased to read Greek to her, she would have thought it pleasant to listen. Indeed there were pet passages of Homer which Mr. Bulstrode now and then loved to recite to his wife, and which the little hypocrite pretended to admire. No cloud had darkened the calm heaven of Lucy's married life. She loved, and was beloved. It was a part of her nature to love in a reverential attitude, and she had no wish to approach nearer to her idol. To sit at her sultan's feet and replenish his chibouque; to watch him while he slept, and wave the punkah above his seraphic head; to love and admire and pray for him,--made up the sum of her heart's desire. It was close upon nine o'clock, when Mr. Bulstrode was interrupted in the very crowning sentence of his peroration by a double knock at the street-door. The houses in Halfmoon Street are small, and Talbot flung down his proof-sheet with a gesture expressive of considerable irritation. Lucy looked up, half sympathizingly, half apologetically, at her lord and master. She held herself in a manner responsible for his ease and comfort. "Who can it be, dear?" she murmured; "at such a time, too!" "Some annoyance or other, I dare say, my dear," answered Talbot. "But whoever it is, I won't see them to-night. I suppose, Lucy, I've given you a pretty fair idea of the effect of this upon my honourable friend the member for----" Before Mr. Bulstrode could name the borough of which his honourable friend was the representative, a servant announced that Mrs. Mellish was waiting below to see the master of the house. "Aurora!" exclaimed Lucy, starting from her seat and dropping the fairy implements of her work in a little shower upon the carpet; "Aurora! It can't be, surely? Why, Talbot, she only went back to Yorkshire a few days ago." "Mr. and Mrs. Mellish are both below, I suppose?" Mr. Bulstrode said to the servant. "No, sir; Mrs. Mellish came alone in a cab from the station, I believe. Mrs. Mellish is in the library, sir. I asked her to walk upstairs; but she requested to see you alone, sir, if you please." "I'll come directly," answered Talbot. "Tell Mrs. Mellish I will be with her immediately." The door closed upon the servant, and Lucy ran towards it, eager to hurry to her cousin. "Poor Aurora!" she said; "there must be something wrong, surely. Uncle Archibald has been taken ill, perhaps; he was not looking well when we left Felden. I'll go to her, Talbot; I'm sure she'd like to see me first." "No, Lucy; no," answered Mr. Bulstrode, laying his hand upon the door, and standing between it and his wife; "I had rather you didn't see your cousin until I have seen her. It will be better for me to see her first." His face was very grave, and his manner almost stern as he said this. Lucy shrank from him as if he had wounded her. She understood him, very vaguely, it is true; but she understood that he had some doubt or suspicion of her cousin, and for the first time in his life Mr. Bulstrode saw an angry light kindled in his wife's blue eyes. "Why should you prevent my seeing Aurora?" Lucy asked; "she is the best and dearest girl in the world. Why shouldn't I see her?" Talbot Bulstrode stared in blank amazement at his mutinous wife. "Be reasonable, my dear Lucy," he answered very mildly; "I hope always to be able to respect your cousin--as much as I respect you. But if Mrs. Mellish leaves her husband in Yorkshire, and comes to London without his permission,--for he would never permit her to come alone,--she must explain to me why she does so before I can suffer my wife to receive her." Poor Lucy's fair head drooped under this reproof. She remembered her last conversation with her cousin; that conversation in which Aurora had spoken of some far-off day of trouble, that might bring her to ask for comfort and shelter in Halfmoon Street. Had the day of trouble come already? "Is it wrong of Aurora to come alone, Talbot, dear?" Lucy asked meekly. "Is it wrong?" repeated Mr. Bulstrode, fiercely. "Would it be wrong for you to go tearing from here to Cornwall, child?" He was irritated by the mere imagination of such an outrage, and he looked at Lucy as if he half suspected her of some such intention. "But Aurora may have had some very particular reason, dear?" pleaded his wife. "I cannot imagine any reason powerful enough to justify such a proceeding," answered Talbot; "but I shall be better able to judge of that when I've heard what Mrs. Mellish has to say. Stay here, Lucy, till I send for you." "Yes, Talbot." She obeyed as submissively as a child; but she lingered near the door after her husband had closed it upon her, with a mournful yearning in her heart. She wanted to go to her cousin, and comfort her, if she had need of comfort. She dreaded the effect of her husband's cold and passionless manner upon Aurora's impressionable nature. Mr. Bulstrode went down to the library to receive his kinswoman. It would have been strange if he had failed to remember that Christmas evening, nearly two years before, upon which he had gone down to the shadowy room at Felden, with every hope of his heart crushed, to ask for comfort from the woman he loved. It would have been strange if, in the brief interval that elapsed between his leaving the drawing-room and entering the library, his mind had not flown back to that day of desolation. If there was an infidelity to Lucy in that sharp thrill of pain that pierced his heart as the old memory came back, the sin was as short-lived as the agony which it brought with it. He was able now to say, in all singleness of heart, "I made a wise choice, and I shall never repent having made it." The library was a small apartment at the back of the dining-room. It was dimly lighted, for Aurora had lowered the lamp. She did not want Mr. Bulstrode to see her face. "My dear Mrs. Mellish," said Talbot gravely, "I am so surprised at this visit, that I scarcely know how to say I am glad to see you. I fear something must have happened to cause your travelling alone. John is ill, perhaps, or----" He might have said much more if Aurora had not interrupted him by casting herself upon her knees before him, and looking up at him with a pale, agonized face, that seemed almost ghastly in the dim lamp-light. It was impossible to describe the look of horror that came over Talbot Bulstrode's face as she did this. It was the Felden scene over again. He came to her in the hope that she would justify herself, and she tacitly acknowledged her humiliation. She was a guilty woman, then; a guilty creature, whom it would be his painful duty to cast out of that pure household. She was a poor, lost, polluted wretch, who must not be admitted into the holy atmosphere of a Christian gentleman's home. "Mrs. Mellish! Mrs. Mellish!" he cried, "what is the meaning of this? Why do you give me this horrible pain again? Why do you insist upon humiliating yourself and me by such a scene as this?" "Oh, Talbot, Talbot!" answered Aurora, "I come to you because you are good and honourable. I am a desolate, wretched woman, and I want your help--I want your advice. I will abide by it; I will, Talbot Bulstrode; so help me, Heaven." Her voice was broken by her sobs. In her passionate grief and confusion she forgot that it was just possible such an appeal as this might be rather bewildering in its effect upon Talbot. But perhaps, even amid his bewilderment, the young Cornishman saw, or fancied he saw, something in Aurora's manner which had no fellowship with guilt; or with such guilt as he had at first dreaded. I imagine that it must have been so; for his voice was softer and his manner kinder when he next addressed her. "Aurora," he said, "for pity's sake, be calm. Why have you left Mellish Park? What is the business in which I can help or advise you? Be calm, my dear girl, and I will try and understand you. God knows how much I wish to be a friend to you, for I stand in a brother's place, you know, my dear, and demand a brother's right to question your actions. I am sorry you came up to town alone, because such a step was calculated to compromise you; but if you will be calm and tell me why you came, I may be able to understand your motives. Come, Aurora, try and be calm." She was still on her knees, sobbing hysterically. Talbot would have summoned his wife to her assistance, but he could not bear to see the two women associated until he had discovered the cause of Aurora's agitation. He poured some water into a glass, and gave it her. He placed her in an easy-chair near the open window, and then walked up and down the room until she had recovered herself. "Talbot Bulstrode," she said quietly, after a long pause, "I want you to help me in the crisis of my life. I must be candid with you, therefore, and tell you that which I would have died rather than tell you two years ago. You remember the night upon which you left Felden?" "Remember it? Yes, yes." "The secret which separated us then, Talbot, was the one secret of my life,--the secret of my disobedience, the secret of my father's sorrow. You asked me to give you an account of that one year which was missing out of the history of my life. I could not do so, Talbot; _I would not!_ My pride revolted against the horrible humiliation. If you had discovered the secret yourself, and had accused me of the disgraceful truth, I would have attempted no denial; but with my own lips to utter the hateful story--no, no, I could have borne anything better than that. But now that my secret is common property, in the keeping of police-officers and stable-boys, I can afford to tell you all. When I left the school in the Rue Saint-Dominique, I ran away to marry my father's groom!" "Aurora!" Talbot Bulstrode dropped into the chair nearest him, and sat blankly staring at his wife's cousin. Was this the secret humiliation which had prostrated her at his feet in the chamber at Felden Woods? "Oh, Talbot, how could I have told you this? How can I tell you now why I did this mad and wicked thing, blighting the happiness of my youth by my own act, and bringing shame and grief upon my father? I had no romantic, overwhelming love for this man. I cannot plead the excuses which some women urge for their madness. I had only a school-girl's sentimental fancy for his dashing manner, only a school-girl's frivolous admiration of his handsome face. I married him because he had dark-blue eyes, and long eyelashes, and white teeth, and brown hair. He had insinuated himself into a kind of intimacy with me, by bringing me all the empty gossip of the race-course, by extra attention to my favourite horses, by pampering my pets. All these things brought about association between us; he was always my companion in my rides; and he contrived, before long, to tell me his story. Bah! why should I weary you with it?" cried Aurora scornfully. "He was a prince in disguise, of course; he was a gentleman's son; his father had kept his hunters; he was at war with fortune; he had been ill-used and trampled down in the battle of life. His talk was something to this effect, and I believed him. Why should I disbelieve him? I had lived all my life in an atmosphere of truth. My governess and I talked perpetually of the groom's romantic story. She was a silly woman, and encouraged my folly; out of mere stupidity, I believe, and with no suspicion of the mischief she was doing. We criticised the groom's handsome face, his white hands, his aristocratic manners. I mistook insolence for good breeding; Heaven help me! And as we saw scarcely any society at that time, I compared my father's groom with the few guests who came to Felden; and the town-bred impostor profited by comparison with rustic gentlemen. Why should I stay to account to you for my folly, Talbot Bulstrode? I could never succeed in doing so, though I talked for a week; I cannot account to myself for my madness. I can only look back to that horrible time, and wonder why I was mad." "My poor Aurora! my poor Aurora!" He spoke in the pitying tone with which he might have comforted her had she been a child. He was thinking of her in her childish ignorance, exposed to the insidious advances of an unscrupulous schemer, and his heart bled for the motherless girl. "My father found some letters written by this man, and discovered that his daughter had affianced herself to his groom. He made this discovery while I was out riding with James Conyers,--the groom's name was Conyers,--and when I came home there was a fearful scene between us. I was mad enough and wicked enough to defend my conduct, and to reproach my father with the illiberality of his sentiments. I went even further: I reminded him that the house of Floyd and Floyd had had a very humble origin. He took me to Paris upon the following day. I thought myself cruelly treated. I revolted against the ceremonial monotony of the _pension;_ I hated the studies, which were ten times more difficult than anything I had ever experienced with my governess; I suffered terribly from the conventual seclusion, for I had been used to perfect freedom amongst the country roads round Felden: and amidst all this, the groom pursued me with letters and messages; for he had followed me to Paris, and spent his money recklessly in bribing the servants and hangers-on of the school. He was playing for a high stake, and he played so desperately that he won. I ran away from school, and married him at Dover, within eight or nine hours of my escape from the Rue Saint-Dominique." She buried her face in her hands, and was silent for some time. "Heaven have pity upon my wretched ignorance!" she said at last; "the illusion under which I had married this man ended in about a week. At the end of that time I discovered that I was the victim of a mercenary wretch, who meant to use me to the uttermost as a means of wringing money from my father. For some time I submitted, and my father paid, and paid dearly, for his daughter's folly; but he refused to receive the man I had married, or to see me until I separated myself from that man. He offered the groom an income, on the condition of his going to Australia, and resigning all association with me for ever. But the man had a higher game to play. He wanted to bring about a reconciliation with my father; and he thought that in due time that tender father's resolution would have yielded to the force of his love. It was little better than a year after our marriage that I made a discovery that transformed me in one moment from a girl into a woman; a revengeful woman, perhaps, Mr. Bulstrode. I discovered that I had been wronged, deceived, and outraged by a wretch who laughed at my ignorant confidence in him. I had learned to hate the man long before this occurred: I had learned to despise his shallow trickeries, his insolent pretensions; but I do not think I felt his deeper infamy the less keenly for that. We were travelling in the south of France, my husband playing the great gentleman upon my father's money, when this discovery was made by me--or not by me; for it was forced upon me by a woman who knew my story and pitied me. Within half an hour of obtaining this knowledge, I acted upon it. I wrote to James Conyers, telling him I had discovered that which gave me the right to call upon the law to release me from him; and if I refrained from doing so, it was for my father's sake, and not for his. I told him that so long as he left me unmolested and kept my secret, I would remit him money from time to time. I told him that I left him to the associations he had chosen for himself; and that my only prayer was, that God, in His mercy, might grant me complete forgetfulness of him. I left this letter for him with the _concierge_, and quitted the hotel in such a manner as to prevent his obtaining any trace of the way I had gone. I stopped in Paris for a few days, waiting for a reply to a letter I had written to my father, telling him that James Conyers was dead. Perhaps that was the worst sin of my life, Talbot. I deceived my father; but I believed that I was doing a wise and merciful thing in setting his mind at rest. He would have never been happy so long as he had believed the man lived. You understand all now, Talbot," she said mournfully. "You remember the morning at Brighton?" "Yes, yes; and the newspaper with the marked paragraph--the report of the jockey's death." "That report was false, Talbot Bulstrode," cried Aurora. "James Conyers was not killed." Talbot's face grew suddenly pale. He began to understand something of the nature of that trouble which had brought Aurora to him. "What, he was still living, then?" he said anxiously. "Yes; until the night before last." "But where--where has he been all this time?" "During the last ten days--at Mellish Park." She told him the terrible story of the murder. The trainer's death had not yet been reported in the London papers. She told him the dreadful story; and then, looking up at him with an earnest, imploring face, as she might have done had he been indeed her brother, she entreated him to help and counsel her in this terrible hour of need. "Teach me how to do what is best for my dear love," she said. "Don't think of me or my happiness, Talbot; think only of him. I will make any sacrifice; I will submit to anything. I want to atone to my poor dear for all the misery I have brought upon him." Talbot Bulstrode did not make any reply to this earnest appeal. The administrative powers of his mind were at work; he was busy summing up facts and setting them before him, in order to grapple with them fairly; and he had no attention to waste upon sentiment or emotion. He was walking up and down the room, with his eyebrows knitted sternly over his cold gray eyes, and his head bent. "How many people know this secret, Aurora?" he asked presently. "I can't tell you that; but I fear it must be very generally known," answered Mrs. Mellish, with a shuddering recollection of the "Softy's" insolence. "I heard of the discovery that had been made from a hanger-on of the stables, a man who hates me,--a man whom I--had a misunderstanding with." "Have you any idea who it was that shot this Conyers?" "No, not the least idea." "You do not even guess at any one?" "No." Talbot took a few more turns up and down the small apartment, in evident trouble and perplexity of mind. He left the room presently, and called at the foot of the staircase: "Lucy, my dear, come down to your cousin." I'm afraid Mrs. Bulstrode must have been lurking somewhere about the outside of the drawing-room door, for she flew down the stairs at the sound of the strong voice, and was by her husband's side two or three seconds after he had spoken. "O Talbot!" she said, "how long you have been! I thought you would never send for me. What has been the matter with my poor darling?" "Go in to her, and comfort her, my dear," Mr. Bulstrode answered, gravely: "she has had enough trouble, Heaven knows, poor girl. Don't ask her any questions, Lucy; but make her as comfortable as you can, and give her the best room you can find for her. She will stay with us as long as she remains in town." "Dear, dear Talbot," murmured the young Cornishman's grateful worshipper, "how kind you are!" "Kind!" cried Mr. Bulstrode; "she has need of friends, Lucy; and, God knows, I will act a brother's part towards her, faithfully and bravely. Yes, bravely!" he added, raising his head with an almost defiant gesture as he slowly ascended the stairs. What was the dark cloud which he saw brooding so fatally over the far horizon? He dared not think of what it was,--he dared not even acknowledge its presence; but there was a sense of trouble and horror in his breast that told him the shadow was there. Lucy Bulstrode ran into the library, and flung herself upon her cousin's breast, and wept with her. She did not ask the nature of the sorrow which had brought Aurora an unexpected and uninvited guest to that modest little dwelling-house. She only knew that her cousin was in trouble, and that it was her happy privilege to offer her shelter and consolation. She would have fought a sturdy battle in defence of this privilege; but she adored her husband for the generosity which had granted it to her without a struggle. For the first time in her life, poor gentle Lucy took a new position with her cousin. It was her turn to protect Aurora; it was her turn to display a pretty motherly tenderness for the desolate creature whose aching head rested on her bosom. The West-End clocks were striking three, in the dead middle of the night, when Mrs. Mellish fell into a feverish slumber, even in her sleep, even in her sleep repeating again and again: "My poor John! my poor dear love! what will become of him? my own faithful darling!" CHAPTER VI. TALBOT BULSTRODE'S ADVICE. Talbot Bulstrode went out early upon the quiet Sunday morning after Aurora's arrival, and walked down to the Telegraph Company's Office at Charing Cross, whence he despatched a message to Mr. John Mellish. It was a very brief message, only telling Mr. Mellish to come to town without delay, and that he would find Aurora in Halfmoon Street. Mr. Bulstrode walked quietly homewards in the morning sunshine, after having performed this duty. Even the London streets were bright and dewy in that early sunlight, for it was only a little after seven o'clock, and the fresh morning breezes came sweeping over the house-tops, bringing health and purity from Shooter's Hill and Highgate, Streatham and Barnsbury, Richmond and Hampstead. The white morning mists were slowly melting from the worn grass in the Green Park; and weary creatures, who had had no better shelter than the quiet sky, were creeping away to find such wretched resting-places as they might, in that free city, in which, to sit for an unreasonable time upon a doorstep, or to ask a rich citizen for the price of a loaf, is to commit an indictable offence. Surely it was impossible for any young legislator not quite worn out by a life-long struggle with the time which was never meant to be set right,--surely it was impossible for any fresh-hearted prosperous young Liberal to walk through those quiet streets without thinking of these things. Talbot Bulstrode thought very earnestly and very mournfully. To what end were his labours, after all? He was fighting for a handful of Cornish miners; doing battle with the rampant spirit of circumlocution for the sake of a few benighted wretches, buried in the darkness of a black abyss of ignorance a hundred times deeper and darker than the material obscurities in which they laboured. He was working his hardest and his best that these men might be taught, in some easy, unambitious manner, the simplest elements of Christian love and Christian duty. He was working for these poor far-away creatures, in their forgotten corner of the earth; and here, around and about him, was ignorance more terrible, because, hand-in-hand with ignorance of all good, there was the fatal experience of all evil. The simple Cornish miner who uses his pickaxe in the region of his friend's skull, when he wishes to enforce an argument, does so because he knows no other species of emphasis. But in the London universities of crime, knavery and vice and violence and sin matriculate and graduate day by day; to take their degrees in the felon's dock or on the scaffold. How could he be otherwise than sorrowful, thinking of these things? Were the Cities of the Plain worse than this city; in which there were yet so many good and earnest men labouring patiently day by day, and taking little rest? Was the great accumulation of evil so heavy that it rolled for ever back upon the untiring Sisyphus? Or did they make some imperceptible advance towards the mountain-top, despite of all discouragement? With this weary question debating itself in his brain, Mr. Bulstrode walked along Piccadilly towards the comfortable bachelor's quarters, whose most commonplace attributes Lucy had turned to favour and to prettiness; but at the door of the Gloucester Coffee-house Talbot paused to stare absently at a nervous-looking chestnut mare, who insisted upon going through several lively performances upon her hind-legs, very much to the annoyance of an unshaven ostler, and not particularly to the advantage of a smart little dog-cart to which she was harnessed. "You needn't pull her mouth to pieces, my man," cried a voice from the doorway of the hotel; "use her gently, and she'll soon quiet herself. Steady, my girl; steady!" added the owner of this voice, walking to the dog-cart as he spoke. Talbot had good reason to stop short, for this gentleman was Mr. John Mellish, whose pale face, and loose, disordered hair betokened a sleepless night. He was going to spring into the dog-cart, when his old friend tapped him on the shoulder. "This is rather a lucky accident, John; for you're the very person I want to see," said Mr. Bulstrode. "I've just telegraphed to you." John Mellish stared with a blank face. "Don't hinder me, please," he said; "I'll talk to you by-and-by. I'll call upon you in a day or two. I'm just off to Felden. I've only been in town an hour and a half, and should have gone down before, if I had not been afraid of knocking up the family." He made another attempt to get into the vehicle, but Talbot caught him by the arm. "You needn't go to Felden," he said; "your wife's much nearer." "Eh?" "She's at my house. Come and have some breakfast." There was no shadow upon Talbot Bulstrode's mind as his old schoolfellow caught him by the hand, and nearly dislocated his wrist in a paroxysm of joy and gratitude. It was impossible for him to look beyond that sudden burst of sunshine upon John's face. If Mr. Mellish had been separated from his wife for ten years, and had just returned from the Antipodes for the sole purpose of seeing her again, he could scarcely have appeared more delighted at the prospect of a speedy meeting. "Aurora here!" he said; "at your house? My dear old fellow, you can't mean it! But of course I ought to have known she'd come to you. She couldn't have done anything better or wiser, after having been so foolish as to doubt me." "She came to me for advice, John. She wanted me to advise her how to act for your happiness,--yours, you great Yorkshireman, and not her own." "Bless her noble heart!" cried Mr. Mellish, huskily. "And you told her----" "I told her nothing, my dear fellow; but I tell you to take your lawyer down to Doctor's Commons with you to-morrow morning, get a new licence and marry your wife for the second time, in some quiet, little, out-of-the-way church in the City." Aurora had risen very early upon that peaceful Sunday morning. The few hours of feverish and fitful sleep had brought very little comfort to her. She stood with her weary head leaning against the window-frame, and looked hopelessly out into the empty London street. She looked out into the desolate beginning of a new life, the blank uncertainty of an unknown future. All the minor miseries peculiar to a toilet in a strange room were doubly miserable to her. Lucy had brought the poor luggageless traveller all the paraphernalia of the toilet-table, and had arranged everything with her own busy hands. But the most insignificant trifle that Aurora touched in her cousin's chamber brought back the memory of some costly toy chosen for her by her husband. She had travelled in her white morning-dress, and the soft lace and muslin were none the fresher for her journey; but as two of Lucy's dresses joined together scarcely fitted her stately cousin, Mrs. Mellish was fain to be content with her limp muslin. What did it matter? The loving eyes which noted every shred of ribbon, every morsel of lace, every fold of her garments, were, perhaps, never to look upon her again. She twisted her hair into a careless mass at the back of her head, and had completed her toilet, when Lucy came to the door, tenderly anxious to know how she had slept. "I will abide by Talbot's decision," she repeated to herself again and again. "If he says it is best for my dear that we should part, I will go away for ever. I will ask my father to take me far away, and my poor darling shall not even know where I have gone. I will be true in what I do, and will do it thoroughly." She looked to Talbot Bulstrode as a wise judge, to whose sentence she would be willing to submit. Perhaps she did this because her own heart kept for ever repeating, "Go back to the man who loves you. Go back, go back! There is no wrong you can do him so bitter as to desert him. There is no unhappiness you can bring upon him equal to the unhappiness of losing you. Let _me_ be your guide. Go back, go back!" But this selfish monitor must not be listened to. How bitterly this poor girl, so old in experience of sorrow, remembered the selfish sin of her mad marriage! She had refused to sacrifice a school-girl's foolish delusion; she had disobeyed the father who had given her seventeen years of patient love and devotion; and she looked at all the misery of her youth as the fatal growth of this evil seed, so rebelliously sown. Surely such a lesson was not to be altogether unheeded! Surely it was powerful enough to teach her the duty of sacrifice! It was this thought that steeled her against the pleadings of her own affection. It was for this that she looked to Talbot Bulstrode as the arbiter of her future. Had she been a Roman Catholic, she would have gone to her confessor, and appealed to a priest--who, having no social ties of his own, must, of course, be the best judge of all the duties involved in domestic relations--for comfort and succour; but being of another faith, she went to the man whom she most respected, and who, being a husband himself, might, as she thought, be able to comprehend the duty that was due to her husband. She went down-stairs with Lucy into a little inner room upon the drawing-room floor; a snug apartment, opening into a mite of a conservatory. It was Mr. and Mrs. Bulstrode's habit to breakfast in this cosy little chamber, rather than in that awful temple of slippery morocco, funereal bronze, and ghastly mahogany, which upholsterers insist upon as the only legitimate place in which an Englishman may take his meals. Lucy loved to sit opposite her husband at the small round table, and minister to his morning appetite from her pretty breakfast equipage of silver and china. She knew--to the smallest weight employed at Apothecaries' Hall, I think--how much sugar Mr. Bulstrode liked in his tea. She poured the cream into his cup as carefully as if she had been making up a prescription. He took the simple beverage in a great shallow breakfast-cup of fragile turquoise Sèvres, that had cost seven guineas; and had been made for Madame du Barry, the _rococo_ merchant had told Talbot. (Had his customer been a lady, I fear Marie Antoinette would have been described as the original possessor of this porcelain.) Mrs. Bulstrode loved to minister to her husband. She picked the bloated livers of martyred geese out of the Strasburg pies for his delectation; she spread the butter upon his dry toast; and pampered and waited on him, serving him as only such women serve their idols. But this morning she had her cousin's sorrows to comfort; and she established Aurora in a capacious chintz-covered easy-chair on the threshold of the conservatory, and seated herself at her feet. "My poor pale darling!" she said, tenderly, "what can I do to bring the roses back to your cheeks?" "Love me and pity me, dear," Aurora answered, gravely; "but don't ask me any questions." The two women sat thus for some time, Aurora's handsome head bent over Lucy's fair face, and her hands clasped in both Lucy's hands. They talked very little, and only spoke then of indifferent matters, or of Lucy's happiness and Talbot's parliamentary career. The little clock over the chimney-piece struck the quarter before eight--they were very early, these unfashionable people--and a minute afterwards Mrs. Bulstrode heard