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THE CLOYEK" FOOT 
 
 % Hotot 
 
 & <sJ 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "LADY ATJDLEY'S SECEET," "LONDON PEIDE," 
 "VIXEN," ETC. ETC. 
 
 Stereotyped Edition 
 
 LONDON : 
 SIMPKIN, MAKSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO„ 
 
 LIMITED^ 
 6TATIONEKS' HALL COUET 
 
 [All rights reserved} 
 
Now Beady at all Booksellers' ahd Bookstalls, 
 Peioe 2». 6d. each, Cloth gilt. 
 
 THE AUTHOK'S AUTOGKAjPH EDITION 
 OF MISS BBADDON'S NOVELS. 
 
 " No one can be (kill who has a novel by Miss Braddon In hand. 
 Tha most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome 
 illness is brightened, by any one of her books. " 
 
 " Miss Braddon is the Queen of the circulating libraries." 
 
 The WorH. 
 
 LONDON » 
 
 SIMPKIN & CO., Limited, 
 
 Stationebs' Hall Couet. 
 Jfad ai all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers', and labrarks. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 iAP. VA UE 
 
 i. The Heir Presumptive . x . • . 7 
 
 ii. Jasper Treverton's "Will , , • . , 19 
 
 in. A Mysterious Visitor . «... 24 
 
 iv. La Chicot ....,,,. 33* 
 
 v. A Disappointed Lover « . c .. * 45 
 
 vi. La Chicot has her Own "Wat . . . .51 
 
 vii. 'A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kiss' . 60 
 
 viii. 'Days that are Over, Dreams that are Done' . 76 
 
 ix. 'And art Thou Come ! and art Thou True J ' ,86 
 
 x. Engaged • . 94 
 
 xi. No Trousseau , 102 
 
 xii. An Ill-Omened Wedding • * . 8 . 107 
 
 xiii. The Settlement . . . , „ . .117 
 
 xiv. 'you have but to say the word ' . . . 120 
 
 xv. Edward Clare Discovers a Likeness . . 12? 
 
 xvi. Shall it be ' Yes ' or ' No ' ? . . . . 134 
 
 xvii. Murder - . B 140 
 
 xviii. What the Diamonds were Worth . , . 146 
 
 xix 'To a Deep I^awny Dell they Came' . . 156 
 
 xx. The Church near Camelot , . „ 163 
 
 xxi. Halcyon Days 169 
 
 xxii. A Village Iago 174 
 
 xxm. 'In the Meanwhile the Skies 'gan Humble 
 
 Sore' 183 
 
 xxrv. 'And Purple Light Shone over All' . . 188 
 
 xxv. The Children's Party 192 
 
 xxvi. A Disinterested Parent « , „ , 196 
 
vi Contents. 
 
 CHAP. MaS 
 
 xxvii. Desrolles is not Communicative . ," .211 
 xxviii. Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovert 217 
 
 xxix. George Gerard 228 
 
 xxx. Thou art the Man ...... 233 
 
 xxxi. Why don't You trust Me ? . . . . 241 
 
 xxxii. On His Defence ...... 246 
 
 xxxiii. At the Morgue . . . . . . .255 
 
 xxxiv. George Gerard in Danger .... 260 
 
 xxxv. On a Voyage of Discovery .... 268 
 
 xxxvi. Kergariou's Wife ...... 274 
 
 xxxvii. The Tenant from Beechampton . . . 280 
 kxxviii. Celia's Lovers . , « „ . , 285 
 
 xxxix. On Suspicion , 301 
 
 xl. Mr. Leopold asks Irrelevant Questions . 307 
 xli. Mrs. Evitt makes a Revelation . . . 312 
 xlii. The Undertaker's Evidence .... 325 
 
 xliii. An Old Lady's Diary 332 
 
 xliv. Three Witnesses ■..••■ 338 
 
 xlv. The Hunt for Desrolles , „ B . 341 
 
 Epilogue » . „ • c • a a 349 
 
THE CLOVEN FOOT 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE. 
 
 The air was thick with falling snow, and the country side looked 
 & formless mass of chilly whiteness, as the south-western mail 
 train carried John Treverton on a lonely midnight journey. 
 There were not many people in the train on that bleak night, 
 and Mr. Treverton had a second-class compartment to himself. 
 
 He had tried to sleep, but had failed ignominiously in the 
 endeavour, waking with a start, after five minutes' doze, and 
 remaining broad awake for an hour at a time pondering upon 
 the perplexities of his life, and hating himself for the follies that 
 had made it what it was. It had been a very hard life of late, 
 for the world had gone ill with John Treverton. He had begun 
 his career with a small fortune and a commission in a crack 
 regiment, and, after wasting his patrimony and selling his com- 
 mission, he was now a gentleman at large, living as best he 
 might, no one but himself knew how. 
 
 He was going to a quiet village in Devonshire, a far-away 
 nook under the shadow of Dartmoor, in obedience to a telegram 
 that told him a rich kinsman was dying, and summoned him to 
 the death-bed. The day had been when he hoped to inherit this 
 kinsman's property ; not because the old man had ever cared for 
 him, but because he, John, was the only relative Jasper Treverton 
 had in the world ; but that hope had vanished when the lonely 
 old bachelor adopted an orphan girl to whom he was reported to 
 have attached himself strongly. The ci-devant Captain had 
 never seen this young person, and it is not to be supposed that 
 he cherished very kindly feeling3 towards her. He had made up 
 his mind that she was a deep and designing creature, who would, 
 
8 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 of course, play her cards in sucb a manner as to ir iuce old Jaspei 
 
 Treverton to leave her everything. 
 
 ' He never bore me or mine mucvl goodwil 1 / John Treverton 
 said to himself, 'but he might have left his money to me for 
 want of anyone else to leave it to, if it hadn't been for this girl.' 
 
 During almost the whole of that dreary night journey he waa 
 meditating on this subject, half incline J. to be angry with himself 
 for having taken such useless trouble, for the sake of a man who 
 was not likely to leave him sixpence. 
 
 He was not an utterly bad fellow, this John Treverton, though 
 his better and purer feelings had been a good deal blunted by 
 rough contact with the world. He had a frank, winning manner, 
 and a handsome face, a face which had won him the love of more 
 than one woman, with Little profit to himself. He was a man of 
 no strong principle, and with a self-indulgent nature that h&(\ 
 led him into wrong-doing very often during the last ter years of 
 his life. He had an easy temper, a habit of looking at the 
 pleasanter side of things so long as there was any pleasantness 
 in them, and a chronic avoidance of all serious thought — qualities 
 which do not serve to make up a strong character. But the charm 
 of his manner was none the less because of this latent weakness 
 of character, and he was better liked than many better men. 
 
 The train stopped at a little rustic station, forty miles west- 
 ward of Exeter, about an hour after midnight— a dreary building 
 with an open platform, across which the wind blew and the snow 
 drifted as John Treverton al'ghted, the one solitary passenger to 
 be deposited at this out-of-the-way place. He knew that the 
 house to which he had to go was some miles from the station, and 
 he applied himself at once to the sleepy station-master to ascertain 
 if there were any possibility of procuring a conveyance at that 
 time of night. 
 
 ' There's a gig waiting for a gentleman from London,' the man 
 answered, stifling a yawn. ' I suppose you are the party, sir.' 
 
 ' A gig from Treverton Manor ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' Thanks, yes ; I am the person that is expected. Civil, at any 
 rate,' John Treverton added to himself, as he walked off to the 
 gig, wrapped to the eyes in his great coat, and with a railway rug 
 across his shoulder. 
 
 He found a gig, with a rough-looking individual of the gar- 
 dener species waiting for him in the snow. 
 