her husband's step upon the stairs, returning from his ante-breakfast walk. It was his habit to take a constitutional stroll in the Green Park, now and then, so Lucy had thought nothing of this early excursion. "Talbot has let himself in with his latch-key," said Mrs. Bulstrode; "and I may pour out the tea, Aurora. But listen, dear; I think there's some one with him." There was no need to bid Aurora listen; she had started from her low seat, and stood erect and motionless, breathing in a quick, agitated manner, and looking towards the door. Besides Talbot Bulstrode's step there was another, quicker and heavier; a step she knew so well. The door was opened, and Talbot entered the room, followed by a visitor, who pushed aside his host with very little attention to the laws of civilized society, and, indeed, nearly drove Mr. Bulstrode backwards into a gilded basket of flowers. But this stalwart John Mellish had no intention of being unmannerly or brutal. He pushed aside his friend only as he would have pushed, or tried to push, aside a regiment of soldiers with fixed bayonets, or a Lancaster gun, or a raging ocean, or any other impediment that had come between him and Aurora. He had her in his arms before she could even cry his name aloud, in her glad surprise; and in another moment she was sobbing on his breast. "My darling! my pet! my own!" he cried, smoothing her dark hair with his broad hand, and blessing her and weeping over her,--"my own love! How could you do this? how could you wrong me so much? My own precious darling! had you learnt to know me no better than _this_, in all our happy married life?" "I came to ask Talbot's advice, John," she said, earnestly; "and I mean to abide by it, however cruel it may seem." Mr. Bulstrode smiled gravely, as he watched these two foolish people. He was very much pleased with his part in the little domestic drama; and he contemplated them with a sublime consciousness of being the author of all this happiness. For they were happy. The poet has said, there are some moments--very rare, very precious, very brief--which stand by themselves, and have their perfect fulness of joy within their own fleeting span, taking nothing from the past, demanding nothing of the future. Had John and Aurora known that they were to be separated by the breadth of Europe for the remainder of their several lives, they would not the less have wept joyful tears at the pure blissfulness of this meeting. "You asked me for my advice, Aurora," said Talbot, "and I bring it you. Let the past die with the man who died the other night. The future is not yours to dispose of; it belongs to your husband, John Mellish." Having delivered himself of these oracular sentences, Mr. Bulstrode seated himself at the breakfast-table, and looked into the mysterious and cavernous interior of a raised pie, with such an intent gaze, that it seemed as if he never meant to look out of it. He devoted so many minutes to this serious contemplation, that by the time he looked up again, Aurora had become quite calm, while Mr. Mellish affected an unnatural gaiety, and exhibited no stronger sign of past emotion than a certain inflamed appearance in the region of his eyelids. But this stalwart, devoted, impressionable Yorkshireman ate a most extraordinary repast in honour of this reunion. He spread mustard on his muffins. He poured Worcester sauce into his coffee, and cream over his devilled cutlets. He showed his gratitude to Lucy by loading her plate with comestibles she didn't want. He talked perpetually, and devoured incongruous viands in utter absence of mind. He shook hands with Talbot so many times across the breakfast-table, that he exposed the lives or limbs of the whole party to imminent peril from the boiling water in the urn. He threw himself into a paroxysm of coughing, and made himself scarlet in the face, by an injudicious use of cayenne pepper; and he exhibited himself altogether in such an imbecile light that Talbot Bulstrode was compelled to have recourse to all sorts of expedients to keep the servants out of the room during the progress of that rather noisy and bewildering repast. The Sunday papers were brought to the master of the house before breakfast was over; and while John talked, ate, and gesticulated, Mr. Bulstrode hid himself behind the open leaves of the latest edition of the 'Weekly Dispatch,' reading a paragraph that appeared in that journal. This paragraph gave a brief account of the murder and the inquest at Mellish; and wound up by that rather stereotyped sentence, in which the public are informed that "the local police are giving unremitting attention to the affair, and we think we may venture to affirm that they have obtained a clue which will most probably lead to the early discovery of the guilty party." Talbot Bulstrode, with the newspaper still before his face, sat for some little time frowning darkly at the page upon which this paragraph appeared. The horrible shadow, whose nature he would not acknowledge even to himself, once more lowered upon the horizon which had just seemed so bright and clear. "I would give a thousand pounds," he thought, "if I could find the murderer of this man." CHAPTER VII. ON THE WATCH. Very soon after breakfast, upon that happy Sabbath of reunion and contentment, John Mellish drove Aurora to Felden Woods. It was necessary that Archibald Floyd should hear the story of the trainer's death from the lips of his own children, before newspaper paragraphs terrified him with some imperfect outline of the truth. The dashing phaeton in which Mr. Bulstrode was in the habit of driving his wife was brought to the door as the church-bells were calling devout citizens to their morning duties; and at that unseemly hour John Mellish smacked his whip, and dashed off in the direction of Westminster Bridge. Talbot Bulstrode's horses soon left London behind them, and before long the phaeton was driving upon trim park-like roads, over-shadowed by luxuriant foliage, and bordered here and there by exquisitely-ordered gardens and rustic villas, that glittered whitely in the sunshine. The holy peace of the quiet Sabbath was upon every object that they passed, even upon the leaves and flowers, as it seemed to Aurora. The birds sang subdued and murmuring harmonies; the light summer breeze scarcely stirred the deep grass, on which the lazy cattle stood to watch the phaeton dash by. Ah, how happy Aurora was, seated by the side of the man whose love had outlasted every trial! How happy now that the dark wall that had divided them was shattered, and they were indeed united! John Mellish was as tender and pitying towards her, as a mother to her forgiving child. He asked no explanations; he sought to know nothing of the past. He was content to believe that she had been foolish and mistaken; and that the mistake and folly of her life would be buried in the grave of the murdered trainer. The lodge-keeper at Felden Woods exclaimed as he opened the gates to his master's daughter. He was an old man, and he had opened the same gates more than twenty years before, when the banker's dark-eyed bride had first entered her husband's mansion. Archibald Floyd welcomed his children heartily. How could he ever be otherwise than unutterably happy in the presence of his darling, however often she might come, with whatever eccentricity she might time her visits? Mrs. Mellish led her father into his study. "I must speak to you alone, papa," she said; "but John knows all I have to say. There are no secrets between us now. There never will be again." Aurora had a painful story to tell her father, for she had to confess to him that she had deceived him upon the occasion of her return to Felden Woods after her parting with James Conyers. "I told you a story, father," she said, "when I told you that my husband was dead. But Heaven knows, I believed that I should be forgiven the sin of that falsehood, for I thought that it would spare you grief and trouble of mind; and surely anything would have been justifiable that could have done that. I suppose good never can come out of evil, for I have been bitterly punished for my sin. I received a newspaper within a few months of my return, in which there was a paragraph describing the death of James Conyers. The paragraph was not correct, for the man had escaped with his life; and when I married John Mellish, my first husband was alive." Archibald Floyd uttered a cry of despair, and half rose from his easy-chair; but Aurora knelt upon the ground by his side, with her arms about him, soothing and comforting him. "It is all over now, dear father," she said; "it is all over. The man is dead. I will tell you how he died by-and-by. It is all over. John knows all; and I am to marry him again. Talbot Bulstrode says that it is necessary, as our marriage was not legal. My own dear father, there is to be no more secrecy, no more unhappiness,--only love, and peace, and union for all of us." She told the old man the story of the trainer's death, dwelling very little upon the particulars, and telling nothing of her own doings that night, except that she had been in the wood at the time of the murder, and that she had heard the pistol fired. It was not a pleasant story, this story of murder and violence and treachery within the boundary of his daughter's home. Even amid Aurora's assurances that all sorrow was past, that doubt and uncertainty were to vanish away before security and peace, Archibald Floyd could not control this feeling. He was restless and uneasy in spite of himself. He took John Mellish out upon the terrace in the afternoon sunshine, while Aurora lay asleep upon one of the sofas in the long drawing-room, and talked to him of the trainer's death as they walked up and down. There was nothing to be elicited from the young squire that threw any light upon the catastrophe, and Archibald Floyd tried in vain to find any issue out of the darkness of the mystery. "Can you imagine any one having any motive for getting rid of this man?" the banker asked. John shrugged his shoulders. He had been asked this question so often before, and had been always obliged to give the same reply. No; he knew of no motive which any one about Mellish could be likely to have. "Had the man any money about him?" asked Mr. Floyd. "Goodness knows whether he had or not," John answered carelessly; "but I should think it wasn't likely he had much. He had been out of a situation, I believe, for some time before he came to me, and he had spent a good many months in a Prussian hospital. I don't suppose he was worth robbing." The banker remembered the two thousand pounds which he had given to his daughter. What had Aurora done with that money? Had she known of the trainer's existence when she asked for it? and had she wanted it for him? She had not explained this in her hurried story of the murder, and how could he press her upon so painful a subject? Why should he not accept her own assurance that all was over, and that nothing remained but peace? Archibald Floyd and his children spent a tranquil day together; not talking much, for Aurora was completely worn out by the fatigue and excitement she had undergone. What had her life been but agitation and terror since the day upon which Mr. John Pastern's letter had come to Mellish to tell her of the existence of her first husband? She slept through the best part of the day, lying upon a sofa, and with John Mellish sitting by her side keeping watch over her. She slept while the bells of Beckenham church summoned the parishioners to afternoon service, and while her father went to assist in those quiet devotions, and to kneel on his hassock in the old square pew, and pray for the peace of his beloved child. Heaven knows how earnestly the old man prayed for his daughter's happiness, and how she filled his thoughts; not distracting him from more sacred thoughts, but blending her image with his worship in alternate prayer and thanksgiving! Those who watched him as he sat, with the sunshine on his gray head, listening reverentially to the sermon, little knew how much trouble had been mingled with the great prosperity of his life. They pointed him out respectfully to strangers, as a man whose signature across a slip of paper could make that oblong morsel of beaten rag into an incalculable sum of money; a man who stood upon a golden pinnacle with the Rothschilds and Montefiores and Couttses; who could afford to pay the National Debt any morning that the whim seized him; and who was yet a plain man, and simple as a child, as anybody might see, the admiring parishioners would add, as the banker came out of church shaking hands right and left, and nodding to the charity children. I'm afraid the children dropped lower curtsies in the pathway of Mr. Floyd than even before the Vicar of Beckenham; for they had learned to associate the image of the banker with buns and tea, with sixpences and oranges, gambols on the smooth lawn at Felden Woods, and jovial feasts in monster tents to the music of clashing brazen bands, and with even greater treats in the way of excursions to a Crystal Palace on a hill, an enchanted fairyland of wonders, from which it was delicious to return in the dewy evening, singing hymns of rejoicing that shook the vans in which they travelled. The banker had distributed happiness right and left; but the money which might have paid the National Debt had been impotent to save the life of the dark-eyed woman he had loved so tenderly, or to spare him one pang of uneasiness about his idolized child. Had not that all-powerful wealth been rather the primary cause of his daughter's trouble, since it had cast her, young, inexperienced, and trusting, a prey into the mercenary hands of a bad man, who would not have cared to persecute her but for the money that had made her such a golden prize for any adventurer who might please to essay the hazard of winning her? With the memory of these things always in his mind, it was scarcely strange that Archibald Floyd should bear the burden of his riches meekly and fearfully, knowing that, whatever he might be in the Stock Exchange, he was in the sight of Heaven only a feeble old man, very assailable by suffering, very liable to sorrow, and humbly dependent on the mercy of the Hand that is alone powerful to spare or to afflict, as seemeth good to Him who guides it. Aurora awoke out of her long sleep while her father was at church. She awoke to find her husband watching her; the Sunday papers lying forgotten on his knee, and his honest eyes fixed on the face he loved. "My own dear John," she said, as she lifted her head from the pillows, supporting herself upon her elbow, and stretching out one hand to Mr. Mellish, "my own dear boy, how happy we are together now! Will anything ever come to break our happiness again, my dear? Can Heaven be so cruel as to afflict us any more?" The banker's daughter, in the sovereign vitality of her nature, had rebelled against sorrow as a strange and unnatural part of her life. She had demanded happiness almost as a right; she had wondered at her afflictions, and been unable to understand why she should be thus afflicted. There are natures which accept suffering with patient meekness, and acknowledge the justice by which they suffer; but Aurora had never done this. Her joyous soul had revolted against sorrow, and she arose now in the intense relief which she felt in her release from the bonds that had been so hateful to her, and challenged Providence with her claim to be happy for evermore. John Mellish thought very seriously upon this matter. He could not forget the night of the murder,--the night upon which he had sat alone in his wife's chamber pondering upon his unworthiness. "Do you think we deserve to be happy, Lolly?" he said presently. "Don't mistake me, my darling. I know that you're the best and brightest of living creatures,--tender-hearted, loving, generous, and true. But do you think we take life quite seriously enough, Lolly dear? I'm sometimes afraid that we're too much like the careless children in the pretty childish allegory, who played about amongst the flowers on the smooth grass in the beautiful garden, until it was too late to set out upon the long journey on the dark road which would have led them to Paradise. What shall we do, my darling, to deserve the blessings God has given us so freely; the blessings of youth and strength, and love and wealth? What shall we do, dear? I don't want to turn Mellish into a Philanstery exactly, nor to give up my racing-stud, if I can help it," John said reflectively; "but I want to do something, Lolly, to prove that I am grateful to Providence. Shall we build a lot of schools, or a church, or alms-houses, or something of that sort? Lofthouse would like me to put up a painted window in Mellish church, and a new pulpit with a patent sounding-board; but I can't see that painted windows and sounding-boards do much good in a general way. I want to do something, Aurora, to prove my gratitude to the Providence that has given me the loveliest and best of women for my true-hearted wife." The banker's daughter smiled almost mournfully upon her devoted husband. "Have I been such a blessing to you, John," she said, "that you should be grateful for me? Have I not brought you far more sorrow than happiness, my poor dear?" "No," shouted Mr. Mellish emphatically. "The sorrow you have brought me has been nothing to the joy I have felt in your love. My own dearest girl, to be sitting here by your side to-day, and to hear you tell me that you love me, is enough happiness to set against all the trouble of mind that I have endured since the man that is dead came to Mellish." I hope my poor John Mellish will be forgiven if he talked a great deal of nonsense to the wife he loved. He had been her lover from the first moment in which he had seen her, darkly beautiful, upon the gusty Brighton Parade; and he was her lover still. No shadow of contempt had ever grown out of his familiarity with her. And indeed I am disposed to take objection to that old proverb; or at least to believe that contempt is only engendered of familiarity with things which are in themselves base and spurious. The priest, who is familiar with the altar, learns no contempt for its sacred images; but it is rather the ignorant neophyte who sneers and sniggers at things which he cannot understand. The artist becomes only more reverent as toil and study make him more familiar with his art; its eternal sublimity grows upon him, and he worships the far-away Goddess of Perfection as humbly when he drops his brush or his chisel after a life of patient labour, as he did when first he ground colour or pointed rough blocks of marble for his master. And I cannot believe that a good man's respect for the woman he loves can be lessened by that sweet and every-day familiarity in which a hundred household virtues and gentle beauties--never dreamed of in the ball-rooms where he first danced with an unknown idol in gauzy robes and glimmering jewels--grow upon him, until he confesses that the wife of ten years' standing is even ten times dearer than the bride of a week's honeymoon. Archibald Floyd came back from church, and found his two children sitting side by side in one of the broad windows, watching for his arrival, and whispering together like lovers, as I have said they were. They dined pleasantly together later in the evening; and a little after dark the phaeton was brought round to the terrace-steps, and Aurora kissed her father as she wished him good night. "You will come up to town, and be present at the marriage, sir, I know," John whispered, as he took his father-in-law's hand. "Talbot Bulstrode will arrange all about it. It is to take place at some out-of-the-way little church in the City. Nobody will be any the wiser, and Aurora and I will go back to Mellish as quietly as possible. There's only Lofthouse and Hayward know the secret of the certificate, and they----" John Mellish stopped suddenly. He remembered Mrs. Powell's parting sting. _She_ knew the secret. But how could she have come by that knowledge? It was impossible that either Lofthouse or Hayward could have told her. They were both honourable men, and they had pledged themselves to be silent. Archibald Floyd did not observe his son-in-law's embarrassment; and the phaeton drove away, leaving the old man standing on the terrace-steps looking after his daughter. "I must shut up this place," he thought, "and go to Mellish to finish my days. I cannot endure these separations; I cannot bear this suspense. It is a pitiful sham, my keeping house, and living in all this dreary grandeur. I'll shut up the place, and ask my daughter to give me a quiet corner in her Yorkshire home, and a grave in the parish churchyard." The lodge-keeper turned out of his comfortable Gothic habitation to open the clanking iron gates for the phaeton; but John drew up his horses before they dashed into the road, for he saw that the man wanted to speak to him. "What is it, Forbes?" he asked. "Oh, it's nothing particular, sir," the man said, "and perhaps I oughtn't to trouble you about it; but did you expect any one down to-day, sir?" "Expect any one here?--no!" exclaimed John. "There's been a person inquirin', sir, this afternoon,--two persons, I may say, in a shay-cart, but one of 'em asked particular if you was here, sir, and if Mrs. Mellish was here; and when I said yes, you was, the gent says it wasn't worth troublin' you about--the business as he'd come upon--and as he'd call another time. And he asked me what time you'd be likely to be leavin' the Woods; and I said I made no doubt you'd stay to dinner up at the house. So he says, 'All right,' and drives off." "He left no message, then?" "No, sir. He said nothin' more than what I've told you." "Then his business could have been of no great importance, Forbes," answered John, laughing. "So we needn't worry our heads about him. Good-night." Mr. Mellish dropped a five-shilling piece into the lodge-keeper's hand, gave Talbot's horses their heads, and the phaeton rolled off London-wards over the crisp gravel of the well-kept Beckenham roads. "Who could the man have been?" Aurora asked, as they left the gates. "Goodness knows, my dear," John answered carelessly. "Somebody on racing business, perhaps." Racing business seems to be in itself such a mysterious business that it is no strange thing for mysterious people to be always turning up in relation to it. Aurora, therefore, was content to accept this explanation; but not without some degree of wonderment. "I can't understand the man coming to Felden after you, John," she said. "How could he know that you were to be there to-day?" "Ah, how indeed, Lolly!" returned Mr. Mellish. "He chanced it, I suppose. A sharp customer, no doubt; wants to sell a horse, I dare say, and heard I didn't mind giving a good price for a good thing." Mr. Mellish might have gone even further than this, for there were many _horsey_ gentlemen in his neighbourhood, past masters in the art they practised, who were wont to say that the young squire, judiciously manipulated, might be induced to give a remarkably good price for a very bad thing; and there were many broken-down, slim-legged horses in the Mellish stables that bore witness to the same fact. Those needy _chevaliers d'esprit_ who think that Burke's landed gentry were created by Providence and endowed with the goods of this world for their especial benefit, just as pigeons are made plump and nice-eating for the delectation of hawks, drove a wholesale trade upon the young man's frank simplicity and hearty belief in his fellow-creatures. I think it is Eliza Cook who says, "It is better to trust and be deceived, than own the mean, poor spirit that betrays;" and if there is any happiness in being "done," poor John enjoyed that fleeting delight pretty frequently. There was a turn in the road between Beckenham and Norwood; and as the phaeton swept round, a chaise or dog-cart, a shabby vehicle enough, with a rakish-looking horse, drove close up, and the man who was driving asked the squire to put him in the nearest way to London. The vehicle had been behind them all the way from Felden, but had kept at a very respectful distance until now. "Do you want to get to the City or the West End?" John asked. "The West End." "Then you can't do better than follow us," answered Mr. Mellish; "the road's clean enough, and your horse seems a good one to go. You can keep us in sight, I suppose?" "Yes, sir, and thank ye." "All right, then." Talbot Bulstrode's thorough-breds dashed off, but the rakish-looking horse kept his ground behind them. He had something of the insolent, off-hand assurance of a butcher's horse, accustomed to whirl a bare-headed blue-coated master through the sharp morning air. "I was right, Lolly," Mr. Mellish said, as he left the dog-cart behind. "How do you mean, dear?" asked Aurora. "The man who spoke to us just now is the man who has been inquiring for me at Felden. He's a Yorkshireman." "A Yorkshireman!" "Yes; didn't you hear the north-country twang?" No: she had not listened to the man, nor heeded him. How should she think of anything but her new-born happiness--the new-born confidence between herself and the husband she loved? Do not think her hard-hearted or cruel if she forgot that it was the death of a fellow-creature, a sinful man stricken down in the prime of youth and health, that had given her this welcome release. She had suffered so much, that the release could not be otherwise than welcome, let it come how it might. Her nature, frank and open as the day, had been dwarfed and crippled by the secret that had blighted her life. Can it be wondered, then, that she rejoiced now that all need of secrecy was over, and this generous spirit might expand as it pleased? It was past ten when the phaeton turned into Halfmoon Street. The men in the dog-cart had followed John's directions to the letter; for it was only in Piccadilly that Mr. Mellish had lost sight of them amongst other vehicles travelling backwards and forwards on the lamp-lit thoroughfare. Talbot and Lucy received their visitors in one of the pretty little drawing-rooms. The young husband and wife had spent a quiet day together; going to church in the morning and afternoon, dining alone, and sitting in the twilight, talking happily and confidentially. Mr. Bulstrode was no Sabbath-breaker; and John Mellish had reason to consider himself a peculiarly privileged person, inasmuch as the thorough-breds had been permitted to leave their stables for his service; to say nothing of the groom, who had been absent from his hard seat in the servants' pew at a fashionable chapel, in order that he might accompany John and Aurora to Felden. The little party sat up rather late, Aurora and Lucy talking affectionately together, side by side, upon a sofa in the shadow of the room, while the two men lounged in the open window. John told his host the history of the day, and in doing so casually mentioned the man who had asked him the way to London. Strange to say, Talbot Bulstrode seemed especially interested in this part of the story. He asked several questions about the men. He asked what they were like; what was said by either of them; and made many other inquiries, which seemed equally trivial. "Then they followed you into town, John?" he said finally. "Yes; I only lost sight of them in Piccadilly, five minutes before I turned the corner of the street." "Do you think they had any motive in following you?" asked Talbot. "Well, I fancy so; they're on the look-out for information, I expect. The man who spoke to me looked something like a tout. I've heard that Lord Stamford's rather anxious about my West-Australian colt, the Pork Butcher. Perhaps his people have set these men to work to find out if I'm going to run him in the Leger." Talbot Bulstrode smiled bitterly, almost mournfully, at the vanity of horse-flesh. It was painful to see this light-hearted young squire looking in such ignorant hopefulness towards an horizon upon which graver and more thoughtful men could see a dreadful shadow lowering. Mr. Bulstrode was standing close to the balcony; he stepped out amongst the china boxes of mignonette, and looked down into the quiet street. A man was leaning against a lamp-post, some few paces from Talbot's house, smoking a cigar, and with his face turned towards the balcony. He finished his cigar deliberately, threw the end into the road, and walked away while Talbot kept watch; but Mr. Bulstrode did not leave his post of observation, and about a quarter of an hour afterwards he saw the same man lounging slowly along the pavement upon the other side of the street. John, who sat within the shadow of the window-curtains, lolling against them, and creasing their delicate folds with the heavy pressure of his broad back, was utterly unconscious of all this. Early the next morning Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Mellish took a Hansom cab, and rattled down to Doctors' Commons, where, for the second time in his life, John gave himself up to be fought for by white-aproned ecclesiastical touts, and eventually obtained the Archbishop of Canterbury's gracious sanction of his marriage with Aurora, widow of James Conyers, only daughter of Archibald Floyd, banker. From Doctors' Commons the two gentlemen drove to a certain quiet, out-of-the-way church within the sound of Bow bells, but so completely hidden amongst piles of warehouses, top-heavy chimneys, sloping roofs, and other eccentricities of masonry, that any unhappy bridegroom, who had appointed to be married there, was likely enough to spend the whole of the wedding-day in futile endeavours to find the church-door. Here John discovered a mouldy clerk, who was fetched from some habitation in the neighbourhood with considerable difficulty, by a boy, who volunteered to accomplish anything under heaven for a certain copper consideration; and to this clerk Mr. Mellish gave notice of a marriage which was to take place upon the following day, by special licence. "I'll take my second marriage-certificate back with me," John said, as he left the church; "and then I should like to see who'll dare to look me in the face, and tell me that my darling is not my own lawfully-wedded wife." He was thinking of Mrs. Powell as he said this. He was thinking of the pale, spiteful eyes that had looked at him, and of the woman's tongue that had stabbed him with all a little nature's great capacity for hate. He would be able to defy her now; he would be able to defy every creature in the world who dared to breathe a syllable against his beloved wife. Early the next morning the marriage took place. Archibald Floyd, Talbot Bulstrode, and Lucy were the only witnesses; that is to say, the only witnesses with the exception of the clerk and the pew-opener, and a couple of men who lounged into the church when the ceremony was half over, and slouched about one of the side aisles, looking at the monuments, and talking to each other in whispers, until the parson took off his surplice, and John came out of the vestry with his wife upon his arm. Mr. and Mrs. Mellish did not return to Halfmoon Street; they drove straight to the Great Northern Station, whence they started by the afternoon express for Doncaster. John was anxious to return; for remember that he had left his household under very peculiar circumstances, and strange reports might have arisen in his absence. The young squire would perhaps have scarcely thought of this, had not the idea been suggested to him by Talbot Bulstrode, who particularly urged upon him the expediency of returning immediately. "Go back, John," said Mr. Bulstrode, "without an hour's unnecessary delay. If by any chance there should be some further disturbance about this murder, it will be much better for you, and Aurora too, to be on the spot. I will come down to Mellish myself in a day or two, and will bring Lucy with me, if you will allow me." "Allow you, my dear Talbot!" "I _will_ come, then. Good-bye, and God bless you! Take care of your wife." CHAPTER VIII. CAPTAIN PRODDER GOES BACK TO DONCASTER. Mr. Samuel Prodder, returning to London after having played his insignificant part in the tragedy at Mellish Park, found that city singularly dull and gloomy. He put up at some dismal boarding-house, situated amid a mazy labyrinth of brick and mortar between the Tower and Wapping, and having relations with another boarding-house in Liverpool. He took up his abode at this place, in which he was known and respected. He drank rum-and-water, and played cribbage with other seamen, made after the same pattern as himself. He even went to an East-End theatre upon the Saturday night after the murder, and sat out the representation of a nautical drama, which he would have been glad to have believed in, had it not promulgated such wild theories in the science of navigation, and exhibited such extraordinary experiments in the manoeuvring of the man-of-war, upon which the action of the play took place, as to cause the captain's hair to stand on end in the intensity of his wonder. The things people did upon that ship curdled Samuel Prodder's blood, as he sat in the lonely grandeur of the eighteenpenny boxes. It was quite a common thing for them to walk unhesitatingly through the bulwarks and disappear in what ought to have been the sea. The extent of browbeating and humiliation borne by the captain of that noble vessel; the amount of authority exercised by a sailor with loose legs; the agonies of sea-sickness, represented by a comic countryman, who had no particular business on board the gallant bark; the proportion of hornpipe-dancing and nautical ballad-singing gone through, as compared to the work that was done,--all combined to impress poor Samuel with such a novel view of her Majesty's naval service, that he was very glad when the captain who had been browbeaten suddenly repented of all his sins,--not without a sharp reminder from the prompter, who informed the _dramatis personæ,_ in a confidential voice that it was _parst_ twelve, and they'd better cut it short,--joined the hands of the contumacious sailor and a young lady in white muslin, and begged them to be 'appy. It was in vain that the captain sought distraction from the one idea upon which he had perpetually brooded since the night of his visit to Mellish Park. He would be wanted in Yorkshire to tell what he knew of the dark history of that fatal night. He would be called upon to declare at what hour he had entered the wood, whom he had met there, what he had seen and heard there. They would extort from him that which he would have died rather than tell. They would cross-examine, and bewilder, and torment him, until he told them everything,--until he repeated, syllable by syllable, the passionate words that had been said,--until he told them how, within a quarter of an hour of the firing of the pistol, he had been the witness of a desperate scene between his niece and the murdered man,--a scene in which concentrated hate, vengeful fury, illimitable disdain and detestation had been expressed by her--by her alone:--the man had been calm and moderate enough. It was she who had been angry; it was she who had given loud utterance to her hate. Now, by reason of one of those strange inconsistencies common to weak human nature, the captain, though possessed night and day by a blind terror of being suddenly pounced upon by the minions of the law, and compelled to betray his niece's secret, could not rest in his safe retreat amid the labyrinths of Wapping, but must needs pine to return to the scene of the murder. He wanted to know the result of the inquest. The Sunday papers gave a very meagre account, only hinting darkly at suspected parties. He wanted to ascertain for himself what had happened at the inquest, and whether his absence had given rise to suspicion. He wanted to see his niece again,--to see her in the daylight, undisturbed by passion. He wanted to see this beautiful tigress in her calmer moods, if she ever had any calmer moods. Heaven knows the simple merchant-captain was well-nigh distracted as he thought of his sister Eliza's child, and the awful circumstances of his first and only meeting with her. Was she--that which he feared people might be led to think her, if they heard the story of that scene in the wood? No, no, no! She was his sister's child,--the child of that merry, impetuous little girl, who had worn a pinafore and played hop-scotch. He remembered his sister flying into a rage with one Tommy Barnes for unfair practices in that very game, and upbraiding him almost as passionately as Aurora had upbraided the dead man. But if Tommy Barnes had been found strangled by a skipping-rope or shot dead from a pea-shooter in the next street a quarter of an hour afterwards, would Eliza's brother have thought that she must needs be guilty of the boy's murder? The captain had gone so far as to reason thus, in his trouble of mind. His sister Eliza's child would be likely to be passionate and impetuous; but his sister Eliza's child would be a generous, warm-hearted creature, incapable of any cruelty in either thought or deed. He remembered his sister Eliza boxing his ears on the occasion of his gouging out the eyes of her wax-doll; but he remembered the same dark-eyed child sobbing piteously at the spectacle of a lamb that a heartless butcher was dragging to the slaughter-house. But the more seriously Captain Prodder revolved this question in his mind, the more decidedly his inclination pointed to Doncaster; and early upon that very morning on which the quiet marriage had taken place in the obscure City church, he repaired to a magnificent Israelitish temple of fashion in the Minories, and there ordered a suit of such clothes as were most affected by elegant landsmen. The Israelitish salesman recommended something light and lively in the fancy-check line; and Mr. Prodder, submitting to that authority as beyond all question, invested himself in a suit which he had contemplated solemnly athwart a vast expanse of plate-glass, before entering the temple of the Graces. It was "Our aristocratic tourist," at seventy-seven shillings and sixpence, and was made of a fleecy and rather powdery-looking cloth; in which the hues of baked and unbaked bricks predominated over a more delicate hearthstone tint,--which latter the shopman declared to be a colour that West-End tailors had vainly striven to emulate. The captain, dressed in "Our aristocratic tourist," which suit was of the ultra cut-away and peg-toppy order, and with his sleeves and trousers inflated by any chance summer's breeze, had perhaps more of the appearance of a tombola than is quite in accordance with a strictly artistic view of the human figure. In his desire to make himself utterly irrecognizable as the seafaring man who had carried the tidings of the murder to Mellish Park, the captain had tortured himself by substituting a tight circular collar and a wisp of purple ribbon for the honest half-yard of snowy linen which it had been his habit to wear turned over the loose collar of his blue coat. He suffered acute agonies from this modern device, but he bore them bravely; and he went straight from the tailor's to the Great Northern Railway Station, where he took his ticket for Doncaster. He meant to visit that town as an aristocratic tourist; he would keep himself aloof from the neighbourhood of Mellish Park, but he would be sure to hear the result of the inquest, and he would be able to ascertain for himself whether any trouble had come upon his sister's child. The sea-captain did not travel by that express which carried Mr. and Mrs. Mellish to Doncaster, but by an earlier and a slower train, which lumbered quietly along the road, conveying inferior persons, to whom time was not measured by a golden standard, and who smoked, and slept, and ate, and drank resignedly enough, through the eight or nine hours' journey. It was dusk when Samuel Prodder reached the quiet racing-town from which he had fled away in the dead of the night so short a time before. He left the station, and made his way to the market-place, and from the market-place he struck into a narrow lane that led him to an obscure street upon the outskirts of the town. He had a great terror of being led by some unhappy accident into the neighbourhood of the Reindeer, lest he should be recognized by some hanger-on of that hotel. Half-way between the beginning of the straggling street and the point at which it dwindled and shrank away into a country lane, the captain found a little public-house called the Crooked Rabbit,--such an obscure and out-of-the-way place of entertainment that poor Samuel thought himself safe in seeking for rest and refreshment within its dingy walls. There was a framed-and-glazed legend of "good beds" hanging behind an opaque window-pane,--beds for which the landlord of the Crooked Rabbit was in the habit of asking and receiving almost fabulous prices during the great Leger week. But there seemed little enough doing at the humble tavern just now, and Captain Prodder walked boldly in, ordered a steak and a pint of ale, with a glass of rum-and-water, hot, to follow, at the bar, and engaged one of the good beds for his accommodation. The landlord, who was a fat man, lounged with his back against the bar reading the sporting news in the 'Manchester Guardian;' and it was the landlady who took Mr. Prodder's orders and showed him the way into an awkwardly-shaped parlour, which was much below the rest of the house, and into which the uninitiated visitor was apt to precipitate himself head foremost, as into a well or pit. There were several small mahogany tables in this room, all adorned with sticky arabesques, formed by the wet impressions of the bottom rims of pewter pots; there were so many spittoons that it was almost impossible to walk from one end of the room to the other without taking unintentional foot-baths of sawdust; there was an old bagatelle-table, the cloth of which had changed from green to dingy yellow, and was frayed and tattered like a poor man's coat; and there was a low window, the sill of which was almost on a level with the pavement of the street. The merchant-captain threw off his hat, loosened the slip of ribbon and the torturing circular collar supplied him by the Israelitish outfitter, and cast himself into a shining mahogany arm-chair close to this window. The lower panes were shrouded by a crimson curtain, and he lifted this very cautiously and peered for a few moments into the street. It was lonely enough and quiet enough in the dusky summer's evening. Here and there lights twinkled in a shop window, and upon one threshold a man stood talking to his neighbour. With one thought always paramount in his mind, it is scarcely strange that Samuel Prodder should fancy these people must necessarily be talking of the murder. The landlady brought the captain the steak he had ordered, and the tired traveller seated himself at one of the tables and discussed his simple meal. He had eaten nothing since seven o'clock that morning, and he made very short work of the three-quarters of a pound of meat that had been cooked for him. He finished his beer, drank his rum-and-water, smoked a pipe, and then, as he had the room still to himself, he made an impromptu couch of Windsor chairs arranged in a row, and, in his own _parlance_, turned-in upon this rough hammock to take a brief stretch. He might have set his mind at rest, perhaps, before this, had he chosen. He could have questioned the landlady about the murder at Mellish Park; she was likely to know as much as any one else he might meet at the Crooked Rabbit. But he had refrained from doing this because he did not wish to draw attention to himself in any way, as a person in the smallest degree interested in the murder. How did he know what inquiries had possibly been made for the missing witness? There was perhaps some enormous reward offered for his apprehension, and a word or a look might betray him to the greedy eyes of those upon the watch to obtain it. Remember that this broad-shouldered seafaring man was as ignorant as a child of all things beyond the deck of his own vessel, and the watery high-roads he had been wont to navigate. Life along shore was a solemn mystery to him,--the law of the British dominions a complication of inscrutable enigmas, only to be spoken of and thought of in a spirit of reverence and wonder. If anybody had told him that he was likely to be seized upon as an accessory before the fact, and hung out of hand for his passive part in the Mellish Park catastrophe, he would have believed them implicitly. How did he know how many Acts of Parliament his conduct in leaving Doncaster without giving his evidence might come under? It might be high treason, lese-majesty,--anything in the world that is unpronounceable and awful,--for aught this simple sailor knew to the contrary. But in all this it was not his own safety that Captain Prodder thought of. That was of very little moment to this light-hearted, easy-going sailor. He had perilled his life too often on the high seas to set any exaggerated value upon it ashore. If they chose to hang an innocent man, they must do their worst; it would be their mistake, not his; and he had a simple seaman-like faith, rather vague, perhaps, and not very reduceable to anything like thirty-nine articles, which told him there were sweet little cherubs sitting up aloft who would take good care that any such sublunary mistake should be rectified in a certain supernal log-book, upon whose pages Samuel Prodder hoped to find himself set down as an honest and active sailor, always humbly obedient to the signals of his Commander. It was for his niece's sake, then, that the sailor dreaded any discovery of his whereabouts; and it was for her sake that he resolved upon exercising the greatest degree of caution of which his simple nature was capable. "I won't ask a single question," he thought; "there's sure to be a pack of lubbers dropping in here, by-and-by, and I shall hear 'em talking about the business as likely as not. These country folks would have nothing to talk about if they didn't overhaul the ship's books of their betters." The captain slept soundly for upwards of an hour, and was awakened at the end of that time by the sound of voices in the room, and the fumes of tobacco. The gas was flaring high in the low-roofed parlour when he opened his eyes, and at first he could scarcely distinguish the occupants of the room for the blinding glare of light. "I won't get up," he thought; "I'll sham asleep for a bit, and see whether they happen to talk about the business." There were only three men in the room. One of them was the landlord, whom Samuel Prodder had seen reading in the bar; and the other two were shabby-looking men, with by no means too respectable a stamp either upon their persons or their manners. One of them wore a velveteen cut-away coat with big brass buttons, knee-breeches, blue stockings, and highlows. The other was a pale-faced man, with mutton-chop whiskers, and dressed in a shabby-genteel costume, that gave indication of general vagabondage rather than of any particular occupation. They were talking of horses when Captain Prodder awoke, and the sailor lay for some time listening to a jargon that was utterly unintelligible to him. The men talked of Lord Zetland's lot, of Lord Glasgow's lot, and the Leger and the Cup, and made offers to bet with each other, and quarrelled about the terms, and never came to an agreement, in a manner that was utterly bewildering to poor Samuel; but he waited patiently, still feigning to be asleep, and not in any way disturbed by the men, who did not condescend to take any notice of him. "They'll talk of the other business presently," he thought; "they're safe to talk of it." Mr. Prodder was right. After discussing the conflicting merits of half the horses in the racing calendar, the three men abandoned the fascinating subject; and the landlord re-entering the room after having left it to fetch a fresh supply of beer for his guests, asked if either of them had heard if anything new had turned up about that business at Mellish Park. "There's a letter in to-day's 'Guardian,'" he added, before receiving any reply to his question, "and a pretty strong one. It tries to fix the murder upon some one in the house, but it don't exactly name the party. It wouldn't be safe to do that yet awhile, I suppose." Upon the request of the two men, the landlord of the Crooked Rabbit read the letter in the Manchester daily paper. It was a very clever letter, and a spirited one, giving a synopsis of the proceedings at the inquest, and commenting very severely upon the manner in which that investigation had been conducted. Mr. Prodder quailed until the Windsor chairs trembled beneath him as the landlord read one passage, in which it was remarked that the stranger who carried the news of the murder to the house of the victim's employer, the man who had heard the report of the pistol, and had been chiefly instrumental in the finding of the body, had not been forthcoming at the inquest. "He had disappeared mysteriously and abruptly, and no efforts were made to find him," wrote the correspondent of the 'Guardian.' "What assurance can be given for the safety of any man's life when such a crime as the Mellish Park murder is investigated in this loose and indifferent manner? The catastrophe occurred within the boundary of the Park fence. Let it be discovered whether any person in the Mellish household had a motive for the destruction of James Conyers. The man was a stranger to the neighbourhood. He was not likely, therefore, to have made enemies outside the boundary of his employer's estate, but he may have had some secret foe within that limit. Who was he? where did he come from? what were his antecedents and associations? Let each one of these questions be fully sifted, let a cordon be drawn round the house, and every creature living in it be held under the surveillance of the law until patient investigation has done its work, and such evidence has been collected as must lead to the detection of the guilty person." To this effect was the letter which the landlord read in a loud and didactic manner, that was very imposing, though not without a few stumbles over some hard words, and a good deal of slapdash jumping at others. Samuel Prodder could make very little of the composition, except that it was perfectly clear he had been missed at the inquest, and his absence commented upon. The landlord and the shabby-genteel man talked long and discursively upon the matter; the man in the velveteen coat, who was evidently a thorough-bred cockney and only newly arrived in Doncaster, required to be told the whole story before he was upon a footing with the other two. He was very quiet, and generally spoke between his teeth, rarely taking the unnecessary trouble of removing his short clay-pipe from his mouth, except when it required refilling. He listened to the story of the murder very intently, keeping one eye upon the speaker and the other on his pipe, and nodding approvingly now and then in the course of the narrative. He took his pipe from his mouth when the story was finished, and filled it from an india-rubber pouch, which had to be turned inside-out in some mysterious manner before the tobacco could be extricated from it. While he was packing the loose fragments of shag or bird's-eye neatly into the bowl of the pipe with his stumpy little finger, he said, with supreme carelessness-- "I know'd Jim Conyers." "Did you now?" exclaimed the landlord, opening his eyes very wide. "I know'd him," repeated the man, "as intimate as I know'd my own mother; and when I read of the murder in the newspaper last Sunday, you might have knocked me down with a feather. 'Jim's got it at last,' I said; for he was one of them coves that goes through the world cock-a-doodling over other people to sich a extent, that when they _do_ drop in for it, there's not many particular sorry for 'em. He was one of your selfish chaps, this here; and when a chap goes through this life makin' it his leadin' principle to care about nobody, he mustn't be surprised if it ends by nobody carin' for him. Yes, I know'd Jim Conyers," added the man, slowly and thoughtfully, "and I know'd him under rather pecooliar circumstances." The landlord and the other man pricked up their ears at this point of the conversation. The trainer at Mellish Park had, as we know, risen to popularity from the hour in which he had fallen upon the dewy turf in the wood, shot through the heart. "If there wasn't any particklar objections," the landlord of the Crooked Rabbit said, presently, "I should oncommonly like to hear anything you've got to tell about the poor chap. There's a deal of interest took about the matter in Doncaster, and my customers have scarcely talked of anything else since the inquest." The man in the velveteen coat rubbed his chin and smoked his pipe reflectively. He was evidently not a very communicative man; but it was also evident that he was rather gratified by the distinction of his position in the little public-house parlour. This was no other than Mr. Matthew Harrison, the dog-fancier; Aurora's pensioner, the man who had traded upon her secret, and made himself the last link between her and the low-born husband she had abandoned. Samuel Prodder lifted himself from the Windsor chairs at this juncture. He was too much interested in the conversation to be able to simulate sleep any longer. He got up, stretched his legs and arms, made elaborate show of having just awakened from a profound and refreshing slumber, and asked the landlord of the Crooked Rabbit to mix him another glass of that pineapple-rum grog. The captain lighted his pipe while his host departed upon this errand. The seaman glanced rather inquisitively at Mr. Harrison; but he was fain to wait until the conversation took its own course, and offered him a safe opportunity of asking a few questions. "The pecooliar circumstances under which I know'd James Conyers," pursued the dog-fancier, after having taken his own time and smoked out half a pipeful of tobacco, to the acute aggravation of his auditory, "was a woman,--and a stunner she was, too; one of your regular spitfires, that'll knock you into the middle of next week if you so much as asks her how she does in a manner she don't approve of. She was a woman, she was, and a handsome one, too; but she was more than a match for James, with all his brass. Why, I've seen her great black eyes flash fire upon him," said Mr. Harrison, looking dreamily before him, as if he could even at that moment see the flashing eyes of which he spoke; "I've seen her look at him, as if she'd wither him up from off the ground he trod upon, with that contempt she felt for him." Samuel Prodder grew strangely uneasy as he listened to this man's talk of flashing black eyes and angry looks directed at James Conyers. Had he not seen his niece's shining orbs flame fire upon the dead man only a quarter of an hour before he received his death-wound? Only so long--Heaven help that wretched girl!--only so long before the man for whom she had expressed unmitigated hate had fallen by the hand of an unknown murderer. "She must have been a tartar, this young woman of yours," the landlord observed to Mr. Harrison. "She was a tartar," answered the dog-fancier: "but she was the right sort, too, for all that; and what's more, she was a kind friend to me. There's never a quarter-day goes by that I don't have cause to say so." He poured out a fresh glass of beer as he spoke, and tossed the liquor down his capacious throat with the muttered sentiment, "Here's towards her." Another man had entered the room while Mr. Prodder had sat smoking his pipe and drinking his rum-and-water, a hump-backed, white-faced man, who sneaked into the public-house parlour as if he had no right to be there, and seated himself noiselessly at one of the tables. Samuel Prodder remembered this man. He had seen him through the window in the lighted parlour of the north lodge when the body of James Conyers had been carried into the cottage. It was not likely, however, that the man had seen the captain. "Why, if it isn't Steeve Hargraves from the Park!" exclaimed the landlord, as he looked round and recognized the "Softy"; "he'll be able to tell plenty, I dare say. We've been talking of the murder, Steeve," he added, in a conciliatory manner. Mr. Hargraves rubbed his clumsy hands about his head, and looked furtively, yet searchingly, at each member of the little assembly. "Ay, sure," he said; "folks don't seem to me to talk about owght else. It was bad enoogh oop at the Park; but it seems worse in Doncaster." "Are you stayin' up town, Steeve?" asked the landlord, who seemed to be upon pretty intimate terms with the late hanger-on of Mellish Park. "Yes, I'm stayin' oop town for a bit; I've been out of place since the business oop there; you know how I was turned out of the house that had sheltered me ever since I was a boy, and you know who did it. Never mind that; I'm out o' place now, but you may draw me a mug of ale; I've money enough for that." Samuel Prodder looked at the "Softy" with considerable interest. He had played a small part in the great catastrophe, yet it was scarcely likely that he should be able to throw any light upon the mystery. What was he but a poor half-witted hanger-on of the murdered man, who had lost all by his patron's untimely death? The "Softy" drank his beer, and sat, silent, ungainly, and disagreeable to look upon, amongst the other men. "There's a reg'lar stir in the Manchester papers about this murder, Steeve," the landlord said, by way of opening a conversation; "it don't seem to me as if the business was goin' to be let drop over-quietly. There'll be a second inquest, I reckon, or a examination, or a memorial to the Secretary of State, or summat o' that sort, before long." The "Softy's" face, expressionless almost always, expressed nothing now but stolid indifference; the stupid indifference of a half-witted ignoramus, to whose impenetrable intellect even the murder of his own master was a far-away and obscure event, not powerful enough to awaken any effort of attention. "Yes; I'll lay there'll be a stir about it before long," the landlord continued. "The papers put it down very strong that the murder must have been done by some one in the house; by some one as had more knowledge of the man, and more reason to be angry against him, than strangers could have. Now you, Hargraves, were living at the place; you must have seen and heard things that other people haven't had the opportunity to hear. What do _you_ think about it?" Mr. Hargraves scratched his head reflectively. "The papers are cleverer nor me," he said at last; "it wouldn't do for a poor fond chap like me to go agen such as them. I think what they think. I think it was some one about the pleace did it; some one that had good reason to be spiteful again him that's dead." An imperceptible shudder passed over the "Softy's" frame as he alluded to the murdered man. It was strange with what gusto the other three men discussed the ghastly subject; returning to it persistently in spite of every interruption, and in a manner licking their lips over its gloomiest details. It was surely more strange that they should do this, than that Stephen Hargraves should exhibit some reluctance to talk freely upon the dismal topic. "And who do you think had cause to be spiteful agen him, Steeve?" asked the landlord. "Had him and Mr. Mellish fell out about the management of the stable?" "Him and _Mr._ Mellish had never had an angry word pass between 'em, as I've heerd of," answered the "Softy." He laid such a singular emphasis upon the word _Mr._ that the three men looked at him wonderingly, and Captain Prodder took his pipe from his mouth and grasped the back of a neighbouring chair as firmly as if he had entertained serious thoughts of flinging that trifle of furniture at the "Softy's" head. "Who else could it have been, then, as had a spite against the man?" asked some one. Samuel Prodder scarcely knew who it was who spoke, for his attention was concentrated upon Stephen Hargraves; and he never once removed his gaze from the white face, and dull, blinking eyes. "Who was it that went to meet him late at night in the north lodge?" whispered the "Softy." "Who was it that couldn't find words that was bad enough for him, or looks that was angry enough for him? Who was it that wrote him a letter,--I've got it, and I mean to keep it too,--askin' of him to be in the wood at such-and-such a time upon the very night of the murder? Who was it that met him there in the dark,--as others could tell as well as me? Who was it that did this?" No one answered. The men looked at each other and at the "Softy" with open mouths, but said nothing. Samuel Prodder grasped the topmost bar of the wooden chair still more tightly, and his broad bosom rose and fell beneath his tourist waistcoat like a raging sea; but he sat in the shadow of the queerly-shaped room, and no one noticed him. "Who was it that ran away from her own home and hid herself, after the inquest?" whispered the "Softy." "Who was it that was afraid to stop in her own house, but must run away to London without leaving word where she was gone for anybody? Who was it that was seen upon the mornin' before the murder, meddlin' with her husband's guns and pistols, and was seen by more than me, as them that saw her will testify when the time comes? Who was this?" Again there was no answer. The raging sea laboured still more heavily under Captain Prodder's waistcoat, and his grasp tightened, if it could tighten, on the rail of the chair; but he uttered no word. There was more to come, perhaps, yet; and he might want every chair in the room as instruments with which to appease his vengeance. "You was talkin', when I just came in, a while ago, of a young woman in connection with Mr. James Conyers, sir," said the "Softy," turning to Matthew Harrison; "a black-eyed woman, you said; might she have been his wife?" The dog-fancier started, and deliberated for a few moments before he answered. "Well, in a manner of speaking, she was his wife," he said at last, rather reluctantly. "She was a bit above him, loike--wasn't she?" asked the "Softy." "She had more money than she knew what to do with--eh?" The dog-fancier stared at the questioner. "You know who she was, I suppose?" he said suspiciously. "I think I do," whispered Stephen Hargraves. "She was the daughter of Mr. Floyd, the rich banker oop in London; and she married our squire while her first husband was alive; and she wrote a letter to him that's dead, askin' of him to meet her upon the night of the murder." Captain Prodder flung aside the chair. It was too poor a weapon with which to wreak his wrath; and with one bound he sprang upon the "Softy," seizing the astonished wretch by the throat, and overturning a table, with a heap of crashing glasses and pewter pots, that rolled away into the corners of the room. "It's a lie!" roared the sailor; "you foul-mouthed hound! you know that it's a lie! Give me something," cried Captain Prodder; "give me something, somebody, and give it quick, that I may pound this man into a mash as soft as a soaked ship's biscuit; for if I use my fists to him I shall murder him, as sure as I stand here. It's my sister Eliza's child you want to slander, is it? You'd better have kept your mouth shut while you was in her own uncle's company. I meant to have kep' quiet here," cried the captain, with a vague recollection that he had betrayed himself and his purpose; "but was I to keep quiet and hear lies told of my own niece? Take care," he added, shaking the "Softy," till Mr. Hargraves's teeth chattered in his head, "or I'll knock those crooked teeth of yours down your ugly throat, to hinder you from telling any more lies of my dead sister's only child." "They weren't lies," gasped the "Softy," doggedly; "I said I've got the letter, and I have got it. Let me go, and I'll show it to you." The sailor released the dirty wisp of cotton neckerchief by which he had held Stephen Hargraves; but he still retained a grasp upon his coat-collar. "Shall I show you the letter?" asked the "Softy." "Yes." Mr. Hargraves fumbled in his pockets for some minutes, and ultimately produced a dirty scrap of crumpled paper. It was the brief scrawl which Aurora had written to James Conyers, telling him to meet her in the wood. The murdered man had thrown it carelessly aside after reading it, and it had been picked up by Stephen Hargraves. He would not trust the precious document out of his own clumsy hands, but held it before Captain Prodder for inspection. The sailor stared at it, anxious, bewildered, fearful; he scarcely knew how to estimate the importance of the wretched scrap of circumstantial evidence. There were the words, certainly, written in a bold, scarcely feminine, hand. But these words in themselves proved nothing until it could be proved that his niece had written them. "How do I know as my sister Eliza's child wrote that?" he asked. "Ay, sure; but she did though," answered the "Softy." "But, coom, let me go now, will you?" he added, with cringing civility; "I didn't know you was her uncle. How was I to know owght about it? I don't want to make any mischief agen Mrs. Mellish, though she's been no friend to me. I didn't say anything at the inquest, did I? though I might have said as much as I've said to-night, if it comes to that, and have told no lies. But when folks bother _me_ about him that's dead, and ask this and that and t'oother, and go on as if I had a right to know all about it, I'm free to tell my thoughts, I suppose? surely I'm free to tell my thoughts?" "I'll go straight to Mr. Mellish, and tell him what you've said, you scoundrel!" cried the captain. "Ay, do," whispered Stephen Hargraves maliciously; "there's some of it that'll be stale news to him, anyhow." CHAPTER IX. THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON WITH WHICH JAMES CONYERS HAD BEEN SLAIN. Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to the house in which they had been so happy; but it is not to be supposed that the pleasant country mansion could be again, all in a moment, the home that it had been before the advent of James Conyers the trainer, and the acting of the tragedy that had so abruptly concluded his brief service. No; every pang that Aurora had felt, every agony that John had endured, had left a certain impress upon the scene in which it had been suffered. The subtle influences of association hung heavily about the familiar place. We are the slaves of such associations, and we are powerless to stand against their silent force. Scraps of colour and patches of gilding upon the walls will bear upon them, as plainly as if they were covered with hieroglyphical inscriptions, the shadows of the thoughts of those who have looked upon them. Transient and chance effects of light or shade will recall the same effects, seen and observed--as Fagin observed the broken spike upon the guarded dock--in some horrible crisis of misery and despair. The commonest household goods and chattels will bear mute witness of your agonies: an easy-chair will say to you, "It was upon me you cast yourself in that paroxysm of rage and grief;" the pattern of a dinner-service may recall to you that fatal day on which you pushed your food untasted from you, and turned your face, like grief-stricken King David, to the wall. The bed you lay upon, the curtains that sheltered you, the pattern of the paper on the walls, the common every-day sounds of the household, coming muffled and far-away to that lonely room in which you hid yourself,--all these bear record of your sorrow, and of that hideous double action of the mind which impresses these things most vividly upon you at the very time when it would seem they should be most indifferent. But every sorrow, every pang of wounded love, or doubt, or jealousy, or despair, is a fact--a fact once, and a fact for ever; to be outlived, but very rarely to be forgotten; leaving such an impress upon our lives as no future joys can quite wear out. The murder has been done, and the hands are red. The sorrow has been suffered; and however beautiful Happiness may be to us, she can never be the bright virginal creature she once was; for she has passed through the valley of the shadow of death, and we have discovered that she is not immortal. It is not to be expected, then, that John Mellish and his wife Aurora could feel quite the same in the pretty chambers of the Yorkshire mansion as they had felt before the first shipwreck of their happiness. They had been saved from peril and destruction, and landed, by the mercy of Providence, high and dry upon the shore that seemed to promise them pleasure and security henceforth. But the memory of the tempest was yet new to them; and upon the sands that were so smooth to-day they had seen yesterday the breakers beating with furious menace, and hurrying onward to destroy them. The funeral of the trainer had not yet taken place, and it was scarcely a pleasant thing for Mr. Mellish to remember that the body of the murdered man still lay, stark and awful, in the oak coffin that stood upon trestles in the rustic chamber at the north lodge. "I'll pull that place down, Lolly," John said, as he turned away from an open window, through which he could see the Gothic chimneys of the trainer's late habitation glimmering redly above the trees. "I'll pull the place down, my pet. The gates are never used, except by the stable-boys; I'll knock them down, and the lodge too, and build some loose boxes for the brood-mares with the materials. And we'll go away to the south of France, darling, and run across to Italy, if you like, and forget all about this horrid business." "The funeral will take place to-morrow, John, will it not?" Aurora asked. "To-morrow, dear!--to-morrow is Wednesday, you know. It was upon Thursday night that----" "Yes, yes," she answered, interrupting him. "I know; I know." She shuddered as she spoke, remembering the ghastly circumstances of the night to which he alluded; remembering how the dead man had stood before her, strong in health and vitality, and had insolently defied her hatred. Away from Mellish Park, she had only remembered that the burden of her life had been removed from her, and that she was free. But here--here upon the scene of the hideous story--she recollected the manner of her release; and that memory oppressed her even more terribly than her old secret, her only sorrow. She had never seen or known in this man, who had been murdered, one redeeming quality, one generous thought. She had known him as a liar, a schemer, a low and paltry swindler, a selfish spendthrift, extravagant to wantonness upon himself, but meaner than words could tell towards others; a profligate, a traitor, a glutton, a drunkard. This is what she had found behind her school-girl's fancy for a handsome face, for violet-tinted eyes, and soft-brown curling hair. Do not call her hard, then, if sorrow had no part in the shuddering horror she felt as she conjured up the image of him in his death-hour, and saw the glazing eyes turned angrily upon her. She was little more than twenty; and it had been her fate always to take the wrong step, always to be misled by the vague finger-posts upon life's high-road, and to choose the longest, and crookedest, and hardest way towards the goal she sought to reach. Had she, upon the discovery of her first husband's infidelity, called the law to her aid,--she was rich enough to command its utmost help, though Sir Cresswell Cresswell did not then keep the turnpike upon such a royal road to divorce as he does now,--she might have freed herself from the hateful chains so foolishly linked together, and might have defied this dead man to torment or assail her. But she had chosen to follow the counsel of expediency, and it had led her upon the crooked way through which I have striven to follow her. I feel that there is much need of apology for her. Her own hands had sown the dragon's teeth, from whose evil seed had sprung up armed men, strong enough to rend and devour her. But then, if she had been faultless, she could not have been the heroine of this story; for I think some wise man of old remarked, that the perfect women were those who left no histories behind them, but went through life upon such a tranquil course of quiet well-doing as left no footprints on the sands of time; only mute records hidden here and there, deep in the grateful hearts of those who had been blest by them. The presence of the dead man within the boundary of Mellish Park made itself felt throughout the household that had once been such a jovial one. The excitement of the catastrophe had passed away, and only the dull gloom remained--a sense of oppression not to be cast aside. It was felt in the servants' hall, as well as in Aurora's luxurious apartments. It was felt by the butler as well as by the master. No worse deed of violence than the slaughter of an unhappy stag, who had rushed for a last refuge to the Mellish Park flower-garden, and had been run down by furious hounds upon the velvet lawn, had ever before been done within the boundary of the young squire's home. The house was an old one, and had stood, gray and ivy-shrouded, through the perilous days of civil war. There were secret passages, in which loyal squires of Mellish Park had hidden from ferocious Roundheads bent upon riot and plunder. There were broad hearth-stones, upon which sturdy blows had been given and exchanged by strong men in leathern jerkins and clumsy iron-heeled boots; but the Royalist Mellish had always ultimately escaped,--up a chimney, or down a cellar, or behind a curtain of tapestry; and the wicked Praise-the-Lord Thompsons, and Smiter-of-the-Philistines Joneses, had departed after plundering the plate-chest and emptying the wine-barrels. There had never before been set upon the place in which John Mellish had first seen the light, the red hand of MURDER. It was not strange, then, that the servants sat long over their meals, and talked in solemn whispers of the events of the past week. There was more than the murder to talk about. There was the flight of Mrs. Mellish from beneath her husband's roof upon the very day of the inquest. It was all very well for John to give out that his wife had gone up to town upon a visit to her cousin, Mrs. Bulstrode. Such ladies as Mrs. Mellish do not go upon visits without escort, without a word of notice, without the poorest pretence of bag and baggage. No; the mistress of Mellish Park had fled away from her home under the influence of some sudden panic. Had not Mrs. Powell said as much, or hinted as much? for when did that lady-like creature ever vulgarize her opinions by stating them plainly? The matter was obvious. Mr. Mellish had taken, no doubt, the wisest course: he had pursued his wife and had brought her back, and had done his best to hush up the matter; but Aurora's departure had been a flight,--a sudden and unpremeditated flight. The lady's-maid,--ah, how many handsome dresses, given to her by a generous mistress, lay neatly folded in the girl's boxes on the second story!--told how Aurora had come to her room, pale and wild-looking, and had dressed herself unassisted for that hurried journey, upon the day of the inquest. The girl liked her mistress, loved her, perhaps; for Aurora had a wondrous and almost dangerous faculty for winning the love of those who came near her; but it was so pleasant to have something to say about this all-absorbing topic, and to be able to make oneself a feature in the solemn conclave. At first they had talked only of the murdered man, speculating upon his life and history, and building up a dozen theoretical views of the murder. But the tide had turned now, and they talked of their mistress; not connecting her in any positive or openly expressed manner with the murder, but commenting upon the strangeness of her conduct, and dwelling much upon those singular coincidences by which she had happened to be roaming in the park upon the night of the catastrophe, and to run away from her home on the day of the inquest. "It _was_ odd, you know," the cook said; "and them black-eyed women are generally regular spirity ones. _I_ shouldn't like to offend Master John's wife. Do you remember how she paid into t' 'Softy'?" "But there was naught o' sort between her and the trainer, was there?" asked some one. "I don't know about that. But 'Softy' said she hated him like poison, and that there was no love lost between 'em." But why should Aurora have hated the dead man? The ensign's widow had left the sting of her venom behind her, and had suggested to these servants, by hints and innuendos, something so far more base and hideous than the truth, that I will not sully these pages by recording it. But Mrs. Powell had of course done this foul thing without the utterance of one ugly word that could have told against her gentility, had it been repeated aloud in a crowded drawing-room. She had only shrugged her shoulders, and lifted her straw-coloured eyebrows, and sighed half regretfully, half deprecatingly; but she had blasted the character of the woman she hated as shamefully as if she had uttered a libel too gross for Holywell Street. She had done a wrong that could only be undone by the exhibition of the blood-stained certificate in John's keeping, and the revelation of the whole story connected with that fatal scrap of paper. She had done this before packing her boxes; and she had gone away from the house that had sheltered her, well-pleased at having done this wrong; and comforting herself yet further by the intention of doing more mischief through the medium of the penny post. It is not to be supposed that the Manchester paper, which had caused so serious a discussion in the humble parlour of the Crooked Rabbit, had been overlooked in the servants' hall at Mellish Park. The Manchester journals were regularly forwarded to the young squire from that metropolis of cotton-spinning and horse-racing; and the mysterious letter in the 'Guardian' had been read and commented upon. Every creature in that household, from the fat housekeeper, who had kept the keys of the store-room through nearly three generations, to the rheumatic trainer, Langley, had a certain interest in the awful question. A nervous footman turned pale as that passage was read which declared that the murder had been committed by some member of the household; but I think there were some younger and more adventurous spirits--especially a pretty housemaid, who had seen the thrilling drama of 'Susan Hopley' performed at the Doncaster theatre during the spring meeting--who would have rather liked to be accused of the crime, and to emerge spotless and triumphant from the judicial ordeal, through the evidence of an idiot, or a magpie, or a ghost, or some other witness common and popular in criminal courts. Did Aurora know anything of all this? No; she only knew that a dull and heavy sense of oppression in her own breast made the very summer atmosphere floating in at the open windows seem stifling and poisonous; that the house, which had once been so dear to her, was as painfully and perpetually haunted by the ghastly presence of the murdered man, as if the dead trainer had stalked palpably about the corridors wrapped in a blood-stained winding-sheet. She dined with her husband alone in the great dining-room. They were very silent at dinner, for the presence of the servants sealed their lips upon the topic that was uppermost in their minds. John looked anxiously at his wife every now and then, for he saw that her face had grown paler since her arrival at Mellish; but he waited until they were alone before he spoke. "My darling," he said, as the door closed behind the butler and his subordinate, "I am sure you are ill. This business has been too much for you." "It is the air of this house that seems to oppress me, John," answered Aurora. "I had forgotten all about this dreadful business while I was away. Now that I have come back, and find that the time which has been so long to me--so long in misery and anxiety, and so long in joy, my own dear love, through you--is in reality only a few days, and that the murdered man still lies near us, I--; I shall be better when--when the funeral is over, John." "My poor darling, I was a fool to bring you back. I should never have done so, but for Talbot's advice. He urged me so strongly to come back directly. He said that if there should be any disturbance about the murder, we ought to be upon the spot." "Disturbance! What disturbance?" cried Aurora. Her face blanched as she spoke, and her heart sank within her. What further disturbance could there be? Was the ghastly business as yet unfinished, then? She knew--alas! only too well--that there could be no investigation of this matter which would not bring her name before the world linked with the name of the dead man. How much she had endured in order to keep that shameful secret from the world! How much she had sacrificed in the hope of saving her father from humiliation! And now, at the last, when she had thought that the dark chapter of her life was finished, the hateful page blotted out,--now, at the very last, there was a probability of some new disturbance which would bring her name and her history into every newspaper in England. "Oh, John, John!" she cried, bursting into a passion of hysterical sobs, and covering her face with her clasped hands; "am I never to hear the last of this? Am I never, never, never to be released from the consequences of my miserable folly?" The butler entered the room as she said this; she rose hurriedly, and walked to one of the windows, in order to conceal her face from the man. "I beg your pardon, sir," the old servant said; "but they've found something in the park, and I thought perhaps you might like to know----" "They've found something! What?" exclaimed John, utterly bewildered between his agitation at the sight of his wife's grief and his endeavour to understand the man. "A pistol, sir. One of the stable-lads found it just now. He went to the wood with another boy to look at the place where--the--the man was shot; and he's brought back a pistol he found there. It was close against the water, but hid away among the weeds and rushes. Whoever threw it there, thought, no doubt, to throw it in the pond; but Jim, that's one of the boys, fancied he saw something glitter, and sure enough it was the barrel of a pistol; and I think must be the one that the trainer was shot with, Mr. John." "A pistol!" cried Mr. Mellish; "let me see it." His servant handed him the weapon. It was small enough for a toy, but none the less deadly in a skilful hand. It was a rich man's fancy, deftly carried out by some cunning gunsmith, and enriched by elaborate inlaid work of purple steel and tarnished silver. It was rusty, from exposure to rain and dew; but Mr. Mellish knew the pistol well, for it was his own. It was his own; one of his pet playthings; and it had been kept in the room which was only entered by privileged persons,--the room in which his wife had busied herself with the rearrangement of his guns upon the day of the murder. CHAPTER X. UNDER A CLOUD. Talbot Bulstrode and his wife came to Mellish Park a few days after the return of John and Aurora. Lucy was pleased to come to her cousin; pleased to be allowed to love her without reservation; grateful to her husband for his gracious goodness in setting no barrier between her and the friend she loved. And Talbot,--who shall tell the thoughts that were busy in his mind, as he sat in a corner of the first-class carriage, to all outward appearance engrossed in the perusal of a 'Times' leader? I wonder how much of the Thunderer's noble Saxon English Mr. Bulstrode comprehended that morning! The broad white paper on which the 'Times' is printed serves as a convenient screen for a man's face. Heaven knows what agonies have been sometimes endured behind that printed mask! A woman, married, and a happy mother, glances carelessly enough at the Births and Marriages and Deaths, and reads perhaps that the man she loved, and parted with, and broke her heart for, fifteen or twenty years before, has fallen, shot through the heart, far away upon an Indian battle-field. She holds the paper firmly enough before her face; and her husband goes on with his breakfast, and stirs his coffee, or breaks his egg, while she suffers her agony,--while the comfortable breakfast-table darkens and goes away from her, and the long-ago day comes back upon which the cruel ship left Southampton, and the hard voices of well-meaning friends held forth monotonously upon the folly of improvident marriages. Would it not be better, by-the-by, for wives to make a practice of telling their husbands all the sentimental little stories connected with the pre-matrimonial era? Would it not be wiser to gossip freely about Charles's dark eyes and moustache, and to hope that the poor fellow is getting on well in the Indian service, than to keep a skeleton, in the shape of a phantom ensign in the 87th, hidden away in some dark chamber of the feminine memory? But other than womanly agonies are suffered behind the 'Times.' The husband reads bad news of the railway company in whose shares he has so rashly invested that money which his wife believes safely lodged in the jog-trot, three-per-cent.-yielding Consols. The dashing son, with Newmarket tendencies, reads evil tidings of the horse he has backed so boldly, perhaps at the advice of a Manchester prophet, who warranted putting his friends in the way of winning a hatful of money for the small consideration of three-and-sixpence in postage-stamps. Visions of a book that it will not be very easy to square; of a black list of play or pay engagements; of a crowd of angry book-men clamorous for their dues, and not slow to hint at handy horse-ponds, and possible tar and feathers, for defaulting swells and sneaking "welshers"; all these things flit across the disorganized brain of the young man, while his sisters are entreating to be told whether the 'Crown Diamonds' is to be performed that night, and if "dear Miss Pyne" will warble Rode's air before the curtain falls. The friendly screen hides his face; and by the time he has looked for the Covent Garden advertisements, and given the required information, he is able to set the paper down and proceed calmly with his breakfast, pondering ways and means as he does so. Lucy Bulstrode read a High-Church novel, while her husband sat with the 'Times' before his face, thinking of all that had happened to him since he had first met the banker's daughter. How far away that old love-story seemed to have receded since the quiet domestic happiness of his life had begun in his marriage with Lucy! He had never been false, in the remotest shadow of a thought, to his second love; but now that he knew the secret of Aurora's life, he could but look back and wonder how he should have borne that cruel revelation if John's fate had been his; if he had trusted the woman he loved in spite of the world, in spite of her own strange words, which had so terribly strengthened his worst fears, so cruelly redoubled his darkest doubts. "Poor girl!" he thought; "it was scarcely strange that she should shrink from telling that humiliating story. I was not tender enough. I confronted her in my obstinate and pitiless pride. I thought of myself rather than of her, and of her sorrow. I was barbarous and ungentlemanly; and then I wondered that she refused to confide in me." Talbot Bulstrode, reasoning after the fact, saw the weak points of his conduct with a preternatural clearness of vision, and could not repress a sharp pang of regret that he had not acted more generously. There was no infidelity to Lucy in this thought. He would not have exchanged his devoted little wife for the black-browed divinity of the past, though an all-powerful fairy had stood at his side ready to cancel his nuptials and tie a fresh knot between him and Aurora. But he was a gentleman, and he felt that he had grievously wronged, insulted and humiliated a woman whose worst fault had been the trusting folly of an innocent girl. "I left her on the ground in that room at Felden," he thought,--"kneeling on the ground, with her beautiful head bowed down before me. O my God, can I ever forget the agony of that moment! Can I ever forget what it cost me to do that which I thought was right!" The cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead as he remembered that bygone pain, as it may do with a cowardly person who recalls too vividly the taking out of a three-pronged double-tooth, or the cutting off of a limb. "John Mellish was ten times wiser than I," thought Mr. Bulstrode; "he trusted to his instinct, and recognized a true woman when he met her. I used to despise him at Rugby because he couldn't construe Cicero. I never thought he'd live to be wiser than me." Talbot Bulstrode folded the 'Times' newspaper, and laid it down in the empty seat by his side. Lucy shut the third volume of her novel. How should she care to read when it pleased her husband to desist from reading? "Lucy," said Mr. Bulstrode, taking his wife's hand (they had the carriage to themselves--a piece of good fortune which often happens to travellers who give the guard half-a-crown),--"Lucy, I once did your cousin a great wrong; I want to atone for it now. If any trouble, which no one yet foresees, should come upon her, I want to be her friend. Do you think I am right in wishing this, dear?" "Right, Talbot!" Mrs. Bulstrode could only repeat the word in unmitigated surprise. When did she ever think him anything but the truest and wisest and most perfect of created beings? Everything seemed very quiet at Mellish when the visitors arrived. There was no one in the drawing-room, nor in the smaller room within the drawing-room; the Venetians were closed, for the day was close and sultry; there were vases of fresh flowers upon the tables; but there were no open books, no litter of frivolous needlework or drawing-materials, to indicate Aurora's presence. "Mr. and Mrs. Mellish expected you by the later train, I believe, sir," the servant said, as he ushered Talbot and his wife into the drawing-room. "Shall I go and look for Aurora?" Lucy said to her husband. "She is in the morning-room, I dare say." Talbot suggested that it would be better, perhaps, to wait till Mrs. Mellish came to them. So Lucy was fain to remain where she was. She went to one of the open windows, and pushed the shutters apart. The blazing sunshine burst into the room, and drowned it in light. The smooth lawn was aflame with scarlet geraniums and standard roses, and all manner of gaudily-coloured blossoms; but Mrs. Bulstrode looked beyond this vividly-tinted _parterre_ to the thick woods, that loomed darkly purple against the glowing sky. It was in that very wood that her husband had declared his love for her; the same wood that had since been outraged by violence and murder. "The--the man is buried, I suppose, Talbot?" she said to her husband. "I believe so, my dear." "I should never care to live in this place again, if I were Aurora." The door opened before Mrs. Bulstrode had finished speaking, and the mistress of the house came towards them. She welcomed them affectionately and kindly, taking Lucy in her arms, and greeting her very tenderly; but Talbot saw that she had changed terribly within the few days that had passed since her return to Yorkshire, and his heart sank as he observed her pale face and the dark circles about her hollow eyes. Could she have heard----? Could anybody have given her reason to suppose----? "You are not well, Mrs. Mellish," he said, as he took her hand. "No, not very well. This oppressive weather makes my head ache." "I am sorry to see you looking ill. Where shall I find John?" asked Mr. Bulstrode. Aurora's pale face flushed suddenly. "I--I--don't know," she stammered. "He is not in the house; he has gone out--to the stables--or to the farm, I think. I'll send for him." "No, no," Talbot said, intercepting her hand on its way to the bell. "I'll go and look for him. Lucy will be glad of a chat with you, I dare say, Aurora, and will not be sorry to get rid of me." Lucy, with her arm about her cousin's waist, assented to this arrangement. She was grieved to see the change in Aurora's looks, the unnatural constraint of her manner. Mr. Bulstrode walked away, hugging himself upon having done a very wise thing. "Lucy is a great deal more likely to find out what is the matter than I am," he thought. "There is a sort of freemasonry between women, an electric affinity, which a man's presence always destroys. How deathly pale Aurora looks! Can it be possible that the trouble I expected has come so soon?" He went to the stables, but not so much to look for John Mellish as in the hope of finding somebody intelligent enough to furnish him with a better account of the murder than any he had yet heard. "Some one else, as well as Aurora, must have had a reason for wishing to get rid of this man," he thought. "There must have been some motive: revenge,--gain,--something which no one has yet fathomed." He went into the stable-yard; but he had no opportunity of making his investigation, for John Mellish was standing in a listless attitude before a small forge, watching the shoeing of one of his horses. The young squire looked up with a start as he recognized Talbot, and gave him his hand, with a few straggling words of welcome. Even in that moment Mr. Bulstrode saw that there was perhaps a greater change in John's appearance than in that of Aurora. The Yorkshireman's blue eyes had lost their brightness, his step its elasticity; his face seemed sunken and haggard, and he evidently avoided meeting Talbot's eye. He lounged listlessly away from the forge, walking at his guest's side in the direction of the stable-gates; but he had the air of a man who neither knows nor cares whither he is going. "Shall we go to the house?" he said. "You must want some luncheon after your journey." He looked at his watch as he said this. It was half-past three, an hour after the usual time for luncheon at Mellish. "I've been in the stables all the morning," he said. "We're busy making our preparations for the York Summer." "What horses do you run?" Mr. Bulstrode asked, politely affecting to be interested in a subject that was utterly indifferent to him, in the hope that stable-talk might rouse John from his listless apathy. "What horses!" repeated Mr. Mellish vaguely. "I--I hardly know. Langley manages all that for me, you know; and--I--I forget the names of the horses he proposed, and----" Talbot Bulstrode turned suddenly upon his friend, and looked him full in the face. They had left the stables by this time, and were in a shady pathway that led through a shrubbery towards the house. "John Mellish," he said, "this is not fair towards an old friend. You have something on your mind, and you are trying to hide it from me." The squire turned away his head. "I have something on my mind, Talbot," he said quietly. "If you could help me, I'd ask your help more than any man's. But you can't--you can't!" "But suppose I think I _can_ help you?" cried Mr. Bulstrode. "Suppose I mean to try and do so, whether you will or no? I think I can guess what your trouble is, John; but I thought you were a braver