 ' Here I am, my man,' he cried cheerily. ' Have you been 
 waiting long 1 ' 
 
 ' No, sir. Miss Malcolm said as how you'd come by this 
 train.' 
 
 ' Miss Malcolm sent you for me, then ? 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
The Heir Presumptive. 9 
 
 ' And how ia Mr. Treverton to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Mortal bad, sir. The doctors say as th' ol<2 gentleman hasn't 
 soany hours to live. And Miss Malcolm, she says to me, " Jacob, 
 you're to drive home as fast as th' horse can go, for papa is very 
 anxious to see Mr. John before he dies." She alius calls the old 
 gentleman papa, you see, sir, he having adopted of her ten years 
 ago, and brought her up as his own daughter like ever since.' 
 
 They had jolted over the uneven stones of a narrow street, 
 the high street of a small settlement which evidently called itself 
 a town, for here, at a point where two narrow lanes branched off 
 from the central thoroughfare, there stood a dilapidated old 
 building of the town-hall species, and a vaulted market-place 
 with iron railings and closely-locked gates shutting in emptiness. 
 John Treverton perceived dimly through the winter darkness an 
 old stone church, and at least three Methodist chapels. Then, all 
 in a moment, the town was gone, and the gig was rattling along a 
 Devonshire lane, between high banks and still higher hedges, 
 above which rose a world of hill and moor, that melted far off 
 into the midnight sky. 
 
 ' And your master is very fond of this young lady, Miss Mal- 
 colm ? ' John Treverton inquired presently, when the horse, 
 after rattling along for a mile and a half at a tremendous pace, 
 was slowly climbing a hill which seemed to lead nowhere in 
 particular, for one could hardly imagine any definite end or aim 
 in a lane that went undulating like a snake amidst a chaos of hills. 
 
 ' Oncommon, sir. You see, she's about the only thing he has 
 ever cared for.' 
 
 ' Is she as much liked by other people ? ' 
 
 ' Well ,yes, sir, in a general way Miss Malcolm is pretty well 
 liked, but there is some as think her proud — think her a little set 
 up as you may say, by Mr. Treverton's making so much of her. 
 She's not one to make friends very easy ; the young ladies in the 
 village, Squire Carew's daughters, and such like, haven't taken 
 to her as much as they might have done. I've heard my wife — 
 as has been parlour-maid at the Manor for the last twenty years 
 — say as much many a time. But Miss Malcolm is a pleasant- 
 spoken young lady, for all that, to those she likes, and my Susan 
 has had no fault to find with her. You see all of us has our 
 peculiarities, sir, and it ain't to be supposed as Miss Malcolm 
 would be without hers,' the man concluded in an argumentative 
 tone. 
 
 ' Humph ! ' muttered John Treverton. ' A stuck-up young lady, 
 I dare say — and a deep one into the bargain. Did you ever hear 
 who she was — what her position was, and so on — when my cousin 
 Jasper adopted her 1 ' he asked aloud. 
 
 ' No, sir. Mr. Treverton has kept that oncommon close. 
 He'd been away from the Man^r a twelvemonth when he brought 
 
10 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 her home without a word of warning to any one in the house, 
 and told his old housekeeper as how he'd adopted this little girl 
 — who was an orphan — the daughter of an old friend of his, and 
 that's all he ever said about her from that time to this. Miss 
 Malcolm was about seven or eight year old at that time, as pretty 
 a little girl as you could see — and she has grown up to be a beau- 
 tiful young woman.' 
 
 Beautiful. Oh ; this artful young person was beautiful, was 
 she 1 John Treverton determined that her good looks should have 
 no influence upon his opinions. 
 
 The man was quite willing to talk, but bis companion asked no 
 more questions. He felt, indeed, that he had already asked more 
 than he was warranted in asking, and felt a little ashamed of him- 
 self for having done so. The rest of the drive, therefore, passed 
 for the most part in silence. The journey had seemed long to 
 John Treverton, partly because of his own impatience, partly on 
 account of the numerous ups and downs of that everlasting lane, but 
 it was little more than half -an-hour after leaving the station when 
 they entered a village street where there was not a glimmer of light 
 at this hour, except one solitary lamp shining feebly before the 
 door of the general shop and post-office. This was the village of 
 Hazlehurst, near which Hazlehurst Manor-house was situated. 
 They drove to the end of this quiet street and along a high road 
 bordered by tall elms which looked black against the night sky, 
 till they came to a pair of great iron gates. 
 
 The man handed the reins to his companion, and then dis- 
 mounted and opened these gates. John Treverton drove slowly 
 into a winding carriage drive that led up to the house, a great 
 red-brick mansion with many long, narrow windows, and a 
 massive carved stone shell over the door, which was approached 
 on each side by a flight of broad stone steps. 
 
 There was light enough from the stars for John Treverton to 
 see all this as he drove slowly up to the hall door. His coming 
 had evidently been awaited anxiously, as the door was opened 
 before he had alighted from the gig, and an old man-servant 
 peered out into the night. He opened the door wide when he 
 saw John Treverton. The gardener — or groom, whichever he 
 might happen to be — led the gig slowly away to a gate at the side 
 of the house, opening into a stable yard. John Treverton went 
 into the hall, which looked very bright and cheerful after his 
 dreary drive — a great, square hall hung with family portraits and 
 old armour, and with crimson sheep-skins and tawny hides of 
 savage beasts lying about on the black and white marble pave- 
 ment. There was a roomy old fire-place on one side of this hall, 
 with a great fire burning in it, a fire which was welcome as meat 
 and drink to a traveller this cold night. There were ponderous 
 carved oak chairs with dark-red velvet cushions, looking more 
 
Tlie Heir Presumptive. 11 
 
 comfortable and better adapted for the repose of the human 
 frame than such chairs are wont to be, and at the end of the 
 hall there was a great antique buffet adorned with curious bowls 
 and bottle-shaped jars in Oriental china. 
 
 John Treverton had time to see these things as he sat before 
 the fire with his long legs stretched out upon the hearth, while 
 the old servant went to announce his arrival to Miss Malcolm. 
 
 ' A pleasant old place,' he said to himself. ' And to think of 
 my never having seen it before, thanks to my father's folly in 
 having quarrelled with old Jasper Treverton, and never having 
 taken the trouble to heal the breach, as he might have done, I 
 dare say, with some slight exercise of diplomacy. I wonder 
 whether the old fellow is very rich. Such a place as this might 
 be kept up on a couple of thousand a year, but I have a notion 
 that Jasper Treverton has six times as much as that.' 
 
 The old butler came downstairs in about five minutes to say 
 that Miss Malcolm would be pleased to see Mr. Treverton, if he 
 liked. His master had fallen asleep, and was sleeping more 
 peacefully than he had done for some time. 
 
 John Treverton followed the man up a broad staircase with 
 massive oak bannisters. Here, as in the hall, there were family 
 portraits on the walls, and armour and old china in every avail- 
 able corner. At the top of this staircase was a gallery, lighted 
 by a lantern in the roof, and with numerous doors opening out of 
 it. The butler opened one of these doors and ushered John Tre- 
 verton into a bright-looking, lamp-lit sitting-room, with panelled 
 walls. A heavy green damask curtain hung before a door opening 
 into an adjoining room. The mantelpiece was high, and exqui- 
 sitely carved with flowers and cupids, and was ornamented by a 
 row of eggshell cups and saucers, and the quaintest of Oriental 
 teapots. Th6 room had a comfortable, home-like look, John 
 Treverton thought — a look that struck him all the more perhaps 
 because he had no settled home of his own, nor had ever known 
 one since his boyhood. 
 