man than to give way under it; I thought you were just the sort of man to struggle through it nobly and bravely, and to get the better of it by your own strength of will." "What do you mean!" exclaimed John Mellish. "You can guess--you know--you thought! Have you no mercy upon me, Talbot Bulstrode? Can't you see that I'm almost mad, and that this is no time for you to force your sympathy upon me? Do you want me to betray myself? Do you want me to betray----" He stopped suddenly, as if the words had choked him, and, passionately stamping his foot upon the ground, walked on hurriedly, with his friend still by his side. The dining-room looked dreary enough when the two men entered it, although the table gave promise of a very substantial luncheon; but there was no one to welcome them, or to officiate at the banquet. John seated himself wearily in a chair at the bottom of the table. "You had better go and see if Mrs. Bulstrode and your mistress are coming to luncheon," he said to a servant, who left the room with his master's message, and returned three minutes afterwards to say that the ladies were not coming. The ladies were seated side by side upon a low sofa in Aurora's morning-room. Mrs. Mellish sat with her head upon her cousin's shoulder. She had never had a sister, remember; and gentle Lucy stood in place of that near and tender comforter. Talbot was perfectly right; Lucy had accomplished that which he would have failed to bring about. She had found the key to her cousin's unhappiness. "Ceased to love you, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Bulstrode, echoing the words that Aurora had last spoken. "Impossible!" "It is true, Lucy," answered Mrs. Mellish, despairingly. "He has ceased to love me. There is a black cloud between us now, now that all secrets are done away with. It is very bitter for me to bear, Lucy; for I thought we should be so happy and united. But--but it is only natural. He feels the degradation so much. How can he look at me without remembering who and what I am? The widow of his groom! Can I wonder that he avoids me?" "Avoids you, dear?" "Yes, avoids me. We have scarcely spoken a dozen words to each other since the night of our return. He was so good to me, so tender and devoted during the journey home, telling me again and again that this discovery had not lessened his love, that all the trial and horror of the past few days had only shown him the great strength of his affection; but on the night of our return, Lucy, he changed--changed suddenly and inexplicably; and now I feel that there is a gulf between us that can never be passed again. He is alienated from me for ever!" "Aurora, all this is impossible," remonstrated Lucy. "It is your own morbid fancy, darling." "My fancy!" cried Aurora bitterly. "Ah, Lucy, you cannot know how much I love my husband, if you think that I could be deceived in one look or tone of his. Is it my fancy that he averts his eyes when he speaks to me? Is it my fancy that his voice changes when he pronounces my name? Is it my fancy that he roams about the house like a ghost, and paces up and down his room half the night through? If these things are my fancy, Heaven have mercy upon me, Lucy; for I must be going mad." Mrs. Bulstrode started as she looked at her cousin. Could it be possible that all the trouble and confusion of the past week or two had indeed unsettled this poor girl's intellect? "My poor Aurora!" she murmured, smoothing the heavy hair away from her cousin's tearful eyes: "my poor darling! how is it possible that John should change towards you? He loved you so dearly, so devotedly; surely nothing could alienate him from you." "I used to think so, Lucy," Aurora murmured in a low, heart-broken voice; "I used to think nothing could ever come to part us. He said he would follow me to the uttermost end of the world; he said that no obstacle on earth should ever separate us; and now----" She could not finish the sentence, for she broke into convulsive sobs, and hid her face upon her cousin's shoulder, staining Mrs. Bulstrode's pretty silk dress with her hot tears. "Oh, my love, my love!" she cried piteously, "why didn't I run away and hide myself from you? why didn't I trust to my first instinct, and run away from you for ever? Any suffering would be better than this! any suffering would be better than this!" Her passionate grief merged into a fit of hysterical weeping, in which she was no longer mistress of herself. She had suffered for the past few days more bitterly than she had ever suffered yet. Lucy understood all that. She was one of those people whose tenderness instinctively comprehends the griefs of others. She knew how to treat her cousin; and in less than an hour after this emotional outbreak Aurora was lying on her bed, pale and exhausted, but sleeping peacefully. She had carried the burden of her sorrow in silence during the past few days, and had spent sleepless nights in brooding over her trouble. Her conversation with Lucy had unconsciously relieved her, and she slumbered calmly after the storm. Lucy sat by the bed watching the sleeper for some time, and then stole on tiptoe from the room. She went, of course, to tell her husband all that had passed, and to take counsel from his sublime wisdom. She found Talbot in the drawing-room alone; he had eaten a dreary luncheon in John's company, and had been hastily left by his host immediately after the meal. There had been no sound of carriage-wheels upon the gravelled drive all that morning; there had been no callers at Mellish Park since John's return; for a horrible scandal had spread itself throughout the length and breadth of the county, and those who spoke of the young squire and his wife talked in solemn under-tones, and gravely demanded of each other whether some serious step should not be taken about the business which was uppermost in every body's mind. Lucy told Talbot all that Aurora had said to her. This was no breach of confidence in the young wife's code of morality; for were not she and her husband immutably one, and how _could_ she have any secret from him? "I thought so!" Mr. Bulstrode said, when Lucy had finished her story. "You thought what, dear?" "That the breach between John and Aurora was a serious one. Don't look so sorrowful, my darling. It must be our business to reunite these divided lovers. You shall comfort Aurora, Lucy; and I'll look after John." Talbot Bulstrode kissed his little wife, and went straight away upon his friendly errand. He found John Mellish in his own room,--the room in which Aurora had written to him upon the day of her flight; the room from which the murderous weapon had been stolen by some unknown hand. John had hidden the rusty pistol in one of the locked drawers of his Davenport; but it was not to be supposed that the fact of its discovery could be locked up or hidden away. _That_ had been fully discussed in the servants' hall; and who shall doubt that it had travelled further, percolating through some of those sinuous channels which lead away from every household? "I want you to come for a walk with me, Mr. John Mellish," said Talbot, imperatively; "so put on your hat, and come into the park. You are the most agreeable gentleman I ever had the honour to visit, and the attention you pay your guests is really something remarkable." Mr. Mellish made no reply to this speech. He stood before his friend, pale, silent, and sullen. He was no more like the hearty Yorkshire squire whom we have known, than he was like Viscount Palmerston or Lord Clyde. He was transformed out of himself by some great trouble that was preying upon his mind; and being of a transparent and childishly truthful disposition, was unable to disguise his anguish. "John, John!" cried Talbot, "we were little boys together at Rugby, and have backed each other in a dozen childish fights. Is it kind of you to withhold your friendship from me now, when I have come here on purpose to be a friend to you--to you and to Aurora?" John Mellish turned away his head as his friend mentioned that familiar name; and the gesture was not lost upon Mr. Bulstrode. "John, why do you refuse to trust me?" "I don't refuse. I----Why did you come to this accursed house?" cried John Mellish, passionately; "why did you come here, Talbot Bulstrode? You don't know the blight that is upon this place, and those who live in it, or you would have no more come here than you would willingly go to a plague-stricken city. Do you know that since I came back from London not a creature has called at this house? Do you know that when I and--and--my wife--went to church on Sunday, the people we knew sneaked away from our path as if we had just recovered from typhus fever? Do you know that the cursed gaping rabble come from Doncaster to stare over the park-palings, and that this house is a show to half the West Riding? Why do you come here? You will be stared at, and grinned at, and scandalized,--you, who----Go back to London to-night, Talbot, if you don't want to drive me mad." "Not till you trust me with your troubles, John," answered Mr. Bulstrode firmly. "Put on your hat, and come out with me. I want you to show me the spot where the murder was done." "You may get some one else to show it you," muttered John, sullenly; "I'll not go there!" "John Mellish!" cried Talbot suddenly, "am I to think you a coward and a fool? By the heaven that's above me, I shall think so if you persist in this nonsense. Come out into the park with me; I have the claim of past friendship upon you, and I'll not have that claim set aside by any folly of yours." The two men went out upon the lawn, John complying moodily enough with his friend's request, and walked silently across the park towards that portion of the wood in which James Conyers had met his death. They had reached one of the loneliest and shadiest avenues in this wood, and were, in fact, close against the spot from which Samuel Prodder had watched his niece and her companion on the night of the murder, when Talbot stopped suddenly, and laid his hand on the squire's shoulder. "John," he said, in a determined tone, "before we go to look at the place where this bad man died, you must tell me your trouble." Mr. Mellish drew himself up proudly, and looked at the speaker with gloomy defiance lowering upon his face. "I will tell no man that which I do not choose to tell," he said firmly; and then with a sudden change that was terrible to see, he cried impetuously, "Why do you torment me, Talbot? I tell you that I can't trust you--I can't trust any one upon earth. If--if I told you--the horrible thought that--if I told you, it would be your duty to--I--Talbot, Talbot, have pity upon me--let me alone--go away from me--I----" Stamping furiously, as if he would have trampled down the cowardly despair for which he despised himself, and beating his forehead with his clenched fists, John Mellish turned away from his friend, and, leaning against the gnarled branch of a great oak, wept aloud. Talbot Bulstrode waited till the paroxysm had passed away before he spoke again; but when his friend had grown calmer, he linked his arm about him, and drew him away almost as tenderly as if the big Yorkshireman had been some sorrowing woman, sorely in need of manly help and comfort. "John, John," he said gravely, "thank God for this; thank God for anything that breaks the ice between us. I know what your trouble is, poor old friend, and I know that you have no cause for it. Hold up your head, man, and look straightforward to a happy future. I know the black thought that has been gnawing at your poor foolish manly heart: _you think that Aurora murdered the groom!_" John Mellish, started, shuddering convulsively. "No, no," he gasped; "who said so--who said----?" "You think this, John," continued Talbot Bulstrode; "and you do her the most grievous wrong that ever yet was done to woman; a more shameful wrong than I committed when I thought that Aurora Floyd had been guilty of some base intrigue." "You don't know----" stammered John. "I don't know! I know all, and foresaw trouble for you, before _you_ saw the cloud that was in the sky. But I never dreamt of this. I thought the foolish country people would suspect your wife, as it always pleases people to try and fix a crime upon the person in whom that crime would be more particularly atrocious. I was prepared for this; but to think that you--you, John, who should have learned to know your wife by this time--to think that you should suspect the woman you have loved of a foul and treacherous murder!" "How do we know that the--that the man was murdered?" cried John vehemently. "Who says that the deed was treacherously done? He may have goaded her beyond endurance, insulted her generous pride, stung her to the very quick, and in the madness of her passion--having that wretched pistol in her possession--she may----" "Stop!" interrupted Talbot. "What pistol? you told me the weapon had not been found." "It was found upon the night of our return." "Yes; but why do you associate this weapon with Aurora? What do you mean by saying that the pistol was in her possession?" "Because--O my God! Talbot, why do you wring these things from me?" "For your own good, and for the justification of an innocent woman; so help me, Heaven!" answered Mr. Bulstrode. "Do not be afraid to be candid with me, John. Nothing would ever make me believe Aurora Mellish guilty of this crime." The Yorkshireman turned suddenly towards his friend, and leaning upon Talbot Bulstrode's shoulder, wept for the second time during that woodland ramble. "May God in heaven bless you for this, Talbot!" he cried passionately. "Ah, my love, my dear, what a wretch I have been to you! but Heaven is my witness that, even in my worst agony of doubt and horror, my love has never lessened. It never could!--it never could!" "John, old fellow," said Mr. Bulstrode, cheerfully, "perhaps, instead of talking this nonsense, which leaves me entirely in the dark as to everything that has happened since you left London, you will do me the favour to enlighten me as to the cause of these foolish suspicions." They had reached the ruined summer-house and the pool of stagnant water, on the margin of which James Conyers had met with his death. Mr. Bulstrode seated himself upon a pile of broken timber, while John Mellish paced up and down the smooth patch of turf between the summer-house and the water, and told, disjointedly enough, the story of the finding of the pistol, which had been taken out of his room. "I saw that pistol upon the day of the murder," he said. "I took particular notice of it; for I was cleaning my guns that morning, and I left them all in confusion while I went down to the lodge to see the trainer. When I came back--I----" "Well, what then?" "Aurora had been setting my guns in order." "You argue, therefore, that your wife took the pistol?" John looked piteously at his friend; but Talbot's grave smile reassured him. "No one else had permission to go into the room," he answered. "I keep my papers and accounts there, you know; and it's an understood thing that none of the servants are allowed to go there, except when they clean the room." "To be sure! But the room is not locked, I suppose?" "Locked! of course not!" "And the windows--which open to the ground--are sometimes left open, I dare say?" "Almost always in such weather as this." "Then, my dear John, it may be just possible that some one who had not permission to enter the room did, nevertheless, enter it, for the purpose of abstracting this pistol. Have you asked Aurora why she took upon herself to rearrange your guns?--she had never done such a thing before, I suppose?" "Oh, yes, very often. I'm rather in the habit of leaving them about after cleaning them; and my darling understands all about them as well as I do. She has often put them away for me." "Then there was nothing particular in her doing so upon the day of the murder. Have you asked her how long she was in your room, and whether she can remember seeing this particular pistol, among others?' "Ask her!" exclaimed John; "how could I ask her, when----" "When you have been mad enough to suspect her. No, my poor old friend; you made the same mistake that I committed at Felden. You presupposed the guilt of the woman you loved; and you were too great a coward to investigate the evidence upon which your suspicions were built. Had I been wise enough, instead of blindly questioning this poor bewildered girl, to tell her plainly what it was that I suspected, the incontrovertible truth would have flashed out of her angry eyes, and one indignant denial would have told me how basely I had wronged her. You shall not make the mistake that I made, John. You must go frankly and fearlessly to the wife you love, tell her of the suspicion that overclouds her fame, and implore her to help you to the uttermost of her power in unravelling the mystery of this man's death. The assassin _must_ be found, John; for so long as he remains undiscovered, you and your wife will be the victims of every penny-a-liner who finds himself at a loss for a paragraph." "Yes," Mr. Mellish answered bitterly, "the papers have been hard at it already; and there's been a fellow hanging about the place for the last few days whom I've had a very strong inclination to thrash. Some reporter, I suppose, come to pick up information." "I suppose so," Talbot answered thoughtfully; "what sort of a man was he?" "A decent-looking fellow enough; but a Londoner, I fancy, and--stay!" exclaimed John suddenly, "there's a man coming towards us from the turnstile; and unless I'm considerably mistaken, it's the very fellow." Mr. Mellish was right. The wood was free to any foot-passenger who pleased to avail himself of the pleasant shelter of spreading beeches, and the smooth carpet of mossy turf, rather than tramp wearily upon the dusty highway. The stranger advancing from the turnstile was a decent-looking person, dressed in dark tight-fitting clothes, and making no unnecessary or ostentatious display of linen, for his coat was buttoned tightly to the chin. He looked at Talbot and John as he passed them,--not insolently, or even inquisitively, but with one brightly rapid and searching glance, which seemed to take in the most minute details in the appearance of both gentlemen. Then, walking on a few paces, he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the pond, and the bank above it. "This is the place, I think, gentlemen?" he said, in a frank and rather free-and-easy manner. Talbot returned his look with interest. "If you mean the place where the murder was committed, it is," he said. "Ah, I understood so," answered the stranger, by no means abashed. He looked at the bank, regarding it, now from one point, now from another, like some skilful upholsterer taking the measure of a piece of furniture. Then walking slowly round the pond, he seemed to plumb the depth of the stagnant water with his small gray eyes. Talbot Bulstrode watched the man as he took this mental photograph of the place. There was a business-like composure in his manner, which was entirely different to the eager curiosity of a scandalmonger and a busybody. Mr. Bulstrode rose as the man walked away, and went slowly after him. "Stop where you are, John," he said, as he left his companion; "I'll find out who this fellow is." He walked on, and overtook the stranger at about a hundred yards from the pond. "I want to have a few words with you before you leave the Park, my friend," he said quietly: "unless I'm very much mistaken, you are a member of the detective police, and come here with credentials from Scotland Yard." The man shook his head, with a quiet smile. "I'm not obliged to tell everybody my business," he answered coolly; "this footpath is a public thoroughfare, I believe?" "Listen to me, my good fellow," said Mr. Bulstrode. "It may serve your purpose to beat about the bush; but I have no reason to do so, and therefore may as well come to the point at once. If you are sent here for the purpose of discovering the murderer of James Conyers, you can be more welcome to no one than to the master of that house." He pointed to the Gothic chimneys as he spoke. "If those who employ you have promised you a liberal reward, Mr. Mellish will willingly treble the amount they may have offered you. He would not give you cause to complain of his liberality, should you succeed in accomplishing the purpose of your errand. If you think you will gain anything by underhand measures, and by keeping yourself dark, you are very much mistaken; for no one can be better able or more willing to give you assistance in this than Mr. and Mrs. Mellish." The detective--for he had tacitly admitted the fact of his profession--looked doubtfully at Talbot Bulstrode. "You're a lawyer, I suppose?" he said. "I am Mr. Talbot Bulstrode, member for Penruthy, and the husband of Mrs. Mellish's first cousin." The detective bowed. "My name is Joseph Grimstone, of Scotland Yard and Ball's Pond," he said; "and I certainly see no objection to our working together. If Mr. Mellish is prepared to act on the square, I'm prepared to act with him, and to accept any reward his generosity may offer. But if he or any friend of his wants to hoodwink Joseph Grimstone, he'd better think twice about the game before he tries it on; that's all." Mr. Bulstrode took no notice of this threat, but looked at his watch before replying to the detective. "It's a quarter-past six," he said. "Mr. Mellish dines at seven. Can you call at the house, say at nine, this evening? You shall then have all the assistance it is in our power to give you." "Certainly, sir. At nine this evening." "We shall be prepared to receive you. Good afternoon." Mr. Grimstone touched his hat, and strolled quietly away under the shadow of the beeches, while Talbot Bulstrode walked back to rejoin his friend. It may be as well to take this opportunity of stating the reason of the detective's early appearance at Mellish Park. Upon the day of the inquest, and consequently the next day but one after the murder, two anonymous letters, worded in the same manner, and written by the same hand, were received respectively by the head of the Doncaster constabulary and by the chief of the Scotland-Yard detective confederacy. These anonymous communications--written in a hand which, in spite of all attempt at disguise, still retained the spidery peculiarities of feminine caligraphy--pointed, by a sinuous and inductive process of reasoning, at Aurora Mellish as the murderess of James Conyers. I need scarcely say that the writer was no other than Mrs. Powell. She has disappeared for ever from my story, and I have no wish to blacken a character which can ill afford to be slandered. The ensign's widow actually believed in the guilt of her beautiful patroness. It is so easy for an envious woman to believe horrible things of the more prosperous sister whom she hates. CHAPTER XI. REUNION. "We are on the verge of a precipice," Talbot Bulstrode thought, as he prepared for dinner in the comfortable dressing-room allotted to him at Mellish,--"we are on the verge of a precipice, and nothing but a bold grapple with the worst can save us. Any reticence, any attempt at keeping back suspicious facts, or hushing up awkward coincidences would be fatal to us. If John had made away with this pistol with which the deed was done, he would have inevitably fixed a most fearful suspicion upon his wife. Thank God I came here to-day! We must look matters straight in the face, and our first step must be to secure Aurora's help. So long as she is silent as to her share in the events of that day and night, there is a link missing in the chain, and we are all at sea. John must speak to her to-night; or perhaps it will be better for me to speak." Mr. Bulstrode went down to the drawing-room, where he found his friend pacing up and down, solitary and wretched. "The ladies are going to dine up-stairs," said Mr. Mellish, as Talbot joined him. "I have just had a message to say so. Why does she avoid me, Talbot? why does my wife avoid me like this? We have scarcely spoken to each other for days." "Shall I tell you why, you foolish John?" answered Mr. Bulstrode. "Your wife avoids you because you have chosen to alienate yourself from her, and because she thinks, poor girl, that she has lost your affection. She fancies that the discovery of her first marriage has caused a revulsion of feeling, and that you no longer love her." "No longer love her!" cried John. "O my God! she ought to know that, if I could give my life for her fifty times over, I would do it, to save her one pang. I would do it, so help me, Heaven, though she were the guiltiest wretch that had ever crawled the earth!" "But no one asks you to do anything of the kind," said Mr. Bulstrode. "You are only requested to be reasonable and patient, to put a proper trust in Providence, and to be guided by people who are rather less impetuous than your ungovernable self." "I will do what you like, Talbot; I will do what you like." Mr. Mellish pressed his friend's hand. Had he ever thought, when he had seen Talbot an accepted lover at Felden, and had hated him with a savage and wild Indian-like fury, that he would come to be thus humbly grateful to him; thus pitifully dependent upon his superior wisdom? He wrung the young politician's hand, and promised to be as submissive as a child beneath his guidance. In compliance, therefore, with Talbot's commands, he ate a few morsels of fish, and drank a couple of glasses of sherry; and having thus gone through a show of dining, he went with Mr. Bulstrode to seek Aurora. She was sitting with her cousin in the morning-room, looking terribly pale in the dim dusk of the August evening,--pale and shadowy in her loose white muslin dress. She had only lately risen after a long feverish slumber, and had pretended to dine out of courtesy to her guest. Lucy had tried in vain to comfort her cousin. This passionate, impetuous, spoiled child of fortune and affection refused all consolation, crying out again and again that she had lost her husband's love, and that there was nothing left for her upon earth. But in the very midst of one of these despondent speeches, she sprang up from her seat, erect and trembling, with her parted lips quivering and her dark eyes dilated, startled by the sound of a familiar step, which within the last few days had been seldom heard in the corridor outside her room. She tried to speak, but her voice failed her; and in another moment the door had been dashed open by a strong hand, and her husband stood in the room, holding out his arms and calling to her. "Aurora! Aurora! my own dear love, my own poor darling!" She was folded to his breast before she knew that Talbot Bulstrode stood close behind him. "My own darling," John said, "my own dearest, you cannot tell how cruelly I have wronged you. But, oh, my love, the wrong has brought unendurable torture with it. My poor guiltless girl! how could I--how could I----But I was mad, and it was only when Talbot----" Aurora lifted her head from her husband's breast and looked wonderingly into his face, utterly unable to guess the meaning of these broken sentences. Talbot laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. "You will frighten your wife if you go on in this manner, John," he said quietly. "You mustn't take any notice of his agitation, my dear Mrs. Mellish. There is no cause, believe me, for all this outcry. Will you sit down by Lucy and compose yourself? It is eight o'clock, and between this and nine we have some serious business to settle." "Serious business!" repeated Aurora vaguely. She was intoxicated by her sudden happiness. She had no wish to ask any explanation of the mystery of the past few days. It was all over, and her faithful husband loved her as devotedly and tenderly as ever. How could she wish to know more than this? She seated herself at Lucy's side, in obedience to Talbot; but she still held her husband's hand, she still looked in his face, for the moment most supremely unconscious that the scheme of creation included anything beyond this stalwart Yorkshireman. Talbot Bulstrode lighted the lamp upon Aurora's writing-table,--a shaded lamp, which only dimly illuminated the twilight room,--and then, taking his seat near it, said gravely-- "My dear Mrs. Mellish, I shall be compelled to say something which I fear may inflict a terrible shock upon you. But this is no time for reservation; scarcely a time for ordinary delicacy. Will you trust in the love and friendship of those who are around you, and promise to bear this new trial bravely? I believe and hope that it will be a very brief one." Aurora looked wonderingly at her husband, not at Talbot. "A new trial?" she said inquiringly. "You know that the murderer of James Conyers has not yet been discovered?" said Mr. Bulstrode. "Yes, yes; but what of that?" "My dear Mrs. Mellish, my dear Aurora! the world is apt to take a morbid delight in horrible ideas. There are some people who think that you are guilty of this crime!" "_I!_" She rose suddenly from her low seat, and turned her face towards the lamp-light, with a look of such blank amazement, such utter wonder and bewilderment, that had Talbot Bulstrode until that moment believed her guilty, he must thenceforth and for ever have been firmly convinced of her innocence. "_I!