 A lady was sitting by the fire, dressed in a dark-blue gown, 
 which contrasted wonderfully with the auburn tints of her hair, 
 and the transparent pallor of her complexion. As she rose and 
 turned her face towards John Treverton, he saw that she was 
 indeed a very beautiful young woman, and there was something 
 in her beauty which took hrni a little by surprise, in spite of 
 what he had heard from his companion in the gig. 
 
 ' Thank God you have come in time, Mr. Treverton,' she said 
 earnestly — an earnestness which John Treverton was inclined to 
 consider hypocritical. "What interest could she have in his 
 arrival 1 What feeling could there be between them but 
 jealousy ? 
 
 * I suppose she feels so secure about the old man's will that 
 
12 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 she can afford to be civil,' he thought as he seated himself by the 
 fireside, after two or three polite commonplaces about hie 
 journey. ' There is no hope of my cousin's recovery, I suppose ? • 
 he hazarded presently. 
 
 ' Not the faintest,' Laura Malcolm answered, very sadly. ' The 
 London physician was here for the last time to-day. H& 
 has been down every week for the last two months. He said 
 to-day that there would be no occasion for him to come any 
 more ; he did not think papa — I have always called your cousin 
 by that name — could live through the night. He has been less 
 restless and troubled since then, and he is now sleeping very 
 quietly. He may linger a little longer than the physician 
 psemed to think likely ; but beyond that I have no hope 
 whatever.' 
 
 This was said with a quiet, restrained manner that was 
 more indicative of sorrow than any demonstrative lamentation 
 could have been. There was something almost like despair in 
 the girl's look and tone — a dreary hopelessness — as if there were 
 nothing left for her in life when the friend and protector of her 
 girlhood should be taken from her. John Treverton watched 
 her closely as she sat looking at the fire, with her dark eyes 
 shrouded by their long lashes. Yes, she was very beautiful. 
 That was a fact about which there was no possibility of doubt. 
 Those large hazel eyes alone would have given a charm to the 
 plainest face, and in this face there was no fault to be redeemed. 
 
 ' You seem to be much attached to my cousin, Miss Malcolm,' 
 Mr. Treverton said presently. 
 
 ' I love him dearly,' she answered, looking up at him with 
 those deep, dark eyes, which had a melancholy expression 
 to-night. ' I have had no one else to care for since I was quite a 
 child ; and he has been very good to me. I should be something 
 worse than ungrateful if I did not love him as I do.' 
 
 ' And yet your life must have been a trying one, as the sole 
 companion of an old man of Jasper Treverton's eccentric temper. 
 I speak of him as I have heard him described by my father. 
 You must have found existence with him rather troublesome 
 now and then, I should think.' 
 
 ' I very soon learnt to understand him, and to bear all the 
 little changes in his humour. I knew that his heart was noble.' 
 
 ' Humph ! ' thought John Treverton. ' Women can do these 
 things better than men. I couldn't stand being shut up with a 
 crusty old fellow for a week.' 
 
 And after having made this reflection, he thought that no 
 doubt Miss Malcolm was of the usual type of sycophants and 
 interlopers, able to endure anything in the present for the chance 
 ")f a stupendous advantage in the future, able to wait for the 
 fruition of her hopes with a dull grovelling patience. 
 
 & 
 
The Heir Presumptive. 13 
 
 * This appearance of grief is all put on, of course,' he said to 
 himself. ' I am not going to think any better of her because 
 she has fine eyes.' 
 
 They sat for a little time in silence ; Laura Malcolm seemed 
 quite absorbed by her own thoughts, and in no way disturbed by 
 the presence of John Treverton. It was a proud face which he 
 looked at every now and then so thoughtfully, not a lovable face 
 by any means, in spite of its beauty. There was a coldness of 
 expression, a self-contained air about Miss Malcolm which her 
 new acquaintance was inclined to dislike. He had come to that 
 house prepared to think unfavourably of her ; had come there, in- 
 deed, with a settled dislike to her. 
 
 ' I think it is to you I am indebted for the telegram that 
 summoned me here ? ' he said by-and-by. 
 
 ' Oh, no, not to me directly. It was your cousin's wish thnfc 
 you should be sent for — a wish he only expressed on Monday,- 
 though I had asked him many times if he would not like to see you, 
 his only surviving relative. Had I known your address, or where 
 a letter would reach you, I think I should have ventured to ask 
 you to come down without his permission, but I had no know- 
 ledge of this.' 
 
 ' And it was only the day before yesterday that my cousin 
 spoke of me for the first time 1 
 
 1 Only the day before yesterday. On every previous occasion 
 he gave me a short, impatient answer, telling me not to worry 
 him, and that he had no wish to see anyone, but on Monday he 
 mentioned your name, and told me he wanted particularly to see 
 you. He had no idea where you were to be found, but he thought 
 a telegram addressed to your father's old lawyer would reach you. 
 I sent the message as he directed.' 
 
 ' The lawyer had some difficulty in hunting me out, but I lost 
 no time after I got your message. 1 cannot, of course, pretend 
 any attachment to a man whom I never saw in my life, but I am 
 pleased that Jasper Treverton should have thought of me at the 
 last, nevertheless. I am here to testify my respect for him, in a 
 perfectly independent character, having not the faintest expecta- 
 tion of inheriting one shilling of his wealth.' 
 
 ' I don't know why you should not expect to inherit his estate, 
 Mr. Treverton,' Laura Malcolm answered, quietly. ' To whom 
 else should he leave it, if not to you 1 ' 
 
 John Treverton thought this question a piece of gratuitous 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 ' Why, to you, of course,' he replied, ' his adopted daughter,' 
 who have earned his favour by years of patient submission to all 
 his whims and fancies. Surely you must be quite aware of his 
 intentions upon this point, Miss Malcolm, and this affected 
 ignorance of the subject is intended to hoodwink ma.' 
 
JA The Cloven Foot, 
 
 * I am sorry you should think so badly of me, Mr. Treverton 
 I do not know how your cousin has disposed of his money, but J 
 do know that none of it has been left to me.' 
 
 ' How do you know that 1 ' 
 
 ' I have been assured of it by his own lips, not once but many 
 times. When he first adopted me he made a vow that he would 
 leave me no part of his wealth. He had been treated with false- 
 hood and ingratitude by those he had loved, and had found out 
 their mercenary feelings about him. This had soured him a good 
 deal, and he was determined — when he took me under his care 
 out of motives of the purest charity — that he would have one 
 person about him who should love him for his own sake, or not 
 pretend to love him at all. He took an oath to this effect on the 
 night he first brought me home to this house, and fully explained 
 the meaning of that oath to me, though I was quite a child at 
 that time. " I have had toadies and sycophants about me, 
 Laura," he said, " until I have come to distrust every smiling 
 face. Your smiles shall be true, my dear, for you shall have no 
 motive for falsehood." On my eighteenth birthday he placed in 
 trust six thousand pounds for my benefit, in order that his death 
 should not leave me unprovided for, but he took occasion at 
 the same time to remind me that this gift was all I must ever 
 expect at his hands.' 
 
 John Treverton heard this with a quickened breath, and a 
 new life and eagerness in the expression of his face. The aspect 
 of affairs was quite altered by the fact of this oath sworn long ago 
 by the eccentric old man. He must leave his money to some one. 
 What if he should, indeed, leave it to him, John Treverton 1 
 
 For some few minutes his heart beat high with a new hope, 
 and then sank again suddenly. Was it not much more likely 
 that Jasper Treverton would find some means of evading the 
 letter of his vow, for the benefit of a beloved adopted daughter, 
 than that he should bequeath his fortune to a kinsman who was 
 a stranger to him % 
 
 * Don't let me be a fool,' John Treverton said to himself ; 
 ' there's not the faintest chance of any such luck for me, and I 
 dare say this girl knows as much, though she is artful enough to 
 pretend complete ignorance of the old man's designs.' 
 
 The butler came in presently to announce that supper was 
 ready for Mr. Treverton in the dining-room below. He went 
 downstairs in answer to this summons, after begging Miss 
 Malcolm to send for him the moment the invalid awoke. 
 
 The dining-room was handsomely furnished with massive 
 sideboard and chairs of carved oak, the long, narrow windows 
 draped with dark-red velvet. There was a fine old Venetian 
 glass over the sideboard, and a smaller circular mirror above the 
 old inlaid bureau that occupied the space between the windows 
 
The Heir Presumptive. 15 
 
 opposite. There were a few good cabinet pictures of the Dutch 
 school on the panelled walls, and a pair of fine blue-and-white 
 Delft jars on the high carved oak chimney-piece. A wood fire 
 burned cheerily in the wide grate, and the small round table on 
 which the traveller's supper had been laid was wheeled close to 
 the edge of the Turkey hearthrug, and had a very comfortable 
 appearance in the eyes of Mr. John Treverton as he seated him- 
 self in one of the capacious oak chairs. 
 
 In his disturbed state of mind he had little inclination to eat, 
 though the cook had prepared a cosy supper that might have 
 tempted an anchorite ; but he did justice to a bottle jf excellent 
 claret, and sat for some time, sipping his wine and looking about 
 him thoughtfully, now at the curious old silver tankards and rose- 
 water dishes on the sideboard, now at the Cuyps and Ostades on 
 the dark oak walls. To whom would all these things belong 
 when Jasper Treverton was no more 1 Throughout the bouse 
 there were indications of wealth that inspired an almost savage 
 longing in this man's mind. What a changed life his would be if 
 he should inherit only half of his cousin's possessions ! He thought, 
 with a weary sigh, of the wretched hand-to-mouth existence- that 
 he had led of late years, and then thought of the things that he 
 would do if be came in for any share of the old man's money. 
 He sat meditating thus until the servant came to tell him that 
 Mr. Treverton was awake and had asked to see him. He followed 
 the man back to the study, where he had found Miss Malcolm. The 
 room was empty now, but the curtain was drawn aside from the 
 door of communication, and he passed through this into Jaspei 
 Treverton's bed-room. 
 
 Laura Malcolm was seated at the bedside, but she rose as 
 •John entered, and slipped quietly away by another door, leaving 
 him alone with his cousin. 
 
 ' Sit down, John,' the old man said in a feeble voice, pointing 
 to the empty chair by the bedside. 
 
 ' It is rather late in the day for us two to meet,' he went on, 
 after a brief pause, ' but perhaps it is better for us to see each 
 other once before I die. I won't speak of your father's quarrel 
 with me. You know all about that, I dare say. We were both 
 in the wrong, very bkely ; but it has long been too late to undo 
 that. I loved him once, God knows ! — yes, there was a day when 
 I loved Richard Treverton dearly.' 
 
 ' I have heard him say as much, sir,' John answered in sub- 
 dued tones. ' I regret that he should have quarrelled with you ; 
 I regret much more that he should not have sought a recon- 
 ciliation.' 
 
 'Your father was always a proud man, John. Perhaps Z 
 liked him all the better for that. Most men in his position would 
 have co\irted me for tbe sake of my money. He never did that.' 
 
16 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' It was not in him to do it, sir. He had his faults, I have no 
 doubt, but a sordid nature was not one of them.' 
 
 ' I know that,' answered Jasper Treverton, ' nor have you ever 
 sought me out, John, or tried to worm yourself into my favour. 
 Yet I suppose you know that you are my sole surviving relative.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I am quite aware of that.' 
 
 ' And you have left me in peace, and have been content to 
 take your chance. Well, you will find yourself none the worse 
 off for having respected yourself and not worried me.' 
 
 John Treverton's face flushed, and the beating of his heart 
 quickened again, as it had quickened when Laura Malcolm told 
 him of his kinsman's vow. 
 
 ' My death will make you a rich man,' returned Jasper, always 
 speaking -with a painful effort, and in so low a voice that John 
 was obliged to bend over his pillow in order to hear him, ' on one 
 condition — a condition which I do not think you will find it 
 difficult to comply with.' 
 
 * You are very good, sir,' faltered the young man, almost too 
 agitated to speak. ' Believe me, I had no expectation of this.' 
 
 ' I dare say not,' replied the other. ' I took a foolish oath some 
 years ago, and bound myself not to leave my fortune to the only 
 creature I really love. To whom else should I leave it then, but 
 to you — my next of kin 1 I know nothing against you. I have 
 lived too remote from the world to hear its scandals, and I know 
 not whether you have won good or evil repute among your fellow 
 men ; but I do know that you are the son of a man I once loved, 
 and that it will be in your power to carry out my wishes in the 
 spirit, if not in the letter. The rest I trust to Providence.' 
 
 After having said this the dying man lay back upon the 
 pillows, and remained silent for some minutes, resting after the 
 exertion involved in so long a speech. John Treverton waited for 
 him to speak again — waited with a tumultuous sense of gladness 
 in his breast, looking round the room now and then. It was a spa- 
 cious apartment, with handsome antique furniture, and panelled 
 walls hung with old pictures, iike those in the dining-room 
 below. Dark-green velvet curtains were closely drawn before the 
 three lofty windows, and in the spaces between them there were 
 curious old cabinets of carved ebony, inlaid with silver. John 
 Treverton looked at all these things, which seemed to be hia 
 already, after what the dying man had said to him. How 
 different from the home he had left, the shabby-genteel 
 London lodging, with its tawdry finery and decrepit chairs and 
 tables ! 
 
 ' What do you think of my adopted daughter, John Trever- 
 ton 1 ' the old man asked presently, turning his dim eyes towards , 
 hia cousin. 
 
 The younger man hesitated a little before replying. The 
 
The Heir Presumptive. 17 
 
 question had taken Mm by surprise. His thoughts had been far 
 away from Laura Malcolm. 
 
 ' I think she is very handsome, sir,' he said, ' and I dare say she 
 Is amiable ; but I really have had very little opportunity of form, 
 ing any opinion about the young lady.' 
 
 ' No, you have seen nothing of her as yet. You will like her 
 better when you come to know her. I cannot doubt that. Her 
 father and I were warm friends, once upon a time. "We were at 
 Oxford together, and travelled a good deal in Spain and Italy 
 together, and loved each other well enough, I believe, till circum- 
 stances parted us. I need have no shame in owning the cause of 
 our parting now. We loved the same woman, and Stephen 
 Malcolm won her. I thought — whether rightly or wrongly — 
 that 1 had not been fairly treated in the matter, and Stephen and 
 I partod, never to meet as friends again till Stephen was on his 
 death-bed. The lady jilted him after all, and he did not marry 
 until some years later. When I heard of him next he was in 
 reduced circumstances. I sought him out, found him in a pitiable 
 condition and adopted his daughter — an only child — doubly 
 orphaned. I cannot tell you how dear she soon became to me, 
 but I had made an oath I would leave her nothing, and I' have 
 not broken that oath, dearly as I love her.' 
 
 ' But you have made some provision for her future, sir 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have striven to provide for her future. God grant 
 it may be a happy one. And now call my servant, if you please, 
 John. I have talked a great deal too much as it is.' 
 
 ' Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, 
 that I am grateful,' said John Treverton, kneeling down beside 
 the bed, and taking the old man's wasted hand in his. 
 
 ' Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my 
 wishes. And now good-night. You had better go to bed.' 
 
 1 Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, 
 sir 1 I have not the least inclination to sleep.' 
 
 ' No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am 
 well enough to see you again in the morning I will do so. Till 
 then, good-bye.' 
 
 The old man's tone was decisive. John Treverton went out 
 of the room by a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found 
 Jasper Treverton's valet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing 
 upon a window seat. He told this man that he was wanted in 
 the sick room, and then went to the study. 
 
 Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, 
 looking at the fire. 
 
 ' What do you think of him ? ' she asked, looking up suddenly, 
 as John Treverton entered the room. 
 
 ' He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him iitan 
 your account. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.' 
 
 o 
 
18 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after 
 that long sleep. 1 will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, 
 Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 ' Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm 1 It is 
 nearly three o'clock.' 
 
 ' No. I cannot sleep during this time of siispense. Besides, 
 he may want me at any moment. I shall lie down on that sofa, 
 perhaps, a little before morning.' 
 
 ' Have you been keeping watch like this many nights 1 ' 
 
 1 For more than a week ; but I am not tired. I think when 
 the mind is so anxious the body has no capability of feeling 
 fatigue.' 
 
 ' You will find the reaction very severe by-and-by, I fear,' 
 ■ Mr. Treverton replied ; and Trimmer, the old cutler, having 
 appeared by this time with a candle, he wished Miss Malcolm 
 good-night. 
 
 The room to which Trimmer led John Treverton was on the 
 other side of the house — a large room, with a comfortable fire 
 blazing on the hearth, and reflecting itself in a border of old 
 Dutch tiles. Late as it was, Mr. Treverton sat by the fire think- 
 ing for a long time before he went to bed, and even when he did 
 lie down under the shadow of the damask curtains that shrouded 
 the gloomy-looking four-post bed, sleep kept aloof from him. His 
 mind was busy with thoughts of triumph and delight. Innumer- 
 able schemes for the future — selfish ones for the most part — • 
 crowded and jostled each other in his brain. It was a feverish 
 night altogether — a night which left him unrefreshed and 
 haggard when the cold wintry light came creeping in between 
 the window curtains, and a great clock in the stable-yard struck 
 eight. 
 
 A countryfied-looking young man, a subordinate of the butler's, 
 ■brought the visitor his slaving water, and, on being questioned, 
 informed him that Mr. Treverton the elder had passed a restless 
 night, aii«i wis worse that morning. 
 
 John Treverton dressed quickly, and went straight to the study 
 next the invalid's room. He found Laura Malcolm there, look- 
 ing very wan c uid pale after her night's watching. She coniirmed 
 the young man's statement. Jasper Treverton was much worse. 
 His mica 'iad wandered towards daybreak, and he now seemed 
 to recognise no one. His old friend the vicar had been with him, 
 and had read the prayers for the sick, but the dying man had been 
 able to take no part in them. The end was very near at hand, 
 Laura feared. 
 
 Mr. Treverton stopped with Miss Malcolm a little while, and 
 then wandered down to the dining-room, where he found an 
 excellent breakfast waiting for him in solitary state. He fancied 
 that the old bustler treated him with a peculiar deference, as if 
 
Jasjicr Treverton s Will. 19 
 
 aware that he was to be the new master of Treverton Manor. 
 After breakfast he went ont into the gardens, which were large, 
 and laid out in an old-fashioned style ; straight walks, formal 
 grass-plats, and flower-beds of geometrical design. John Tre- 
 verton walked here for some time, smoking his cigar and looking 
 up thoughtfully at the great red-brick house with its many 
 windows glittering in the chill January sunshine, and its air of 
 old-world repose. 
 
 • It will be the beginning of a new life,' he said to himself. ' I 
 feel myself ten years younger since my interview with the old 
 man last night. Let me see — I shall be thirty on my next birth- 
 day. Young enough to begin life afresh — old enough to use 
 wealth wisely. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 JASPER TREVERTON' S WILL. 
 
 Jasper Treverton lingered nearly a week after the coming of 
 his kinsman — a week that seemed interminable to the expectant 
 heir, who could not help wishing the old man would make a speedy 
 end of it. What use was that last remnant of life to him lying 
 helpless on his bed, restless, weary, and for the greater part of 
 his time delirious ? John Treverton saw him for a few minute3 
 once or twice every day, and looked at him with a sympathising 
 and appropriate expression of countenance, and did really feel 
 compassionately towards him ; but his busy thoughts pressed 
 forward to the time when he should have the. handling of that 
 feeble sufferer's wealth, and should be free to begin that new life, 
 bright glimpses whereof shone upon his roving fancy like visions 
 of paradise. 
 
 After six monotonous days, every one of which was exactly 
 like the other for John Trevertou, who smoked his solitary cigar 
 in the wintry garden, and ate his solitary meals in the great 
 dining-room with his mind always filled by that one subject— the 
 inheritance which seemed so nearly within his grasp — the night 
 came upon which Jasper Treverton's feeble hold of life relaxed 
 altogether, and he drifted away to the unknown ocean, with his 
 hand in Laura Malcolm's, and his face turned towards her, with 
 a wan smile upon the faded lips, as he died. After this followed 
 three or four days of wearisome delay, in which the quiet of the 
 darkened rooms seemed intolerable to John Treverton, to whom 
 death was an unfamiliar horror. He avoided the house in these 
 days as much as possible, and spent the greater part of his time 
 in long rambles out into the open country, leaving all the arrange- 
 ments of the funeral to Mr. Clare, the vicar, who had been Jasper 
 
20 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Tr ever ton's closest friend, and a Mr. Sampson, an inhabitant oi 
 the village, who had been the dead man's solicitor. 
 
 The funeral came at last, a very quiet ceremonial, in accord- 
 ance with Jasper Treverton's express desire, and the master of 
 Treverton Manor was laid in the vault where many of his an- 
 cestors slept the last long sleep. There was a drizzling rain and 
 a low, lead-coloured sky, beneath which the old churchyard 
 looked unspeakably dismal ; but John Treverton's thoughts were 
 far away as he stood by the open grave, while the sublime words 
 of the service fell unheard upon his ear. To-morrow he would be 
 back in London, most likely, with the consciousness of wealth and 
 power, inaugurating that new life which he thought of so eagerly. 
 
 He went back to the house, where it was a relief to find the 
 blinds drawn up and the dull gray winter light in the rooms. 
 The will was to be read iu the drawing-room — a very handsome 
 room, with white-and-gold panelling, six long windows, and a 
 fireplace at each end. Here Mr. Sampson, the lawyer, seated 
 himself at a table to read the will, in the presence of Mr. Clare, 
 the vicar, Laura Malcolm, and the upper servants of the Manor- 
 house, who took their places in a little group near the door. 
 
 The will was very simply worded. It commenced with some 
 bequests to the old servants, a small annuity to Andrew Trimmer, 
 the butler, and sums varying from fifty to two hundred pounds 
 to the coachman and women servants. There was a complimentary 
 legacy of a hundred guineas to Thomas Sampson, and a bequest 
 of old plate to Theodore Clare, the vicar. After these things had 
 been duly set forth the testator went on to leave the remainder 
 of his property, real and personal, to his cousin, John Treverton, 
 provided the said John Treverton should marry his dearly-beloved 
 adopted daughter, Laura Malcolm, within one year of his decease. 
 The estate was to be held in trust during this interval by 
 Theodore Clare and Thomas Sampson, together with all moneys 
 therefrom arising. In the event of this marriage not taking 
 place within the said time, the whole of the estate was to pass 
 into the hands of the said Theodore Clare and the said Thomas 
 Sampson, in trust for the erection of a hospital in the adjacent, 
 market town of Beechampton. 
 