_" she repeated. Then turning to her husband, with a sudden alteration in her face, that blank amazement changing to a look of sorrow, mingled with reproachful wonder, she said in a low voice-- "_You_ thought this of me, John; _you_ thought this!" John Mellish bowed his head before her. "I did, my dear," he murmured--"God forgive me for my wicked folly--I did think this, Aurora. But I pitied you, and was sorry for you, my own dear love; and when I thought it most, I would have died to save you from shame or sorrow. My love has never changed, Aurora; my love has never changed." She gave him her hand, and once more resumed her seat. She sat for some moments in silence, as if trying to collect her thoughts, and to understand the meaning of this strange scene. "Who suspects me of this crime?" she said presently. "Has any one else suspected me? Any one besides--my husband?" "I can scarcely tell you, my dear Mrs. Mellish," answered Talbot; "when an event of this kind takes place, it is very difficult to say who may or may not be suspected. Different persons set up different theories: one man writes to a newspaper to declare that, in his opinion, the crime was committed by some person within the house; another man writes as positively to another paper, asserting that the murderer was undoubtedly a stranger. Each man brings forward a mass of suppositious evidence in favour of his own argument, and each thinks a great deal more of proving his own cleverness than of furthering the ends of justice. No shadow of slander must rest upon this house, or upon those who live in it. It is necessary, therefore, imperatively necessary, that the real murderer should be found. A London detective is already at work. These men are very clever; some insignificant circumstance, forgotten by those most interested in discovering the truth, would often be enough to set a detective on the right track. This man is coming here at nine o'clock; and we are to give him all the assistance we can. Will you help us, Aurora?" "Help you! How?" "By telling us all you know of the night of the murder. Why were you in the wood that night?" "I was there to meet the dead man." "For what purpose?" Aurora was silent for some moments, and then looking up with a bold, half-defiant glance, she said suddenly-- "Talbot Bulstrode, before you blame or despise me, remember how the tie that bound me to this man had been broken. The law would have set me free from him, if I had been brave enough to appeal to the law; and was I to suffer all my life because of the mistake I had made in not demanding a release from the man whose gross infidelity entitled me to be divorced from him? Heaven knows I had borne with him patiently enough. I had endured his vulgarity, his insolence, his presumption; I had gone penniless while he spent my father's money in a gambling-booth on a race-course, and dinnerless while he drank champagne with cheats and reprobates. Remember this, when you blame me most. I went into the wood that night to meet him for the last time upon this earth. He had promised me that he would emigrate to Australia upon the payment of a certain sum of money." "And you went that night to pay it to him?" cried Talbot eagerly. "I did. He was insolent, as he always was; for he hated me for having discovered that which shut him out from all claim upon my fortune. He hated himself for his folly in not having played his cards better. Angry words passed between us; but it ended in his declaring his intention of starting for Liverpool early the next morning, and--" "You gave him the money?" "Yes." "But tell me,--tell me, Aurora," cried Talbot, almost too eager to find words, "how long had you left him when you heard the report of the pistol?' "Not more than ten minutes." "John Mellish," exclaimed Mr. Bulstrode, "was there any money found upon the person of the murdered man?" "No--yes; I believe there was a little silver," Mr. Mellish answered vaguely. "A little silver!" cried Talbot contemptuously. "Aurora, what was the sum you gave James Conyers upon the night of his death?" "Two thousand pounds." "In a cheque?" "No; in notes." "And that money has never been heard of since?" No; John Mellish declared that he had never heard of it. "Thank God!" exclaimed Mr. Bulstrode; "we shall find the murderer." "What do you mean?" asked John. "Whoever killed James Conyers, killed him in order to rob him of the money that he had upon him at the time of his death." "But who could have known of the money?" asked Aurora. "Anybody; the pathway through the wood is a public thoroughfare. Your conversation with the murdered man may have been overheard. You talked about the money, I suppose?" "Yes." "Thank God, thank God! Ask your wife's pardon for the cruel wrong you have done her, John, and then come downstairs with me. It's past nine, and I dare say Mr. Grimstone is waiting for us. But stay,--one word, Aurora. The pistol with which this man was killed was taken from this house, from John's room. Did you know that?" "No; how should I know it?" Mrs. Mellish asked naïvely. "That fact is against the theory of the murder having been committed by a stranger. Is there any one of the servants whom you could suspect of such a crime, John?" "No," answered Mr. Mellish decisively; "not one." "And yet the person who committed the murder must have been the person who stole your pistol. You, John, declare that very pistol to have been in your possession upon the morning before the murder." "Most certainly." "You put John's guns back into their places upon that morning, Aurora," said Mr. Bulstrode; "do you remember seeing that particular pistol?" "No," Mrs. Mellish answered; "I should not have known it from the others." "You did not find any of the servants in the room that morning?" "Oh, no," Aurora answered immediately; "Mrs. Powell came into the room while I was there. She was always following me about; and I suppose she had heard me talking to----" "Talking to whom?" "To James Conyers's hanger-on and messenger, Stephen Hargraves--the 'Softy,' as they call him." "You were talking to him? Then this Stephen Hargraves was in the room that morning?" "Yes; he brought me a message from the murdered man, and took back my answer." "Was he alone in the room?" "Yes; I found him there when I went in, expecting to find John. I dislike the man,--unjustly, perhaps; for he is a poor, half-witted creature, who I dare say scarcely knows right from wrong; and I was angry at seeing him. He must have come in through the window." A servant entered the room at this moment. He came to say that Mr. Grimstone had been waiting below for some time, and was anxious to see Mr. Bulstrode. Talbot and John went down-stairs together. They found Mr. Joseph Grimstone sitting at a table in a comfortable room that had lately been sacred to Mrs. Powell, with the shaded lamp drawn close to his elbow, and a greasy little memorandum-book open before him. He was thoughtfully employed making notes in this memorandum-book with a stumpy morsel of lead-pencil--when do these sort of people begin their pencils, and how is it that they always seem to have arrived at the stump?--when the two gentlemen entered. John Mellish leaned against the mantel-piece, and covered his face with his hand. For any practical purpose, he might as well have been in his own room. He knew nothing of Talbot's reason for this interview with the detective officer. He had no shadowy idea, no growing suspicion shaping itself slowly out of the confusion and obscurity, of the identity of the murderer. He only knew that his Aurora was innocent; that she had indignantly refuted his base suspicion; and that he had seen the truth, radiant as the light of inspiration, shining out of her beautiful face. Mr. Bulstrode rang, and ordered a bottle of sherry for the delectation of the detective; and then, in a careful and business-like manner, he recited all that he had been able to discover upon the subject of the murder. Joseph Grimstone listened very quietly, following Talbot Bulstrode with a shining track of lead-pencil hieroglyphics over the greasy paper, just as Tom Thumb strewed crumbs of bread in the forest-pathway, with a view to his homeward guidance. The detective only looked up now and then to drink a glass of sherry, and smack his lips with the quiet approval of a connoisseur. When Talbot had told all that he had to tell, Mr. Grimstone thrust the memorandum-book into a very tight breast-pocket, and taking his hat from under the chair upon which he had been seated, prepared to depart. "If this information about the money is quite correct, sir," he said, "I think I can see my way through the affair; that is, if we can have the numbers of the notes. I can't stir a peg without the numbers of the notes." Talbot's countenance fell. Here was a death-blow. Was it likely that Aurora, that impetuous and unbusiness-like girl, had taken the numbers of the notes, which, in utter scorn and loathing, she had flung as a last bribe to the man she hated? "I'll go and make inquiries of Mrs. Mellish," he said; "but I fear it is scarcely likely I shall get the information you want." He left the room; but five minutes afterwards returned triumphant. "Mrs. Mellish had the notes from her father," he said. "Mr. Floyd took a list of the numbers before he gave his daughter the money." "Then if you'll be so good as to drop Mr. Floyd a line, asking for that list by return of post, I shall know how to act," replied the detective. "I haven't been idle this afternoon, gentlemen, any more than you. I went back after I parted with you, Mr. Bulstrode, and had another look at the pond. I found something to pay me for my trouble." He took from his waistcoat-pocket a small object, which he held between his finger and thumb. Talbot and John looked intently at this dingy object, but could make nothing out of it. It seemed to be a mere disc of rusty metal. "It's neither more nor less than a brass button," the detective said, with a smile of quiet superiority; "maker's name, Crosby, Birmingham. There's marks upon it which seem uncommon like blood; and unless I'm very much mistaken, it'll be found to fit pretty correct into the barrel of your pistol, Mr. Mellish. So what we've got to do is to find a gentleman wearin', or havin' in his possession, a waistcoat with buttons by Crosby, Birmingham, and one button missin'; and if we happen to find the same gentleman changin' one of the notes that Mr. Floyd took the numbers of, I don't think we shall be _very_ far off layin' our hands on the man we want." With which oracular speech Mr. Grimstone departed, charged with a commission to proceed forthwith to Doncaster, to order the immediate printing and circulating of a hundred bills, offering a reward of 200_l._ for such information as would lead to the apprehension of the murderer of James Conyers. This reward to be given by Mr. Mellish, and to be over and above any reward offered by the Government. CHAPTER XII. THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM. Mr. Matthew Harrison and Captain Prodder were both accommodated with suitable entertainment at the sign of the Crooked Rabbit; but while the dog-fancier appeared to have ample employment in the neighbourhood,--employment of a mysterious nature, which kept him on the tramp all day, and sent him home at sunset, tired and hungry, to his hostelry,--the sailor, having nothing whatever to do, and a great burden of care upon his mind, found the time hang very heavily upon his hands; although, being naturally of a social and genial temper, he made himself very much at home in his strange quarters. From Mr. Harrison the captain obtained much information respecting the secret of all the sorrow that had befallen his niece. The dog-fancier had known James Conyers from his boyhood; had known his father, the "swell" coachman of a Brighton Highflyer, or Sky-rocket, or Electric, and the associate of the noblemen and gentlemen of that princely era, in which it was the right thing for the youthful aristocracy to imitate the manners of Mr. Samuel Weller, senior. Matthew Harrison had known the trainer in his brief and stormy married life, and had accompanied Aurora's first husband as a humble dependent and hanger-on in that foreign travel which had been paid for out of Archibald Floyd's cheque-book. The honest captain's blood boiled as he heard that shameful story of treachery and extortion practised upon an ignorant school-girl. Oh, that he had been by to avenge those outrages upon the child of the dark-eyed sister he had loved! His rage against the undiscovered murderer of the dead man was redoubled when he remembered how comfortably James Conyers had escaped from his vengeance. Mr. Stephen Hargraves, the "Softy," took good care to keep out of the way of the Crooked Rabbit, having no wish to encounter Captain Prodder a second time; but he still hung about the town of Doncaster, where he had a lodging up a wretched alley, hidden away behind one of the back streets,--a species of lair common to every large town, only to be found by the inhabitants of the locality. The "Softy" had been born and bred, and had lived his life, in such a narrow radius, that the uprooting of one of the oaks in Mellish Park could scarcely be a slower or more painful operation than the severing of those ties of custom which held the boorish hanger-on to the neighbourhood of the household in which he had so long been an inmate. But now that his occupation at Mellish Park was for ever gone, and his patron, the trainer, dead, he was alone in the world, and had need to look out for a fresh situation. But he seemed rather slow to do this. He was not a very prepossessing person, it must be remembered, and there were not very many services for which he was fitted. Although upwards of forty years of age, he was generally rather loosely described as a young man who understood all about horses; and this qualification was usually sufficient to procure for any individual whatever some kind of employment in the neighbourhood of Doncaster. The "Softy" seemed, however, rather to keep aloof from the people who knew and could have recommended him; and when asked why he did not seek a situation, gave evasive answers, and muttered something to the effect that he had saved a little bit of money at Mellish Park, and had no need to come upon the parish if he was out of work for a week or two. John Mellish was so well known as a generous paymaster, that this was a matter of surprise to no one. Steeve Hargraves had no doubt had pretty pickings in that liberal household. So the "Softy" went his way unquestioned, hanging about the town in a lounging, uncomfortable manner, sitting in some public-house taproom half the day and night, drinking his meagre liquor in a sullen and unsocial style peculiar to himself, and consorting with no one. He made his appearance at the railway station one day, and groped helplessly through all the time-tables pasted against the walls: but he could make nothing of them unaided, and was at last compelled to appeal to a good-tempered-looking official who was busy on the platform. "I want th' Liverpool trayuns," he said, "and I can find naught about 'em here." The official knew Mr. Hargraves, and looked at him with a stare of open wonder. "My word, Steeve," he said laughing, "what takes you to Liverpool? I thought you'd never been further than York in your life?" "Maybe I haven't," the "Softy" answered sulkily; "but that's no reason I shouldn't go now. I've heard of a situation at Liverpool as I think'll suit me." "Not better than the place you had with Mr. Mellish." "Perhaps not," muttered Mr. Hargraves, with a frown darkening over his ugly face; "but Mellish Park be no pleace for me now, and arnt been for a long time past." The railway official laughed. The story of Aurora's chastisement of the half-witted groom was pretty well known amongst the townspeople of Doncaster; and I am sorry to say there were very few members of that sporting community who did not admire the mistress of Mellish Park something more by reason of this little incident in her history. Mr. Hargraves received the desired information about the railway route between Doncaster and Liverpool, and then left the station. A shabby-looking little man, who had also been mating some inquiries of the same official who had talked to the "Softy," and had consequently heard the above brief dialogue, followed Stephen Hargraves from the station into the town. Indeed, had it not been that the "Softy" was unusually slow of perception, he might have discovered that upon this particular day the same shabby-looking little man generally happened to be hanging about any and every place to which he, Mr. Hargraves, betook himself. But the cast-off retainer of Mellish Park did not trouble himself with any such misgivings. His narrow intellect, never wide enough to take in many subjects at a time, was fully absorbed by other considerations; and he loitered about with a gloomy and preoccupied expression in his face, that by no means enhanced his personal attractions. It is not to be supposed that Mr. Joseph Grimstone let the grass grow under his feet after his interview with John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode. He had heard enough to make his course pretty clear to him, and he went to work quietly and sagaciously to win the reward offered to him. There was not a tailor's shop in Doncaster or its vicinity into which the detective did not make his way. There was not a garment _confectionée_ by any of the civil purveyors upon whom he intruded that Mr. Grimstone did not examine; not a drawer of odds and ends which he did not ransack, in his search for buttons by "Crosby, maker, Birmingham." But for a long time he made his inquisition in vain. Before the day succeeding that of Talbot's arrival at Mellish Park was over, the detective had visited every tailor or clothier in the neighbourhood of the racing metropolis of the north, but no traces of "Crosby, maker, Birmingham," had he been able to find. Brass waistcoat-buttons are not particularly affected by the leaders of the fashion in the present day, and Mr. Grimstone found almost every variety of fastening upon the waistcoats he examined, except that one special style of button, a specimen of which, out of shape and blood-stained, he carried deep in his trousers-pocket. He was returning to the inn at which he had taken up his abode, and where he was supposed to be a traveller in the Glenfield starch and sugar-plum line, tired and worn out with a day's useless work, when he was attracted by the appearance of some ready-made garments gracefully festooned about the door of a Doncaster pawnbroker, who exhibited silver teaspoons, oil-paintings, boots and shoes, dropsical watches, doubtful rings, and remnants of silk and satin, in his artistically-arranged window. Mr. Grimstone stopped short before the money-lender's portal. "I won't be beaten," he muttered between his teeth. "If this man has got any weskits, I'll have a look at 'em." He lounged into the shop in a leisurely manner, and asked the proprietor of the establishment if he had anything cheap in the way of fancy waistcoats. Of course the proprietor had everything desirable in that way, and from a kind of grove or arbour of all manner of dry goods at the back of the shop, he brought out half a dozen brown-paper parcels, the contents of which he exhibited to Mr. Joseph Grimstone. The detective looked at a great many waistcoats, but with no satisfactory result. "You haven't got anything with brass buttons, I suppose?" he inquired at last. The proprietor shook his head reflectively. "Brass buttons aint much worn now-a-days," he said; "but I'll lay I've got the very thing you want, now I come to think of it. I got 'em an uncommon bargain from a traveller for a Birmingham house, who was here at the September meeting three years ago, and lost a hatful of money upon Underhand, and left a lot of things with me, in order to make up what he wanted." Mr. Grimstone pricked up his ears at the sound of "Birmingham." The pawnbroker retired once more to the mysterious caverns at the back of his shop, and after a considerable search succeeded in finding what he wanted. He brought another brown-paper parcel to the counter, turned the flaming gas a little higher, and exhibited a heap of very gaudy and vulgar-looking waistcoats, evidently of that species of manufacture which is generally called slop-work. "These are the goods," he said; "and very tasty and lively things they are, too. I had a dozen of 'em; and I've only got these five left." Mr. Grimstone had taken up a waistcoat of a flaming check pattern, and was examining it by the light of the gas. Yes; the purpose of his day's work was accomplished at last. The back of the brass buttons bore the name of Crosby, Birmingham. "You've only got five left out of the dozen," said the detective; "then you've sold seven?" "I have." "Can you remember who you sold 'em to?" The pawnbroker scratched his head thoughtfully. "I think I must have sold 'em all to the men at the works," he said. "They take their wages once a fortnight; and there's some of 'em drop in here every other Saturday night to buy something or other, or to take something out of pledge. I know I sold four or five that way." "But can you remember selling one of them to anybody else?" asked the detective. "I'm not asking out of curiosity; and I don't mind standing something handsome by-and-by, if you can give me the information I want. Think it over, now, and take your time. You couldn't have sold 'em all seven to the men from the works." "No; I didn't," answered the pawnbroker after a pause. "I remember now, I sold one of them--a fancy sprig on a purple ground--to Josephs the baker, in the next street; and I sold another--a yellow stripe on a brown ground--to the head-gardener at Mellish Park." Mr. Joseph Grimstone's face flushed hot and red. His day's work had not been wasted. He was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birmingham very near to where he wanted to bring them. "You can tell me the gardener's name, I suppose?" he said to the pawnbroker. "Yes; his name's Dawson. He belongs to Doncaster, and he and I were boys together. I should not have remembered selling him the waistcoat, perhaps, for it's nigh upon a year and a half ago; only he stopped and had a chat with me and my missis the night he bought it." Mr. Grimstone did not linger much longer in the shop. His interest in the waistcoats was evidently departed. He bought a couple of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, out of civility, no doubt, and then bade the pawnbroker good-night. It was nearly nine o'clock; but the detective only stopped at his inn long enough to eat about a pound and a quarter of beefsteak, and drink a pint of ale, after which brief refreshment he started for Mellish Park on foot. It was the principle of his life to avoid observation, and he preferred the fatigue of a long and lonely walk to the risks contingent upon hiring a vehicle to convey him to his destination. Talbot and John had been waiting hopefully all the day for the detective's coming, and welcomed him very heartily when he appeared, between ten and eleven. He was shown into John's own room this evening; for the two gentlemen were sitting there smoking and talking after Aurora and Lucy had gone to bed. Mrs. Mellish had good need of rest, and could sleep peacefully now; for the dark shadow between her and her husband had gone for ever, and she could not fear any peril, any sorrow, now that she knew herself to be secure of his love. John looked up eagerly as Mr. Grimstone followed the servant into the room; but a warning look from Talbot Bulstrode checked his impetuosity, and he waited till the door was shut before he spoke. "Now, then, Grimstone," he said; "what news?" "Well, sir, I've had a hard day's work," the detective answered gravely, "and perhaps neither of you gentlemen--not being professional--would think much of what I've done; but for all that, I believe I'm bringin' it home, sir; I believe I'm bringin' it home." "Thank God for that!" murmured Talbot Bulstrode, reverently. He had thrown away his cigar, and was standing by the fireplace, with his arm resting upon the angle of the mantel-piece. "You've got a gardener by the name of Dawson in your service, Mr. Mellish?" said the detective. "I have," answered John: "but, Lord have mercy upon us! you don't mean to say you think it's him? Dawson's as good a fellow as ever breathed." "I don't say I think it's any one as yet, sir," Mr. Grimstone answered sententiously; "but when a man as had two thousand pound upon him in bank-notes is found in a wood shot through the heart, and the notes missin'--the wood bein' free to anybody as chose to walk in it--it's a pretty open case for suspicion. I should like to see this man Dawson, if it's convenient." "To-night?" asked John. "Yes: the sooner the better. The less delay there is in this sort of business, the more satisfactory for all parties, with the exception of the party that's wanted," added the detective. "I'll send for Dawson, then," answered Mr. Mellish; "but I expect he'll have gone to bed by this time." "Then he can but get up again, if he has, sir," Mr. Grimstone said politely. "I've set my heart upon seeing him to-night, if it's all the same to you." It is not to be supposed that John Mellish was likely to object to any arrangement which might hasten, if by but a moment's time, the hour of the discovery for which he so ardently prayed. He went straight off to the servants' hall to make inquiries for the gardener, and left Talbot Bulstrode and the detective together. "There aint nothing turned up here, I suppose, sir," said Joseph Grimstone, addressing Mr. Bulstrode, "as will be of any help to us?" "Yes," Talbot answered. "We have got the numbers of the notes which Mrs. Mellish gave the murdered man. I telegraphed to Mr. Floyd's country house, and he arrived here himself only an hour ago, bringing the list of the notes with him." "And an uncommon plucky thing of the old gentleman to do, beggin' your pardon, sir," exclaimed the detective with enthusiasm. Five minutes afterwards, Mr. Mellish re-entered the room, bringing the gardener with him. The man had been into Doncaster to see his friends, and only returned about half an hour before; so the master of the house had caught him in the act of making havoc with a formidable cold joint, and a great jar of pickled cabbage, in the servants' hall. "Now, you're not to be frightened, Dawson," said the young squire, with friendly indiscretion; "of course nobody for a moment suspects you, any more than they suspect me; but this gentleman here wants to see you, and of course you know there's no reason that he shouldn't see you if he wishes it, though what he wants with you--" Mr. Mellish stopped abruptly, arrested by a frown from Talbot Bulstrode; and the gardener, who was innocent of the faintest comprehension of his master's meaning, pulled his hair respectfully, and shuffled nervously upon the slippery Indian matting. "I only want to ask you a question or two to decide a wager between these two gentlemen and me, Mr. Dawson," said the detective with reassuring familiarity. "You bought a second-hand waistcoat of Gogram, in the market-place, didn't you, about a year and a half ago?" "Ay, sure, sir. I bought a weskit at Gogram's," answered the gardener; "but it weren't second-hand; it were bran new." "A yellow stripe upon a brown ground?" The man nodded, with his mouth wide open, in the extremity of his surprise at this London stranger's familiarity with the details of his toilet. "I dunno how you come to know about that weskit, sir," he said, with a grin; "it were wore out full six months ago; for I took to wearin' of it in t' garden, and garden-work soon spiles anything in the way of clothes; but him as I give it to was glad enough to have it, though it was awful shabby." "Him as you give it to?" repeated Mr. Grimstone, not pausing to amend the sentence, in his eagerness. "You gave it away, then?" "Yees, I gave it to th' 'Softy;' and wasn't th' poor fond chap glad to get it, that's all!" "The 'Softy'!" exclaimed Mr. Grimstone. "Who's the 'Softy'?" "The man we spoke of last night," answered Talbot Bulstrode; "the man whom Mrs. Mellish found in this room upon the morning before the murder,--the man called Stephen Hargraves." "Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought as much," murmured the detective. "That will do, Mr. Dawson," he added, addressing the gardener, who had shuffled a good deal nearer to the doorway in his uneasy state of mind. "Stay, though; I may as well ask you one more question. Were any of the buttons missing off that waistcoat when you gave it away?" "Not one on 'em," answered the gardener, decisively. "My missus is too particular for that. She's a reg'lar toidy one, she is; allers mendin' and patchin'; and if one of t' buttons got loose she was sure to sew it on toight again, before it was lost." "Thank you, Mr. Dawson," returned the detective, with the friendly condescension of a superior being. "Good-night." The gardener shuffled off, very glad to be released from the awful presence of his superiors, and to go back to the cold meat and pickles in the servants' hall. "I think I'm bringing the business into a nutshell, sir," said Mr. Grimstone, when the door had closed upon the gardener. "But the less said, the better, just yet awhile. I'll take the list of the numbers of the notes, please, sir; and I believe I shall come upon you for that two hundred pound, Mr. Mellish, before either of us is many weeks older." So, with the list made by cautious Archibald Floyd, bestowed safely in his waistcoat-pocket, Mr. Joseph Grimstone walked back to Doncaster through the still summer's night, intent upon the business he had undertaken. "It looked uncommon black against the lady about a week ago," he thought, as he walked meditatively across the dewy grass in Mellish Park; "and I fancy the information they got at the Yard would have put a fool upon the wrong scent, and kept him on it till the right one got worn out. But it's clearing up, it's clearing up beautiful; and I think it'll turn out one of the neatest cases I ever had the handling of." CHAPTER XIII. OFF THE SCENT. It is scarcely necessary to say, that, with the button by Crosby in his pocket, and with the information acquired from Dawson the gardener, stowed away carefully in his mind, Mr. Joseph Grimstone looked with an eye of particular interest upon Steeve Hargraves the "Softy." The detective had not come to Doncaster alone. He had brought with him a humble ally and follower, in the shape of the little shabby-looking man who had encountered the "Softy" at the railway station, having received orders to keep a close watch upon Mr. Stephen Hargraves. It was of course a very easy matter to identify the "Softy" in the town of Doncaster, where he had been pretty generally known since his childhood. Mr. Grimstone had called upon a medical practitioner, and had submitted the button to him for inspection. The stains upon it were indeed that which the detective had supposed--blood; and the surgeon detected a minute morsel of cartilage adhering to the jagged hasp of the button; but the same surgeon declared that this missile could not have been the one used by the murderer of James Conyers. It had not been through the dead man's body; it had inflicted only a surface wound. The business which now lay before Mr. Grimstone was the tracing of one or other of the bank-notes; and for this purpose he and his ally set to work upon the track of the "Softy," with a view of discovering all the places which it was his habit to visit. The haunts affected by Mr. Hargraves turned out to be some half-dozen very obscure public-houses; and to each of these Joseph Grimstone went in person. But he could discover nothing. All his inquiries only elicited the fact that Stephen Hargraves had not been observed to change, or to attempt to change, any bank-note whatever. He had paid for all he had had, and spent more than it was usual for him to spend, drinking a good deal harder than had been his habit heretofore; but he had paid in silver, except on one occasion, when he had changed a sovereign. The detective called at the bank; but no person answering the description of Stephen Hargraves had been observed there. The detective endeavoured to discover any friends or companions of the "Softy;" but here again he failed. The half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables had never made any friends, being entirely deficient in all social qualities. There was something almost miraculous in the manner in which Mr. Joseph Grimstone contrived to make himself master of any information which he wished to acquire; and before noon on the day after his interview with Mr. Dawson the gardener, he had managed to eliminate all the facts set down above, and had also succeeded in ingratiating himself into the confidence of the dirty old proprietress of that humble lodging in which the "Softy" had taken up his abode. It is scarcely necessary to this story to tell how the detective went to work; but while Stephen Hargraves sat soddening his stupid brain with medicated beer in a low tap-room not far off, and while Mr. Grimstone's ally kept close watch, holding himself in readiness to give warning of any movement on the part of the suspected individual, Mr. Grimstone himself went so cleverly to work in his manipulation of the "Softy's" landlady, that in less than a quarter of an hour he had taken full possession of that weak point in the intellectual citadel which is commonly called the blind side, and was able to do what he pleased with the old woman and her wretched tenement. His peculiar pleasure was to make a very elaborate examination of the apartment rented by the "Softy," and any other apartments, cupboards, or hiding-places to which Mr. Hargraves had access. But he found nothing to reward him for his trouble. The old woman was in the habit of receiving casual lodgers, resting for a night or so at Doncaster before tramping further on their vagabond wanderings; and the six-roomed dwelling-place was only furnished with such meagre accommodation as may be expected for fourpence and sixpence a night. There were few hiding-places,--no