 Miss Malcolm looked up with a startled expression as this 
 strange bequest was read. John Treverton's face assumed a 
 sudden pallor that was by no means flattering to the lady whose 
 fate was involved in the singular conditien which attached to his 
 inheritance. The situation was an awkward one for both. Laura 
 rose directly the reading of the will was finished, and left the 
 room without a word. The servants retired immediately after, 
 said John Treverton was left alone with the vicar and the lawyer. 
 
 ' Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Treverton,' said Thomas 
 Sampson, folding up the will, and coming to the fireplace by 
 
Jasper Treverton's Will. 21 
 
 which John Treverton was seated ; ' you will find yourself a very 
 rich man.' 
 
 ' A twelvemonth hence, Mr. Sampson,' the other answered 
 doubtfully, 'always provided that Miss Malcolm is willing to 
 accept me for her husband, which she may not be.' 
 
 ' She will scarcely fly in the face of her adopted father's desire, 
 Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 ' I don't know about that. A woman seldom cares for a 
 husband of any one else's choosing. I don't want to look a gift 
 horse in the mouth, or to seem ungrateful to my cousin Jasper, 
 from whom I entertained no expectations whatever a week or so 
 ago : but I cannot help thinking he would have done better by 
 dividing his property between Miss Malcolm and myself, leaving 
 us both free.' 
 
 He spoke in a slow, meditative way, and he was pale to the 
 very lips. There was no appearance of triumph or gladness — only 
 an anxious, disappointed expression, which made his handsome 
 face look strangely worn and haggard. 
 
 ' There are not many men who would think Laura Malcolm 
 an encumbrance to any fortune, Mr. Treverton, ' said Mr. Clare. 
 ' I think you will be happier in the possession of such a wife than 
 in the enjoyment of your cousin's wealth, large as it is.' 
 
 ' In the event of the lady's accepting me as her husband,' John 
 Treverton again interposed doubtfully. 
 
 ' You have an interval of a twelvemonth in which to win her,' 
 replied the vicar, ' and things will go hard with you if you fail. 
 I think I can answer for the fact that Miss Malcolm's affections 
 are disengaged. Of course she, like yourself, is a little startled 
 by the eccentricity of this condition. The position is much more 
 embarrassing for her than for you.' 
 
 John Treverton did not reply to this remark, but there was a 
 veiy blank look in his face as he stood by the fire listening to the 
 vicar's and the lawyer's praises of his departed kinsman. 
 
 ' Will Miss Malcolm continue to occupy this house 1 ' he asked 
 presently. 
 
 ' I scarcely know what her wishes may be,' replied Mr. Clare, 
 ' but I think it would be well if the house were placed at her 
 disposal. I suppose that we as trustees would have power to makf 
 her such an offer, Mr. Sampson, with Mr. Treverton's concurrence. 1- 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 ' I concur most heartily in any arrangement that may be 
 agreeable to the young lady,' John Treverton said, in rather a 
 mechanical way. ' I suppose there is nothing further to detain 
 me here. I can go back to town to-morrow.' 
 
 ' "Wouldn't you like to go over the estate before you return to 
 London, Mr. Treverton 1 ' asked Thomas Sampson. ' It would 
 be just as well for you to see the extent of a property that is 
 
22 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 pretvf sure to be your own. If you don't mind taking things in 
 a plain way, I should be very much pleased by your spending 3 
 week or so at my house. There's no one knows the estate better 
 than I do, and I can show you every rood of it.' 
 
 ' You are very kind, Mr. Sampson. I shall be glad to accept 
 your hospitality.' 
 
 * That's what I call friendly. When will you come over to us 1 
 This evening 1 We are all to dine together, I believe. Why 
 shouldn't you go home with me after dinner ? Your presence 
 here can only embarrass Miss Malcolm.' 
 
 Having accepted the lawyer's invitation, John Treverton did 
 not care how soon his visit took place, so it was agraed that he 
 should walk over to ' The Laurels' with Mr. Sampson that evening 
 after dinner. But before he went it would be necessary to take 
 some kind of farewell of Laura Malcolm, and the idea of this was 
 now painfully embarrassing to him. It was a thinsr that must be 
 done, however, and it would be well that it should be done at a 
 seasonable hour ; so in the twilight, before dinner, he went up to 
 the study, which he knew was Miss Malcolm's favourite room, and 
 found her there with an open book lying on her lap and a small 
 tea-tray on the table by her side. 
 
 She looked up at him without any appearance of confusion, 
 but with a very pale, sad face. He seated himself opposite her, 
 and it was some moments before he could find words for the 
 simple announcement he had to make. That calm, beautiful 
 face, turned towards him with a grave, expectant look, embarrassed 
 him more than he could have imagined possible. 
 
 ' I have accepted an invitation from Mr. Sampson to spend a 
 few days with him before I go back to town, and I have come to 
 bid you good-bye, Mias Malcolm,' he said at last. ' I fancied 
 that at such a time as this it would be pleasanter for you to feel 
 yourself quite alone.' 
 
 ' You are very good. I do not suppose I shall stay here 
 many days.' 
 
 ' I hope you will stay here altogether. Mr. Sampson and 
 Mr. Clare, the trustees, wish it very much. I do not think 
 that I have muidi power in the affair ; but believe me, it is my 
 earnest desire that you should not be in a hurry to leave your 
 old home.' 
 
 'You are very good. I do not think I could stay here 
 alone in this dear old house, where I have been so happy. I 
 know some respectable people in the village who let lodgings. 
 I think I would rather remove to their house as soon as my 
 trunks are packed. I have plenty to live upon, you know, 
 Mr. Treverton. The six thousand pounds your cousin gave 
 me yields an income of over two hundred a year.' 
 
 ' You must consult your own wishes. Miss Malcolm. ) 
 
Jasper Treverton's Will. 23 
 
 cannot presume to interfere with your views, anxious as I 
 am for your welfare.' 
 
 This was about as much as he would venture to say at 
 this early stage of affairs. He felt his position indescribably 
 awkward, and he wondered at Laura Malcolm's composure. 
 What ought he to say or do 1 "What could he say that would 
 not seem dictated by the most sordid motive? What dis- 
 interested feeling could there ever arise between those two, 
 who were bound together by their common interest !r». a great 
 estate, who met as strangers to find themselves suddenly 
 dependent upon each other's caprice 1 
 
 'I may call upon you before I leave Hazlehurst, may I 
 not, Miss Malcolm 1 ' he asked presently, with a kind of 
 desperation. 
 
 ' I shall be happy to see you whenever you call.' 
 
 ' You are very kind. I'll not intrude on you any longer this 
 evening, for I am sure you must want quiet and perfect rest. I 
 must go down to dinner with Mr. Sampson and the 
 vicar — rather a dreary kind of entertainment I fear it will be. 
 Good-bye.' 
 
 He offered her his hand for the first time since they had met. 
 Hers was very cold, and trembled a little as she gave it to him. 
 He detained it rather longer than he was justified in doing, and 
 looked at her for the first time with something like tender pity 
 in his eyes. Yes, she was very pretty. He would have liked 
 her face better without that expression of coldness and pride, 
 but he could not deny that she was beautiful, and he felt that 
 any young man might be proud to win such a woman for hi 
 wife. He did not see his own way to winning her, however \ 
 and it seemed to him as if the fortune he had so built upon 
 during all his reveries lately, was now removed very far out of 
 his reach. 
 
 The dinner was not such a dismal feast as he had imagined 
 it would be. People are apt to accustom themselves very easily 
 to an old friend's removal, and the vicar and the lawyer seemed 
 tolerably cheerful about their departed neighbour. They dis- ( 
 cussed his little eccentricities, his virtues and his foibles, in an 
 agreeable spirit, and did ample justice to his claret, of which, 
 however, Mr. Clare said he had never been quite so good a judge 
 as he had believed himself to be. They sat for a couple of 
 hours over their dessert, sipping some Burgundy of which Jasper 
 Treverton had been especially proud, and John Treverton was the 
 only one of the three who seemed troubled by gloomy thoughts. 
 
 It was ten o'clock when Mr. Sampson proposed an adjourn- 
 ment to his own abode. He had sent a little note home to his 
 sister before dinner, telling her of Mr. Treverton's intended visit, 
 and had ordered a fly from the inn, in which vehicle he and hia 
 
24 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 guest drove to ' The Laurels,' a trim, bright-looking, modern 
 house, with small rooms which were the very pink of neatness ; 
 so neat and new-looking, indeed, that John Treverton fancied 
 they could never have been lived in, and that the furniture must 
 have been sent home from the upholsterer that very day. 
 
 Thomas Sampson was a young man, and a bachelor. He 
 had inherited an excellent business from his father, and had done 
 a good deal to improve it himself, having a considerable capacity 
 for getting on in life, and an ardent love of money-making. He 
 had one sister, who lived with him. She was tolerably good- 
 looking, in a pale, insipid way, with eyes of a cold light blue, 
 and straight, silky hair of a nondescript brown. 
 
 This young lady, whose name was Eliza, welcomed John 
 Treverton with much politeness. There were not many men in 
 the neighbourhood of Hazlehurst who could have borne com- 
 parison with that splendid military-looking stranger, and Miss 
 Sampson, who did not yet know the terms of Jasper Treverton's 
 will, supposed that this handsome young man was now master of 
 the Manor and all its dependencies. For his sake she had 
 bestowed considerable pains on the adornment of the spare bed- 
 room, which she had embellished with more fanciful pincushions, 
 and ring-stands and Bohemian glass scent-bottles, than are 
 <sonsistent with the masculine idea of comfort. For his gratifi- 
 cation also she had ordered a reckless expenditure of coals in the 
 Keeping up of a blazing fire in the same smartly-furnished 
 chamber, which looked unspeakably small and mean to the eyes 
 of John Treverton after the spacious rooms at the Manor-house r 
 
 ' I know of a room that will look meaner still,' he said to 
 himself, ' for this at least is clean and neat.' 
 
 He went to bed, and slept better than he had done for many 
 nights, but his dreams were full of Laura Malcolm. He dreamt 
 that they were being married, and that as she stood beside him 
 at the altar her face changed in some strange, ghastly way into 
 *uaother face, a face he knew only too well. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 A MTSTERIOUS VISITOR. 
 
 The next day was fine, and Mr. Sampson and his visitor set 
 out in a dogcart directly after breakfast on a torn* of inspection 
 They got over a good deal of ground between an eight o'clock 
 breakfast and a six o'clock dinner, and John Treverton had the 
 pleasure of surveying many of the broad acres that were in all 
 probsbility to be his own ; but the farms which lay within a 
 
« A Mysterious Visitor. 25 
 
 drive of Hazlehurst did not constitute a third of Jasper Trever- 
 ton's possessions. Mr. Sampson told his companion that the 
 estates were worth about eleven thousand a year altogether, 
 besides which there was an income of about three thousand more 
 accruing from money in the funds. The old man had begun life 
 with only six thousand a year, but some of his land bordered 
 closely on the town of Beeckampton, and had developed from 
 agricultural land into building land in a manner tbat had 
 increased its value seven-fold. He had lived quietly, and had 
 added to his estate year after year by fresh purchases and invest- 
 ments, until it reached its present amount. To hear of such 
 wealth was like some dream of fairyland to John Treverton. 
 Mr. Sampson spoke of it as if to all intents and purposes it were 
 already in the other's possession. His sound legal mind could 
 not conceive the possibility of any sentimental objection on the 
 part of either the gentleman or the lady to the carrying out of a 
 condition which was to secure the possession of that noble estate 
 to both. Of course, in due time Mr. Treverton would make Miss 
 Malcolm a formal offer, and she would accept him. Idiocy so 
 abject on the part of either the gentleman or the lady as a re- 
 fusal to comply with so easy a condition was scarcely within the 
 limi ts of human folly. 
 
 Looking at the matter from this point of view, Mr. Sampson 
 was surprised to perceive a certain air of gloom and despondency 
 about his companion which seemed quite unnatural to a man in 
 his position. John Treverton's eye kindled with a gleam of 
 triumph as he gazed across the broad, bare fields which the lawyer 
 showed him ; but in the next minute his face grew sombre again, 
 and he listened to the description of the property with an absent 
 air that was inexplicable to Thomas Sampson. The solicitor ven- 
 tured to say as much by-and-by, when they were driving home- 
 ward through the winter dusk. 
 
 ' Well, you see, my dear Sampson, there's many a slip between 
 the cup and the lip,' John Treverton answered, with that light, 
 airy tone which most people found particularly agreeable. ' I 
 must confess that the manner in which this estate has been left is 
 rather a disappointment to me. My cousin Jasper told me 
 that his death would make me a rich man. Instead of this I find 
 myself with a blank year of waiting before me, and with my 
 chances of coming into possession of this fortune entirely de- 
 pendent upon the whims and caprices of a young lady.' 
 
 ' You don't suppose for a moment that Miss Malcolm will 
 refuse you ? ' 
 
 John Treverton was so long before he answered this question 
 that the lawyer presently repeated it in a louder tone, fancying 
 that it had not been heard upon the first occasion. 
 
 ' Do J. think she'll refuse me 1 ' repeated Mr. Treverton, in 
 
28 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 rather an absent tone. ' Well, I don't know about that. Women 
 are apt to have romantic notions on the money question. She has 
 enough to live upon, you see. She told me as much last night, 
 and she may prefer to marry some one else. The very terms 
 of this will are calculated to set a high-spirited girl against me.' 
 
 ' But she woidd know that in refusing you she would deprive 
 jyou of the estate, and frustrate the wishes of her friend and 
 'benefactor. She'd scarcely be so ungrateful as to do that. De- 
 pend upon it, she'll consider it her duty to accept you — not a 
 very unpleasant duty either, to marry a man with fourteen thou- 
 sand a year. Upon my word, Mr. Treverton, you seem to have 
 a very poor opinion of yourself, when you imagine the possibility 
 of Laura Malcolm refusing you.' 
 
 John Treverton made no reply to this remark, and was silent 
 during the rest of the drive. His spirits improved, or seemed to 
 improve a little at dinner, however, and he did his best to make 
 himself agreeable to his host and hostess. Miss Sampson thought 
 him the most agreeable man she had ever met, especially when 
 he consented to sit down to chess with her after dinner, and 
 from utter listlessness and absence of mind allowed her to win 
 three games running. 
 
 ' What do you think of Miss Malcolm, Mr. Treverton 1 ' she 
 asked, by-and-by, as she was pouring out the tea. 
 
 ' You mustn't ask Mr. Treverton any questions on that subject, 
 Eliza,' said her brother, with a laugh. 
 