carpets, underneath which fat bundles of bank-notes might be hidden; no picture-frames, behind which the same species of property might be bestowed; no ponderous cornices or heavily-fringed valances shrouding the windows, and affording dusty recesses wherein the title-deeds of half a dozen fortunes might lie and rot. There were two or three cupboards, into which Mr. Grimstone penetrated with a tallow candle; but he discovered nothing of any more importance than crockery-ware, lucifer-matches, fire-wood, potatoes, bare ropes, on which an onion lingered here and there and sprouted dismally in its dark loneliness, empty ginger-beer bottles, oyster-shells, old boots and shoes, disabled mouse-traps, black beetles, and humid fungi rising ghost-like from the damp and darkness. Mr. Grimstone emerged dirty and discomforted, from one of these dark recesses, after a profitless search, which had occupied a couple of weary hours. "Some other chap'll go in and cut the ground under my feet, if I waste my time this way," thought the detective. "I'm blest if I don't think I've been a fool for my pains. The man carries the money about him,--that's as clear as mud; and if I were to search Doncaster till my hair got gray, I shouldn't find what I want." Mr. Grimstone shut the door of the last cupboard which he had examined, with an impatient slam, and then turned towards the window. There was no sign of his scout in the little alley before the house, and he had time therefore for further business. He had examined everything in the "Softy's" apartment, and he had paid particular attention to the state of Mr. Hargraves' wardrobe, which consisted of a pile of garments, every one of which bore in its cut and fashion the stamp of a different individuality, and thereby proclaimed itself as having belonged to another master. There was a Newmarket coat of John Mellish's, and a pair of hunting-breeches, which could only have built by the great Poole himself, split across the knees, but otherwise little the worse for wear. There was a linen jacket, and an old livery waistcoat that had belonged to one of the servants at the Park; odd tops of every shade known in the hunting-field, from the spotless white, or the delicate champagne-cleaned cream colour of the dandy, to the favourite vinegar hue of the hard-riding country squire; a groom's hat with a tarnished band and a battered crown; hob-nailed boots, which may have belonged to Mr. Dawson; corduroy breeches that could only have fitted a dropsical lodge-keeper, long deceased; and there was one garment which bore upon it the ghastly impress of a dreadful deed that had but lately been done. This was the velveteen shooting-coat worn by James Conyers, the trainer, which, pierced with the murderous bullet, and stiffened by the soaking torrent of blood, had been appropriated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves in the confusion of the catastrophe. All these things, with sundry rubbish in the way of odd spurs and whip-handles, scraps of broken harness, ends of rope, and such other scrapings as only a miser loves to accumulate, were packed in a lumbering trunk covered with mangy fur, and secured by about a dozen yards of knotted and jagged rope, tied about it in such a manner as the "Softy" had considered sufficient to defy the most artful thief in Christendom. Mr. Grimstone had made very short work of all the elaborate defences in the way of knots and entanglements, and had ransacked the box from one end to the other; nay, had even closely examined the fur covering of the trunk, and had tested each separate brass-headed nail to ascertain if any of them had been removed or altered. He may have thought it just possible that two thousand pounds' worth of Bank of England paper had been nailed down under the mangy fur. He gave a weary sigh as he concluded his inspection, replaced the garments one by one in the trunk, reknotted and secured the jagged cord, and with a weary sigh turned his back upon the "Softy's" chamber. "It's no good," he thought. "The yellow-striped waistcoat isn't among his clothes, and the money isn't hidden away anywhere. Can he be deep enough to have destroyed that waistcoat, I wonder? He'd got a red woollen one on this morning; perhaps he's got the yellow-striped one under it." Mr. Grimstone brushed the dust and cobwebs off his clothes, washed his hands in a greasy wooden bowl of scalding water, which the old woman brought him, and then sat down before the fire, picking his teeth thoughtfully, and with his eyebrows set in a reflective frown over his small gray eyes. "I don't like to be beat," he thought; "I don't like to be beat." He doubted if any magistrate would grant him a warrant against the "Softy" upon the strength of the evidence in his possession--the blood-stained button by Crosby of Birmingham; and without a warrant he could not search for the notes upon the person of the man he suspected. He had sounded all the out-door servants at Mellish Park, but had been able to discover nothing that threw any light upon the movements of Stephen Hargraves on the night of the murder. No one remembered having seen him; no one had been on the southern side of the wood that night. One of the lads had passed the north lodge on his way from the high-road to the stables, about the time at which Aurora had heard the shot fired in the wood, and had seen a light burning in the lower window; but this, of course, proved nothing either one way or the other. "If we could find the money _upon him_," thought Mr. Grimstone; "it would be pretty strong proof of the robbery; and if we find the waistcoat off which that button came, in his possession, it wouldn't be bad evidence of the murder, putting the two things together; but we shall have to keep a precious sharp watch upon my friend, while we hunt up what we want, or I'm blest if he won't give us the slip, and be off to Liverpool and out of the country before we know where we are." Now the truth of the matter is, that Mr. Joseph Grimstone was not, perhaps, acting quite so conscientiously in this business as he might have done, had the love of justice in the abstract, and without any relation to sublunary reward, been the ruling principle of his life. He might have had any help he pleased, from the Doncaster constabulary, had he chosen to confide in the members of that force; but, as a very knowing individual who owns a three-year old, which he has reason to believe "a flyer," is apt to keep the capabilities of his horse a secret from his friends and the sporting public, while he puts a "pot" of money upon the animal at enormous odds, so Mr. Grimstone desired to keep his information to himself, until it should have brought him its golden fruit in the shape of a small reward from Government, and a large one from John Mellish. The detective had reason to know that the Dogberries of Doncaster, misled by a duplicate of that very letter which had first aroused the attention of Scotland Yard, were on the wrong scent, as he had been at first; and he was very well content to leave them where they were. "No," he thought, "it's a critical game; but I'll play it single-handed, or, at least, with no one better than Tom Chivers to help me through with it; and a ten-pound note will satisfy him, if we win the day." Pondering thus, Mr. Grimstone departed, after having recompensed the landlady for her civility by a donation which the old woman considered princely. He had entirely deluded her as to the object of his search by telling her that he was a lawyer's clerk, commissioned by his employer to hunt for a codicil which had been hidden somewhere in that house by an old man who had lived in it in the year 1783; and he had contrived, in the course of conversation, to draw from the old woman, who was of a garrulous turn, all that she had to tell about the "Softy." It was not much, certainly. Mr. Hargraves had never changed a bank-note with her knowledge. He had paid for his bit of victuals as he had it, but had not spent a shilling a day. As to bank-notes, it wasn't at all likely that he had any of them; for he was always complaining that he was very poor, and that his little bit of savings, scraped together out of his wages, wouldn't last him long. "This Hargraves is a precious deep one for all they call him soft," thought Mr. Grimstone, as he left the lodging-house, and walked slowly towards the sporting public-house at which he had left the "Softy" under the watchful eye of Mr. Tom Chivers. "I've often heard say that these half-witted chaps have more cunning in their little fingers than a better man has in the whole of his composition. Another man would have never been able to stand against the temptation of changing one of those notes; or would have gone about wearing that identical waistcoat; or would have made a bolt of it the day after the murder; or tried on something or other that would have blown the gaff upon him; but not your 'Softy!' He hides the notes and he hides the waistcoat, and then he laughs in his sleeve at those that want him, and sits drinking his beer as comfortably as you please." Pondering thus, the detective made his way to the public-house in which he had left Mr. Stephen Hargraves. He ordered a glass of brandy-and-water at the bar, and walked into the taproom, expecting to see the "Softy" still brooding sullenly over his drink, still guarded by the apparently indifferent eye of Mr. Chivers. But it was not so. The taproom was empty; and upon making cautious inquiries, Mr. Grimstone discovered that the "Softy" and his watcher had been gone for upwards of an hour. Mr. Chivers had been forbidden to let his charge out of sight under any circumstances whatever, except indeed if the "Softy" had turned homewards while Mr. Grimstone was employed in ransacking his domicile, in which event Tom was to have slipped on a few paces before him, and given warning to his chief. Wherever Stephen Hargraves went, Mr. Thomas Chivers was to follow him; but he was, above all, to act in such a manner as would effectually prevent any suspicion arising in the "Softy's" mind as to the fact that he was followed. It will be seen, therefore, that poor Chivers had no very easy task to perform, and it has been seen that he had heretofore contrived to perform it pretty skilfully. If Stephen Hargraves sat boozing in a taproom half the day, Mr. Chivers was also to booze or to make a pretence of boozing, for the same length of time. If the "Softy" showed any disposition to be social, and gave his companion any opportunity of getting friendly with him, the detective's underling was to employ his utmost skill and discretion in availing himself of that golden chance. It is a wondrous provision of Providence that the treachery which would be hateful and horrible in any other man, is considered perfectly legitimate in the man who is employed to hunt out a murderer or a thief. The vile instruments which the criminal employed against his unsuspecting victim are in due time used against himself; and the wretch who laughed at the poor unsuspecting dupe who was trapped to his destruction by _his_ lies, is caught in his turn by some shallow deceit, or pitifully hackneyed device, of the paid spy, who has been bribed to lure him to his doom. For the outlaw of society, the code of honour is null and void. His existence is a perpetual peril to innocent women and honourable men; and the detective who beguiles him to his end does such a service to society as must doubtless counterbalance the treachery of the means by which it is done. The days of Jonathan Wild and his compeers are over, and the thief-taker no longer begins life as a thief. The detective officer is as honest as he is intrepid and astute, and it is not his own fault if the dirty nature of all crime gives him now and then dirty work to do. But Mr. Stephen Hargraves did not give the opportunity for which Tom Chivers had been bidden to lie in wait; he sat sullen, silent, stupid, unapproachable; and as Tom's orders were not to force himself upon his companion, he was fain to abandon all thought of worming himself into the "Softy's" good graces. This made the task of watching him all the more difficult. It is not such a very easy matter to follow a man without seeming to follow him. It was market-day too, and the town was crowded with noisy country people. Mr. Grimstone suddenly remembered this, and the recollection by no means added to his peace of mind. "Chivers never did sell me," he thought, "and surely he won't do it now. I dare say they're safe enough, for the matter of that, in some other public. I'll slip out and look after them." Mr. Grimstone had, as I have said, already made himself acquainted with all the haunts affected by the "Softy." It did not take him long, therefore, to look in at the three or four public-houses where Steeve Hargraves was likely to be found, and to discover that he was not there. "He's slouching about the town somewhere or other, I dare say," thought the detective, "with my mate close upon his heels. I'll stroll towards the market-place, and see if I can find them anywhere that way." Mr. Grimstone turned out of the by-street in which he had been walking, into a narrow alley leading to the broad open square upon which the market-place stands. The detective went his way in a leisurely manner, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He had perfect confidence in Mr. Thomas Chivers, and the crowded state of the market-place and its neighbourhood in no way weakened his sense of security. "Chivers will stick to him through thick and thin," he thought; "he'd keep an eye upon his man if he had to look after him between Charing Cross and Whitehall when the Queen was going to open Parliament. He's not the man to be flummuxed by a crowd in a country market-place." Serene in this sense of security, Mr. Grimstone amused himself by looking about him, with an expression of somewhat supercilious wonder, at the manners and customs of those indigenæ who, upon market-day, make their inroad into the quiet town. He paused upon the edge of a little sunken flight of worn steps leading down to the stage-door of the theatre, and read the fragments of old bills mouldering upon the door-posts and lintel. There were glowing announcements of dramatic performances that had long ago taken place; and above the rain and mud stained relics of the past, in bold black lettering, appeared the record of a drama as terrible as any that had ever been enacted in that provincial theatre. The bill-sticker had posted the announcement of the reward offered by John Mellish for the discovery of the murderer in every available spot, and had not forgotten this position, which commanded one of the entrances to the market-place. "It's a wonder to me," muttered Mr. Grimstone, "that that blessed bill shouldn't have opened the eyes of these Doncaster noodles. But I dare say they think it's a blind, a planned thing to throw 'em off the scent their clever noses are sticking to so determined. If I can get my man before they open their eyes, I shall have such a haul as I haven't met with lately." Musing thus pleasantly, Mr. Grimstone turned his back upon the theatre, and crossed over to the market. Within the building the clamour of buying and selling was at its height: noisy countrymen chaffering in their northern _patois_ upon the value and merits of poultry, butter, and eggs; dealers in butchers' meat bewildering themselves in the endeavour to simultaneously satisfy the demands of half a dozen sharp and bargain-loving housekeepers; while from without there came a confused clatter of other merchants and other customers, clamouring and hustling round the stalls of greengrocers and the slimy barrows of blue-jacketed fishmongers. In the midst of all this bustle and confusion, Mr. Grimstone came suddenly upon his trusted ally, pale, terror-stricken, and--ALONE! The detective's mind was not slow to grasp the full force of the situation. "You've lost him!" he whispered fiercely, seizing the unfortunate Mr. Chivers by the collar, and pinning him as securely as if he had serious thoughts of making him a permanent fixture upon the stone-flags of the market-place. "You've lost him, Tom Chivers!" he continued, hoarse with agitation. "You've lost the party that I told you was worth more to me than any other party I ever gave you the office for. You've lost me the best chance I've ever had since I've been in Scotland Yard, and yourself too; for I should have acted liberal by you," added the detective, apparently oblivious of that morning's reverie, in which he had pre-determined offering his assistant ten pounds, in satisfaction of all his claims,--"I should have acted very liberal by you, Tom. But what's the use of standing jawing here? You come along with me; you can tell me how it happened as we go." With his powerful grasp still on the underling's collar, Mr. Grimstone walked out of the market-place, neither looking to the right nor the left, though many a pair of rustic eyes opened to their widest as he passed, attracted no doubt by the rapidity of his pace and the obvious determination of his manner. Perhaps those rustic bystanders thought that the stern-looking gentleman in the black frock-coat had arrested the shabby little man in the act of picking his pocket, and was bearing him off to deliver him straight into the hands of justice. Mr. Grimstone released his grasp when he and his companion had got clear of the market-place. "Now," he said, breathless, but not slackening his pace,--"now I suppose you can tell me how you came to make such an"--inadmissable adjective--"fool of yourself? Never you mind where I'm goin'. I'm goin' to the railway station. Never you mind why I'm goin' there. You'd guess why, if you weren't a fool. Now tell me all about it, can't you?" "It aint much to tell," the humble follower gasped, his respiratory functions sadly tried by the pace at which his superior went over the ground. "It aint much. I followed your instructions faithful. I tried, artful and quiet-like, to make acquaintance with him; but that warn't a bit o' good. He was as surly as a bull-terrier, so I didn't force him to it; but kept an eye upon him, and let out before him as it was racin' business as had brought me to Doncaster, and as I was here to look after a horse, what was in trainin' a few miles off, for a gent in London; and when he left the public, I went after him, but not conspicuous. But I think from that minute he was fly, for he didn't go three steps without lookin' back, and he led me such a chase as made my legs tremble under me, which they trembles at this moment; and then he gets me into the market-place, and he dodges here, and he dodges there, and wherever the crowd's thickest he dodges most, till he gets me at last in among a ring of market-people round a couple o' coves a-millin' with each other, and there I loses him. And I've been in and out the market, and here and there, until I'm fit to drop, but it aint no good; and you've no call to lay the blame on me, for mortal man couldn't have done more." Mr. Chivers wiped the perspiration from his face in testimony of his exertions. Dirty little streams were rolling down his forehead and trickling upon his poor faded cheeks. He mopped up these evidences of his fatigue with a red cotton handkerchief, and gave a deprecatory sigh. "If there's anybody to lay blame on, it aint me," he said mildly. "I said all along you ought to have had help. A man as is on his own ground, and knows his own ground, is more than a match for one cove, however hard he may work." The detective turned fiercely upon his meek dependent. "Who's blaming you?" he cried impatiently. "I wouldn't cry out before I was hurt, if I were you." They had reached the railway station by this time. "How long is it since you missed him?" asked Mr. Grimstone of the penitent Chivers. "Three-quarters of a hour, or it may be a hour," Tom added doubtfully. "I dare say it _is_ an hour," muttered the detective. He walked straight to one of the chief officials, and asked what trains had left within the last hour. "Two--both market trains: one eastward, Selby way; the other for Penistone, and the intervening stations." The detective looked at the time-table, running his thumb-nail along the names of the stations. "That train will reach Penistone in time to catch the Liverpool train, won't it?" he asked. "Just about." "What time did it go?" "The Penistone train?" "Yes." "About half an hour ago; at 2.30." The clocks had struck three as Mr. Grimstone made his way to the station. "Half an hour ago," muttered the detective. "He'd have had ample time to catch the train after giving Chivers the slip." He questioned the guards and porters as to whether any of them had seen a man answering to the description of the "Softy:" a white-faced, hump-backed fellow, in corduroys and a fustian jacket; and even penetrated into the ticket-clerk's office to ask the same question. No; none of them had seen Mr. Stephen Hargraves. Two or three of them recognized him by the detective's description, and asked if it was one of the stable-men from Mellish Park that the gentleman was inquiring after. Mr. Grimstone rather evaded any direct answer to this question. Secrecy was, as we know, the principle upon which he conducted his affairs. "He may have contrived to give 'em all the slip," he said confidentially to his faithful but dispirited ally. "He may have got off without any of 'em seeing him. He's got the money about him, I'm all but certain of that; and his game is to get off to Liverpool. His inquiries after the trains yesterday proves that. Now I might telegraph, and have him stopped at Liverpool--supposing him to have given us all the slip, and gone off there--if I like to let others into the game; but I don't. I'll play to win or lose; but I'll play single-handed. He may try another dodge, and get off Hull way by the canal-boats that the market-people use, and then slip across to Hamburg, or something of that sort; but that aint likely,--these fellows always go one way. It seems as if the minute a man has taken another man's life, or forged his name, or embezzled his money, his ideas get fixed in one groove, and never can soar higher than Liverpool and the American packet." Mr. Chivers listened respectfully to his patron's communications. He was very well pleased to see the serenity of his employer's mind gradually returning. "Now, I'll tell you what, Tom," said Mr. Grimstone. "If this chap has given us the slip, why he's given us the slip, and he's got a start of us, which we sha'n't be able to pick up till half-past ten o'clock to-night, when there's a train that'll take us to Liverpool. If he _hasn't_ given us the slip, there's only one way he can leave Doncaster, and that's by this station; so you stay here patient and quiet till you see me, or hear from me. If he is in Doncaster, I'm jiggered if I don't find him." With which powerful asseveration Mr. Grimstone walked away, leaving his scout to keep watch for the possible coming of the "Softy." CHAPTER XIV. TALBOT BULSTRODE MAKES ATONEMENT FOR THE PAST. John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode walked to and fro upon the lawn before the drawing-room windows on that afternoon on which the detective and his underling lost sight of Stephen Hargraves. It was a dreary time, this period of watching and waiting, of uncertainty and apprehension; and poor John Mellish chafed bitterly under the burden which he had to bear. Now that his friend's common sense had come to his relief, and that a few plain out-spoken sentences had dispersed the terrible cloud of mystery; now that he himself was fully assured of his wife's innocence, he had no patience with the stupid country people who held themselves aloof from the woman he loved. He wanted to go out and do battle for his slandered wife; to hurl back every base suspicion into the faces that had scowled upon his idolized Aurora. How could they dare, these foul-minded slanderers, to harbour one base thought against the purest, the most perfect of women? Mr. Mellish of course quite forgot that he, the rightful defender of all this perfection, had suffered his mind to be for a time obscured beneath the black shadow of that vile suspicion. He hated the old friends of his youth for their base avoidance of him; the servants of his household for a half-doubtful, half-solemn expression of face, which he knew had relation to that growing suspicion, that horrible suspicion, which seemed to grow stronger with every hour. He broke out into a storm of rage with the gray-haired butler, who had carried him pick-a-back in his infancy, because the faithful retainer tried to hold back certain newspapers which contained dark allusions to the Mellish mystery. "Who told you I didn't want the 'Manchester Guardian,' Jarvis?" he cried fiercely; "who gave you the right to dictate what I'm to read or what I'm to leave unread? I do want to-day's 'Guardian;' to-day's, and yesterday's, and to-morrow's, and every other newspaper that comes into this house. I won't have them overhauled by you, or anyone, to see whether they're pleasant reading or not, before they're brought to me. Do you think _I'm_ afraid of anything these penny-a-liner fellows can write?" roared the young squire, striking his open hand upon the table at which he sat. "Let them write their best or their worst of me. But let them write one word that can be twisted into an insinuation upon the purest and truest woman in all Christendom, and, by the Lord above me, I'll give them such a thrashing--penny-a-liners, printers, publishers, and every man-Jack of them--as shall make them remember the business to the last hour of their lives!" Mr. Mellish said all this in despite of the restraining presence of Talbot Bulstrode. Indeed, the young member for Penruthy had by no means a pleasant time of it during those few days of anxiety and suspense. A keeper set to watch over a hearty young jungle-tiger, and bidden to prevent the noble animal from committing any imprudence, might have found his work little harder than that which Mr. Bulstrode did, patiently and uncomplainingly, for pure friendship's sake. John Mellish roamed about in the custody of this friendly keeper, with his short auburn hair tumbled into a feverish-looking mass, like a field of ripening corn that had been beaten by a summer hurricane, his cheeks sunken and haggard, and a bristling yellow stubble upon his chin. I dare say he had made a vow neither to shave nor be shaven until the murderer of James Conyers should be found. He clung desperately to Talbot Bulstrode, but he clung with still wilder desperation to the detective, the professional criminal hunter, who had in a manner tacitly pledged himself to the discovery of the real homicide. All through the fitful August day, now hot and still, now overclouded and showery, the master of Mellish Park went hither and thither,--now sitting in his study; now roaming out on the lawn; now pacing up and down the drawing-room, displacing, disarranging, and overturning the pretty furniture; now wandering up and down the staircase, lolling on the landing-places, and patrolling the corridor outside the rooms in which Lucy and Aurora sat together making a show of employing themselves, but only waiting, waiting, waiting, for the hoped-for end. Poor John scarcely cared to meet that dearly-loved wife; for the great earnest eyes that looked in his face always asked the same question so plainly,--always appealed so piteously for the answer that could not be given. It was a weary and a bitter time. I wonder, as I write of it, when I think of a quiet Somersetshire household in which a dreadful deed was done, the secret of which has never yet been brought to light, and perhaps never will be revealed until the Day of Judgment, what must have been suffered by each member of _that_ family? What slow agonies, what ever-increasing tortures, while that cruel mystery was the "sensation" topic of conversation in a thousand happy home-circles, in a thousand tavern-parlours and pleasant club-rooms!--a common and ever-interesting topic, by means of which travellers in first-class railway carriages might break down the ceremonial icebergs which surround each travelling Englishman, and grow friendly and confidential; a safe topic upon which even tacit enemies might talk pleasantly without fear of wrecking themselves upon hidden rocks of personal insinuation. God help that household, or any such household, through the weary time of waiting which it may please Him to appoint, until that day in which it shall be His good pleasure to reveal the truth! God help all patient creatures labouring under the burden of an unjust suspicion, and support them unto the end! John Mellish chafed and fretted himself ceaselessly all through that August day at the non-appearance of the detective. Why didn't he come? He had promised to bring or send them news of his proceedings. Talbot in vain assured his friend that Mr. Grimstone was no doubt hard at work; that such a discovery as he had to make was not to be made in a day; and that Mr. Mellish had nothing to do but to make himself as comfortable as he could, and wait quietly for the event he desired so eagerly. "I should not say this to you, John," Mr. Bulstrode said by-and-by, "if I did not believe--as I know this man Grimstone believes--that we are upon the right track, and are pretty sure to bring the crime home to the wretch who committed it. You can do nothing but be patient, and wait the result of Grimstone's labours." "Yes," cried John Mellish; "and in the mean time all these people are to say cruel things of my darling, and keep aloof from her, and--No, I _can't_ bear it, Talbot; I can't bear it. I'll turn my back upon this confounded place; I'll sell it; I'll burn it down; I'll--I'll do anything to get away, and take my precious one from the wretches who have slandered her!" "That you shall _not_ do, John Mellish," exclaimed Talbot Bulstrode, "until the murderer of James Conyers has been discovered. Go away, then, as soon as you like; for the associations of this place cannot be otherwise than disagreeable to you--for a time, at least. But until the truth is out, you must remain here. If there is any foul suspicion against Aurora, her presence here will best give the lie to that suspicion. It was her hurried journey to London which first set people talking of her, I dare say," added Mr. Bulstrode, who was of course entirely ignorant of the fact that an anonymous letter from Mrs. Powell had originally aroused the suspicions of the Doncaster constabulary. So through the long summer's day Talbot reasoned with and comforted his friend, never growing weary of his task, never for one moment losing sight of the interests of Aurora Mellish and her husband. Perhaps this was a self-imposed penalty for the wrong which he had done the banker's daughter long ago in the dim star-lit chamber at Felden. If it was so, he did penance very cheerfully. "Heaven knows how gladly I would do her a service," he thought; "her life has been a troubled one, in spite of her father's thousands. Thank Heaven, my poor little Lucy has never been forced into playing the heroine of a tragedy like this; thank Heaven, my poor little darling's life flows evenly and placidly in a smooth channel!" He could not but reflect with something of a shudder that it might have been his wife whose history was being canvassed throughout the West Riding. He could not be otherwise than pleased to remember that the name of the woman he had chosen had never gone beyond the holy circle of her own home, to be the common talk among strangers. There are things which are utterly unendurable to some people, but which are not at all terrible in the eyes of others. John Mellish, secure in his own belief in his wife's innocence, would have been content to carry her away with him, after razing the home of his forefathers to the ground, and defying all Yorkshire to find a flaw or speck upon her fair fame. But Talbot Bulstrode would have gone mad with the agony of the thought that common tongues had defiled the name he loved, and would, in no after-triumph of his wife's innocence, been able to forget or to recover from the torture of that unendurable agony. There are people who cannot forget, and Talbot Bulstrode was one of them. He had never forgotten his Christmas agony at Felden Woods, and the after-struggle at Bulstrode Castle; nor did he ever hope to forget it. The happiness of the present, pure and unalloyed though it was, could not annihilate the anguish of the past. _That_ stood alone,--so many months, weeks, days, and hours of unutterable misery, riven away from the rest of his life, to remain for ever a stony memorial upon the smooth plains of the past. Archibald Martin Floyd sat with his daughter and Lucy, in Mrs. Mellish's morning-room, the pleasantest chamber for many reasons, but chiefly because it was removed from the bustle of the house, and from the chance of unwelcome intrusion. All the troubles of that household had been made light of in the presence of the old man, and no word had been dropped before him, which could give him reason to guess that his only child had been suspected of the most fearful crime that man or woman can commit. But Archibald Floyd was not easily to be deceived where his daughter's happiness was in question; he had watched that beautiful face--whose ever-varying expression was its highest charm--so long and earnestly, as to have grown familiar with its every look. No shadow upon the brightness of his daughter's beauty could possibly escape the old man's eyes, dim as they may have grown for the figures in his banking-book. It was Aurora's business, therefore, to sit by her father's side in the pleasant morning-room, to talk to him and amuse him; while John rambled hither and thither, and made himself otherwise tiresome to his patient companion, Talbot Bulstrode. Mrs. Mellish repeated to her father again and again, that there was no cause for uneasiness; they were merely anxious--naturally anxious--that the guilty man should be found and brought to justice; nothing more. The banker accepted this explanation of his daughter's pale face very quietly; but he was not the less anxious,--anxious he scarcely knew why, but with the shadow of a dark cloud hanging over him, that was not to be driven away. Thus the long August day wore itself out, and the low sun--blazing a lurid red behind the trees in Mellish Wood, until it made that pool beside which the murdered man had fallen, seem a pool of blood--gave warning that one weary day of watching and suspense was nearly done. John Mellish, far too restless to sit long at dessert, had roamed out upon the lawn: still attended by his indefatigable keeper, Talbot Bulstrode, and employed himself in pacing up and down the smooth grass amid Mr. Dawson's flower-beds, looking always towards the pathway that led to the house, and breathing suppressed anathemas against the dilatory detective. "One day nearly gone, thank Heaven, Talbot!" he said, with an impatient sigh. "Will to-morrow bring us no nearer what we want, I wonder? What if it should go on like this for long? what if it should go on for ever, until Aurora and I go mad with this wretched anxiety and suspense? Yes, I know you think me a fool and a coward, Talbot Bulstrode; but I can't bear it quietly, I tell you I can't. I know there are some people who can shut themselves up with their troubles, and sit down quietly and suffer without a groan; but I can't. I must cry out when I am tortured, or I should dash my brains out against the first wall I came to, and make an end of it. To think that anybody should suspect my darling! to think that they should believe her to be----" "To think that _you_ should have believed it, John!" said Mr. Bulstrode, gravely. "Ah, there's the cruelest stab of all," cried John; "if _I_,--I who know her, and love her, and believe in her as man never yet believed in woman,--if _I_ could have been bewildered and maddened by that horrible chain of cruel circumstances, every one of which pointed--Heaven help me!--at her!--if _I_ could be deluded by these things until my brain reeled, and I went nearly mad with doubting my own dearest love, what may strangers think--strangers who neither know nor love her, but who are only too ready to believe anything unnaturally infamous? Talbot, I _won't_ endure this any longer. I'll ride into Doncaster and see this man Grimstone. He _must_ have done some good to-day. I'll go at once." Mr. Mellish would have walked straight off to the stables; but Talbot Bulstrode caught him by the arm. "You may miss the man on the road, John," he said. "He came last night after dark, and may come as late to-night. There's no knowing whether he'll come by the road, or the short cut across the fields. You're as likely to miss him as not." Mr. Mellish hesitated. "He mayn't come at all to-night," he said; "and I tell you I can't bear this suspense." "Let _me_ ride into Doncaster, then, John," urged Talbot; "and you stay here to receive Grimstone if he should come." Mr. Mellish was considerably mollified by this proposition. "Will you ride into the town, Talbot?" he said. "Upon my word, it's very kind of you to propose it. I shouldn't like to miss this man upon any account; but at the same time I don't feel inclined to wait for the chance of his coming or staying away. I'm afraid I'm a great nuisance to you, Bulstrode." "Not a bit of it," answered Talbot, with a smile. Perhaps he smiled involuntarily at the notion of how little John Mellish knew what a nuisance he had been through that weary day. "I'll go with very great pleasure, John," he said, "if you'll tell them to saddle a horse for me." "To be sure; you shall have Red Rover, my covert hack. We'll go round to the stables, and see about him at once." The truth of the matter is, Talbot Bulstrode was very well pleased himself to hunt up the detective, rather than that John Mellish should execute that errand in person; for it would have been about as easy for the young squire to have translated a number of the 'Sporting Magazine' into Porsonian Greek, as to have kept a secret for half an hour, however earnestly entreated, or however conscientiously determined to do so. Mr. Bulstrode had made it his particular business, therefore, during the whole of that day, to keep his friend as much as possible out of the way of every living creature, fully aware that Mr. Mellish's manner would most certainly betray him to the least observant eyes that might chance to fall upon him. Red Rover was saddled, and, after twenty loudly whispered injunctions from John, Talbot Bulstrode rode away in the evening sunlight. The nearest way from the stables to the high road took him past the north lodge. It had been shut up since the day of the trainer's funeral, and such furniture as it contained left to become a prey to moths and rats; for the Mellish servants were a great deal too superstitiously impressed with the story of the murder to dream of readmitting those goods and chattels which had been selected for Mr. Conyers's accommodation to the garrets whence they had been taken. The door had been locked, therefore, and the key given to Dawson the gardener, who was to be once more free to use the place as a storehouse for roots and matting, superannuated cucumber-frames, and crippled garden tools. The place looked dreary enough, though the low sun made a gorgeous illumination upon one of the latticed windows that faced the crimson west, and though the last leaves of the roses were still lying upon the long grass in the patch of garden before the door out of which Mr. Conyers had gone to his last resting-place. One of the stable-boys had accompanied Mr. Bulstrode to the lodge in order to open the rusty iron gates, which hung loosely on their hinges, and were never locked. Talbot rode at a brisk pace into Doncaster, never drawing rein until he reached the little inn at which the detective had taken up his quarters. Mr. Grimstone had been snatching a hasty refreshment, after a weary and useless perambulation about the town, and came out with his mouth full, to speak to Mr. Bulstrode. But he took very good care not to confess that since three o'clock that day neither he nor his ally had seen or heard of Mr. Stephen Hargraves, or that he was actually no nearer the discovery of the murderer than he had been at eleven o'clock upon the previous night, when he had discovered the original proprietor of the fancy waistcoat, with buttons by Crosby, Birmingham, in the person of Dawson the gardener. "I'm not losing any time, sir," he said, in answer to Talbot's inquiries; "my sort of work's quiet work, and don't make no show till it's done. I've reason to think the man we want is in Doncaster; so I stick in Doncaster, and mean to, till I lay my hand upon him, unless I should get information as would point further off. Tell Mr. Mellish I'm doing my duty, sir, and doing it conscientious; and that I shall neither eat nor drink nor sleep more than just as much as'll keep human nature together, until I've done what I've set my mind on doing." "But you've discovered nothing fresh, then?" said Talbot; "you've nothing new to tell me?" "Whatever I've discovered is neither here nor there yet awhile, sir," answered the detective vaguely. "You keep your heart up, and tell Mr. Mellish to keep his heart up, and trust in me." Talbot Bulstrode was obliged to be content with this rather doubtful comfort. It was not much, certainly; but he determined to make the best of it to John Mellish. He rode out of Doncaster, past the Reindeer and the white-fronted houses of the wealthier citizens of that prosperous borough, and away upon the smooth high road. The faint shimmer of the pale pearly moonlight lit up the tree-tops right and left of him, as he left the suburb behind, and made the road ghostly beneath his horse's feet. He was in no very hopeful humour, after his interview with Mr. Grimstone, and he knew that hungry-eyed members of the Doncaster constabulary were keeping stealthy watch upon every creature in the Mellish household, and that the slanderous tongues of a greedy public were swelling into a loud and ominous murmur against the wife John loved. Every hour, every moment, was of vital importance. A hundred perils menaced them on every side. What might they not have to dread from eager busy-bodies anxious to distinguish themselves, and proud of being the first to circulate a foul scandal against the lovely daughter of one of the richest men upon the Stock Exchange? Hayward the coroner, and Lofthouse the rector, both knew the secret of Aurora's life; and it would be little wonder if, looking at the trainer's death by the light of that knowledge, they believed her guilty of some share in the ghastly business which had terminated the trainer's service at Mellish Park. What if, by some horrible fatality, the guilty man should escape, and the truth never be revealed! For ever and for ever, until her blighted name should be written upon a tombstone, Aurora Mellish must rest under the shadow of this suspicion. Could there be any doubt that the sensitive and highly-strung nature would give way under the unendurable burden; that the proud heart would break beneath the undeserved disgrace? What misery for her! and not for her alone, but for every one who loved her, or had any share in her history! Heaven pardon the selfishness that prompted the thought, if Talbot Bulstrode remembered that he would have some part in that bitter disgrace; that his name was allied, if only remotely, with that of his wife's cousin; and that the shame which would make the name of Mellish a byword, must also cast some slur upon the escutcheon of the Bulstrodes. Sir Bernard Burke, compiling the romance of the county families, would tell that cruel story, and hinting cautiously at Aurora's guilt, would scarcely fail to add, that the suspected lady's cousin had married Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode, Esq., eldest son and heir of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bulstrode, Baronet, of Bulstrode Castle, Cornwall. Now, although the detective had affected a hopeful and even mysterious manner in his brief interview with Talbot, he had not succeeded in hoodwinking that gentleman, who had a vague suspicion that all was not quite right, and that Mr. Joseph Grimstone was by no means so certain of success as he pretended to be. "It's my firm belief that this man Hargraves has given him the slip," Talbot thought. "He said something about believing him to be in Doncaster, and then the next moment added that he might be further off. It's clear, therefore, that Grimstone doesn't know where he is; and in that case it's as likely as not that the man's made off with his money, and will get away from England, in spite of us. If he does this----" Mr. Bulstrode did not finish the sentence. He had reached the north lodge, and dismounted to open the iron gate. The lights of the house shone hospitably far away beyond the wood, and the voices of some men about the stable-gates sounded faintly in the distance; but the north lodge and the neglected shrubbery around it were as silent as the grave, and had a certain phantom-like air in the dim moonlight. Talbot led his horse through the gates. He looked up at the windows of the lodge, as he passed, half involuntarily; but he stopped with a suppressed exclamation of surprise, at the sight of a feeble glimmer, which was not the moonlight, in the window of that upper chamber in which the murdered man had slept. Before that exclamation had well-nigh crossed his lips, the light had disappeared. If any one of the Mellish grooms or stable-boys had beheld that brief apparition, he would have incontinently taken to his heels, and rushed breathless to the stables, with a wild story of some supernatural horror in the north lodge; but Mr. Bulstrode being altogether of another mettle, walked softly on, still leading his horse, until he was well out of ear-shot of any one within the lodge, when he stopped and tied the Red Rover's bridle to a tree, and turned back towards the north gates, leaving the corn-fed covert hack cropping greedily at dewy hazel twigs, and any greenmeat within his reach. The heir of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bulstrode crept back to the lodge, almost as noiselessly as if he had been educated for Mr. Grimstone's profession, choosing the grassy pathway beneath the trees for his cautious footsteps. As he approached the wooden paling that shut in the little garden of the lodge, the light which had been so suddenly extinguished, reappeared behind the white curtain of the upper window. "It's queer!" mused Mr. Bulstrode, as he watched the feeble glimmer; "but I dare say there's nothing in it. The associations of this place are strong enough to make one attach a foolish importance to anything connected with it. I think I heard John say the gardeners keep their tools there, and I suppose it's one of them. But it's late, too, for any of them to be at work." It had struck ten while Mr. Bulstrode rode homeward; and it was more than unlikely that any of the Mellish servants would be out at such a time. Talbot lingered by the wicket-gate, irresolute as to what he should do next, but thoroughly determined to see the last of this late visitor at the north lodge, when the shadow of a man flitted across the white curtain,--a shadow even more weird and ungainly than such things are;--the shadow of a man with a hump-back! Talbot Bulstrode uttered no cry of surprise; but his heart knocked furiously against his ribs, and the blood rushed hotly to his face. He never remembered having seen the "Softy;" but he had always heard him described as a hump-backed man. There could be no doubt of the shadow's identity; there could be still less doubt that Stephen Hargraves had visited that place for no good purpose. What could bring him there--to that place above all other places, which, if he were indeed guilty, he would surely most desire to avoid? Stolid, semi-idiotic, as he was supposed to be, surely the common terrors of the lowest assassin, half brute, half Caliban, would keep him away from that spot. These thoughts did not occupy more than those few moments in which the violent beating of Talbot Bulstrode's heart held him powerless to move or act; then, pushing open the gate, he rushed across the tiny garden, trampling recklessly upon the neglected flower-beds, and softly tried the door. It was firmly secured with a heavy chain and padlock. "He has got in at the window, then," thought Mr. Bulstrode. "What, in Heaven's name, could be his motive in coming here?" Talbot was right. The little lattice-window had been wrenched nearly off its hinges, and hung loosely among the tangled foliage that surrounded it. Mr. Bulstrode did not hesitate a moment before he plunged head foremost into the narrow aperture through which the "Softy" must have found his way, and scrambled as he could into the little room. The lattice, strained still further, dropped, with a crashing noise, behind him; but not soon enough to serve as a warning for Stephen Hargraves, who appeared upon the lowest step of the tiny corkscrew staircase at the same moment. He was carrying a tallow candle in a battered tin candlestick in his right hand, and he had a small bundle under his left arm. His white face was no whiter than usual, but he presented an awfully corpse-like appearance to Mr. Bulstrode, who had never seen him, or noticed him, before. The "Softy" recoiled, with a gesture of intense terror, as he saw Talbot; and a box of lucifer-matches, which he had been carrying in the candlestick, rolled to the ground. "What are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bulstrode, sternly; "and why did you come in at the window?" "I warn't doin' no wrong;" the "Softy" whined piteously; "and it aint your business neither," he added, with a feeble attempt at insolence. "It is my business. I am Mr. Mellish's friend and relation; and I have reason to suspect that you are here for no good purpose," answered Talbot. "I insist upon knowing what you came for." "I haven't come to steal owght, anyhow," said Mr. Hargraves; "there's nothing here but chairs and tables, and 'taint loikely I've come arter them." "Perhaps not; but you have come after something, and I insist upon knowing what it is. You wouldn't come to this place unless you'd a very strong reason for coming. What have you got there?" Mr. Bulstrode pointed to the bundle carried by the "Softy." Stephen Hargraves' small red-brown eyes evaded those of his questioner, and made believe to mistake the direction in which Talbot looked. "What have you got there?" repeated Mr. Bulstrode; "you know well enough what I mean. What have you got there, in that bundle under your arm?" The "Softy" clutched convulsively at the dingy bundle, and glared at his questioner with something of the savage terror of some ugly animal at bay. Except that in his brutalized manhood, he was more awkward, and perhaps more repulsive, than the ugliest of the lower animals. "It's nowght to you, nor to anybody else," he muttered sulkily. "I suppose a poor chap may fetch his few bits of clothes without being _called_ like this?" "What clothes? Let me see the clothes." "No, I won't; they're nowght to you. They--it's only an old weskit as was give me by one o' th' lads in th' steables." "A waistcoat!" cried Mr. Bulstrode; "let me see it this instant. A waistcoat of yours has been particularly inquired for, Mr. Hargraves. It's a chocolate waistcoat, with yellow stripes and brass buttons, unless I'm very much mistaken. Let me see it." Talbot Bulstrode was almost breathless with excitement. The "Softy" stared aghast at the description of his waistcoat, but he was too stupid to comprehend instantaneously the reason for which this garment was wanted. He recoiled for a few paces, and then made a rush towards the window; but Talbot's hands closed upon his collar, and held him as if in a vice. "You'd better not trifle with me," cried Mr. Bulstrode; "I've been accustomed to deal with refractory Sepoys in India, and I've had a struggle with a tiger before now. Show me that waistcoat!" "I won't!" "By the Heaven above us, you shall!" "I won't!" The two men closed with each other in a hand-to-hand struggle. Powerful as the soldier was, he found himself more than matched by Stephen Hargraves, whose thick-set frame, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms were almost Herculean in, their build. The struggle lasted for a considerable time,--or for a time that seemed considerable to both of the combatants; but at last it drew towards its termination, and the heir of all the Bulstrodes, the commander of squadrons of horse, the man who had done battle with bloodthirsty Sikhs, and ridden against the black mouths of Russian cannon at Balaclava, felt that he could scarcely hope to hold out much longer against the half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables. The horny fingers of the "Softy" were upon his throat, the long arms of the "Softy" were writhing round him, and in another moment Talbot Bulstrode lay upon the floor of the north lodge, with the "Softy's" knee planted upon his heaving chest. Another moment, and in the dim moonlight,--the candle had been thrown down and trampled upon in the beginning of the scuffle,--the heir of Bulstrode Castle saw Stephen Hargraves fumbling with his disengaged hand in his breast-pocket. One moment more, and Mr. Bulstrode heard that sharp metallic noise only associated with the opening of a clasp-knife. "E'es," hissed the "Softy," with his hot breath close upon the fallen man's cheek, "you wanted t' see th' weskit, did you; but you sha'n't, for I'll serve you as I served him. 'Taint loikely I'll let you stand between me and two thousand pound." Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode had a faint notion that a broad Sheffield blade flashed in the silvery moonlight; but at this moment his senses grew confused under the iron grip of the "Softy's" hand, and he knew little, except that there was a sudden crashing of glass behind him, a quick trampling of feet, and a strange voice roaring some seafaring oath above his head. The suffocating pressure was suddenly removed from his throat; some one, or something, was hurled into a corner of the little room; and Mr. Bulstrode sprang to his feet, a trifle dazed and bewildered, but quite ready to do battle again. "Who is it?' he cried. "It's me, Samuel Prodder," answered the voice that had uttered that dreadful seafaring oath. "You were pretty nigh done for, mate, when I came aboard. It aint the first time I've been up here after dark, takin' a quiet stroll and a pipe, before turning in over yonder." Mr. Prodder indicated Doncaster by a backward jerk of his thumb. "I'd been watchin' the light from a distance, till it went out suddenly five minutes ago, and then I came up close to see what was the matter. I don't know who you are, or what you are, or why you've been quarrelling; but I know you've been pretty near as nigh your death to-night as ever that chap was in the wood." "The waistcoat!" gasped Mr. Bulstrode; "let me see the waistcoat!" He sprang once more upon the "Softy," who had rushed towards the door, and was trying to beat out the panel with his iron-bound clog; but this time Mr. Bulstrode had a stalwart ally in the merchant-captain. "A bit of rope comes uncommon handy in these cases," said Samuel Prodder; "for which reason I always make a point of carrying it somewhere about me." He plunged up to his elbow in one of the capacious pockets of his tourist peg-tops, and produced a short coil of tarry rope. As he might have lashed a seaman to a mast in the last crisis of a wreck, so he lashed Mr. Stephen Hargraves now, binding him right and left, until the struggling arms and legs, and writhing trunk, were fain to be still. "_Now_, if you want to ask him any questions, I make no doubt he'll answer 'em," said Mr. Prodder, politely. "You'll find him a deal quieter after that." "I can't thank you now," Talbot answered hurriedly; "there'll be time enough for that by-and-by." "Ay, ay, to be sure, mate," growled the captain; "no thanks is needed where no thanks is due. Is there anything else I can do for you?" "Yes, a good deal presently; but I must find this waistcoat first. Where did he put it, I wonder? Stay, I'd better try and get a light. Keep your eye upon that man while I look for it." Captain Prodder only nodded. He looked upon his scientific lashing of the "Softy" as the triumph of art; but he hovered near his prisoner in compliance with Talbot's request, ready to fall upon him if he should make any attempt to stir. There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. Bulstrode to find the lucifers and candlestick after a few minutes' search. The candle was not improved by having been trodden upon; but Talbot contrived to light it, and then set to work to look for the waistcoat. The bundle had rolled into a corner. It was tightly bound with a quantity of whip-cord, and was harder than it could have been had it consisted solely of the waistcoat. "Hold the light for me while I undo this," Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. Prodder's hand. He was so impatient that he could scarcely wait while he cut the whip-cord about the bundle with the "Softy's" huge clasp-knife, which he had picked up while searching for the candle. "I thought so," he said, as he unrolled the waistcoat; "the money's here." The money was there, in a small Russia-leather pocket-book, in which Aurora had given it to the murdered man. If there had been any confirmation needed for this fact, the savage yell of rage which broke from Stephen's lips would have afforded that confirmation. "It's the money," cried Talbot Bulstrode. "I call upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you may be, that I find this waistcoat and this pocket-book in the possession of this man, and that I take them from him after a struggle, in which he attempts my life." "Ay, ay! I know him well enough," muttered the sailor; "he's a bad 'un; and him and me have had a stand further, before this." "And I call upon you to bear witness that this man is the murderer of James Conyers." "WHAT?" roared Samuel Prodder; "him! Why, the double-dyed villain: it was him that put it into my head that it was my sister Eliza's chi--that it was Mrs. Mellish----" "Yes, yes, I know. But we've got him now. Will you run to the house, and send some of the men to fetch a constable, while I stop here?" Mr. Prodder assented willingly. He had assisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea of what the business was to lead to. Now he was quite as much excited as Mr. Bulstrode. He scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the stables, guided by the lighted windows of the groom's dormitories. Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. He stood at a few paces from the "Softy," watching Mr. Hargraves as he gnawed savagely at his bonds, in the hope perhaps of setting himself free. "I shall be ready for you," the young Cornishman said quietly, "whenever you're ready for me." A crowd of grooms and hangers-on came with lanterns before the constables could arrive; and foremost amongst them came Mr. John Mellish, very noisy and very unintelligible. The door of the lodge was opened, and they all burst into the little chamber, where, heedless of grooms, gardeners, stable-boys, hangers-on, and rabble, John Mellish fell on his friend's breast and wept aloud. * * * * * L'ENVOI. What more have I to tell of this simple drama of domestic life? The end has come. The element of tragedy which has been so intermingled in the history of a homely Yorkshire squire and his wife, is henceforth to be banished from the record of their lives. The dark story which began in Aurora Floyd's folly, and culminated in the crime of a half-witted serving-man, has been told from the beginning to the end. It would be worse than useless to linger upon the description of a trial which took place at York at the Michaelmas Assizes. The evidence against Stephen Hargraves was conclusive; and the gallows outside York Castle ended the life of a man who had never been either help or comfort to any one of his fellow-creatures. There was an attempt made to set up a plea of irresponsibility upon the part of the "Softy," and the _sobriquet_ which had been given him was urged in his defence; but a set of matter-of-fact jurymen looking at the circumstances of the murder, saw nothing in it but a most cold-blooded assassination, perpetrated by a wretch whose sole motive was gain; and the verdict which found Stephen Hargraves guilty, was tempered by no recommendation to mercy. The condemned murderer protested his innocence up to the night before his execution, and upon that night made a full confession of his crime, as is generally the custom of his kind. He related how he had followed James Conyers into the wood upon the night of his assignation with Aurora, and how he had watched and listened during the interview. He had shot the trainer in the back while Mr. Conyers sat by the water's edge looking over the notes in the pocket-book, and he had used a button off his waistcoat instead of wadding, not finding anything else suitable for the purpose. He had hidden the waistcoat and pocket-book in a rat-hole in the wainscot of the murdered man's chamber, and, being dismissed from the lodge suddenly, had been compelled to leave his booty behind him, rather than excite suspicion. It was thus that he had returned upon the night on which Talbot found him, meaning to secure his prize and start for Liverpool at six o'clock the following morning. Aurora and her husband left Mellish Park immediately after the committal of the "Softy" to York prison. They went to the south of France, accompanied by Archibald Floyd, and once more travelled together through scenes which were over-shadowed by no sorrowful association. They lingered long at Nice, and here Talbot and Lucy joined them, with an impedimental train of luggage and servants, and a Normandy nurse with a blue-eyed girl-baby. It was at Nice that another baby was born, a black-eyed child--a boy, I believe--but wonderfully like that solemn-faced infant which Mrs. Alexander Floyd carried to the widowed banker two-and-twenty years before at Felden Woods. It is almost supererogatory to say that Samuel Prodder, the sea-captain, was cordially received by hearty John Mellish and his wife. He is to be a welcome visitor at the Park whenever he pleases to come; indeed, he is homeward bound from Barbadoes at this very time, his cabin-presses filled to overflowing with presents which he is carrying to Aurora, in the way of chillis preserved in vinegar, guava-jelly, the strongest Jamaica rum, and other trifles suitable for a lady's acceptance. It may be some comfort to the gentlemen in Scotland Yard to know that John Mellish acted liberally to the detective, and gave him the full reward, although Talbot Bulstrode had been the captor of the "Softy." So we leave Aurora, a little changed, a shade less defiantly bright, perhaps, but unspeakably beautiful and tender, bending over the cradle of her first-born; and though there are alterations being made at Mellish, and loose-boxes for brood mares building upon the site of the north lodge, and a subscription tan-gallop being laid across Harper's Common, I doubt if my heroine will care so much for horseflesh, or take quite so keen an interest in weight-for-age races as compared to handicaps, as she has done in the days that are gone. THE END.