 ' Why not 1 ' 
 
 ' For a reason which I am not at liberty to discuss.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! ' said Miss Sampson, with a sudden tightening of 
 her thin lips. ' I had no idea — at least I thought — that Laura 
 Malcolm was almost a stranger to Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 ' And you're quite right in your supposition, Miss Sampson/ 
 answered John Treverton, ' nor is there any reason why the sub- 
 ject should be tabooed. I think Miss Malcolm very handsome, 
 and that her manner is remarkable for grace and dignity — and 
 that is all I am able to think about her at present, for we are, as 
 you say, almost strangers to each other. As far hs I could judge 
 she seemed to me to be warmly attached to my cousin Jasper.' 
 
 Eliza Sampson shook her head rather contemptuously. 
 
 ' She had reason to be fond of him,' she said. ' Of course you 
 are aware that she was completely destitute when he brought her 
 home, and her family were, I believe, a very disreputable set.' 
 
 ' I fancy you must be mistaken, Miss Sampson,' John 
 Treverton answered, with some warmth. ' My cousin Jasper told 
 me that Stephen Malcolm had been his friend and fellow-student 
 at the University. He may have died poor, but I heard nothing 
 which implied that he had fallen int® disreputable courses.' 
 
 ' Oh, really,' said Miss Sampson ; ' of course you know best 
 
A Mysterious Visitor. 27 
 
 and no doubt whatever your cousin told you was correct. But to 
 tell the truth Miss Malcolm has never been a favourite of mine. 
 There's a reserve about her that I've never been able to get over. 
 I know the gentlemen admire her very much, but I don't think 
 she'll ever have many female friends. And what is of so much 
 consequence to a young woman as a female friend 1 ' concluded 
 the lady sententiously. 
 
 ' Oh, the gentlemen admire her very much, do they 1 ' repeated 
 John Treverton. ' I suppose, then, she has had several oppor- 
 tunities of marrying already ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know about that, but I know of one man who is over 
 head and ears in love with her. 5 
 
 ' Would it be any breach of confidence on your part to say 
 who the gentleman is ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no. I found out the secret for myself, I assure you. 
 Miss Malcolm has never condescended to tell me anything about 
 her affairs. It is Edward Clare, the vicar's son. I have seen 
 them a good deal together. He used to be always making some 
 excuse for dropping in at the Manor-house to talk to Mr. 
 Treverton about old books, and papers for the Archseological 
 Society, and so on, and anybody could see that it was for Miss 
 Malcolm's sake he spent so much of his time there.' 
 
 ' Do you think she cared about him 1 ' 
 
 ' Goodness knows. There's no getting at what she thinks 
 about anyone. I did once ask her the question, but she turned 
 it off in her cold, haughty way, saying that she liked Mr. Clare 
 as a friend, and all that kind of thing.' 
 
 Thomas Sampson had looked rather uneasy durirg this con- 
 versation. 
 
 ' You mustn't listen to my sister's foolish gossip, Treverton,' he 
 said ; ' it's hard enough to keep women from talking scandal any- 
 where, but in such a place as this they seem to have nothing else 
 to do.' 
 
 John Treverton had taken his part in this conversation with 
 a keener interest than he was prepared to acknowledge himself 
 capable of feeling upon the subject of Laura Malcolm. What 
 was she to him, that he should feel such a jealous anger against 
 this unknown Edward Clare ? Were not all his most deeply- 
 rooted feelings in her disfavour 1 Was she not rendered un- 
 speakably obnoxious to him by the terms of his kinsman's 
 will? 
 
 ' There's something upon that man's mind, Eliza,' said Mr. 
 Sampson, as he stood upon the hearthrug, warming himself in a 
 thoughtful manner before the fire for a few minutes, after his 
 guest had gone to bed. ' Mark my words, Eliza, there's some* 
 thing on John Treverton's mind.' 
 
 ' What makes you think so, Tom ? 
 
28 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Because he's not a bit elated about the property that he has 
 come into, or will come into in a year's time. And it isn't in 
 human nature for a man to come into fourteen thousand a year 
 which he never expected to inherit, and take it as coolly as this 
 man takes it,' 
 
 ' What do you mean by a year's time, Tom ? Hasn't he got 
 the estate now 1 ' 
 
 ' No, Eliza ; that's the rub.' And Mr. Sampson went on to 
 explain to his sister the terms of Jasper Treverton's will, duly 
 warning her that she was not to communicate her knowledge of 
 the subject to anyone, on pain of his lasting displeasure. 
 
 Thomas Sampson was too busy next day to devote himself to 
 his guest ; so John Treverton went for a long ramble, with a map 
 of the Treverton Manor estate in his pocket. He skirted many a 
 broad field of arable and pasture land, and stood at the gates 
 of farmhouse gardens, looking at the snug homesteads, the great 
 barns and haystacks, the lazy cattle standing knee-deep in the 
 litter of a straw-yard, and wondering whether he should ever 
 be master of these things. He walked a long way, and came 
 home with a slow step and a thoughtful air in the twilight. 
 About a mile from Hazlehurst he emerged from a narrow lane 
 on to a common, across which there was a path leading to the 
 village. As he came out of this lane he saw the figure of a lady 
 in mourning a little way before him. Something in the carriage 
 of the head struck him as familiar ; he hurried after the lady, 
 and found himself walking beside Laura Malcolm. 
 
 ' You are out rather late, Miss Malcolm,' he said, not knowing 
 very well what to say. 
 
 ' It gets dark so quickly at this time of the year. I have 
 been to see some people at Thorley, about a mile and a half from 
 here.' 
 
 ' You do a great deal of visiting among the poor, I suppose ] 
 
 ' Yes, I have been always accustomed to spend two or three 
 days a week amongst them. They have come to know me very 
 well, and to understand me, and, much as people are apt to com- 
 plain of the poor, I have found them both grateful and affec- 
 tionate.' 
 
 John Treverton looked at her thoughtfully. She had a 
 bright colour in her cheeks this evening, a rosy tint which lighted 
 up her dark eyes with a brilliancy he had never seen in them 
 before. He walked by her side all the way back to Hazlehurst, 
 talking first about the villagers she had been visiting, and after- 
 wards about her adopted father, whose loss she seemed to feel 
 deeply. Her manner this evening appeared perfectly frank and 
 natural, and when John Treverton parted from h<jr at the gates 
 ©f the Manor-house, it was with the conviction that she was no 
 less charming than she was beautiful. 
 
A Mysterious Visitor. 29 
 
 And yet he gave a short impatient sigh as he turned away 
 from the great iron gates to walk to the Laurels, and it was only 
 by an effort that he kept tip an appearance of cheerfulness 
 through the long evening, in the society of the two Sampsons and 
 a bluff, red-cheeked gentleman farmer, who had been invited to 
 dinner, and to take a hand in a friendly rubber afterwards. 
 
 John Treverton spent the following day in the dogcart with 
 Mr. Sampson, inspecting more farms, and getting a clearer idea 
 of the extent and nature of the Treverton property that lay 
 within a drive of Hazelhurst. He told his host that he would be 
 compelled to go back to town by an early train on the nest 
 morning. After dinner that evening Mr. Sampson had occasion 
 to retire to his office for an hour's work upon some important 
 piece of business, so John Treverton, notvery highly appreciating 
 the privilegeof a prolonged tete-a-tete with the fair Eliza, putonhis 
 hat and went out of doors to smoke a cigar in the village street. 
 Some fancy, he scarcely knew what, led him towards the 
 Manor-house ; perhaps because the lane outside the high garden 
 wall at the side of the house was a quiet place for the smoking of 
 a meditative cigar. In this solitary lane he paced for some time, 
 coming round to the iron gates two or three times to look across 
 the park -like grounds at the front of the house, whose closely- 
 shuttered windows showed no ray of light. 
 
 * I wonder if I could be a happy man,' he asked himself, c as 
 the master of that house, with a beautif id wife and an ample 
 fortune 1 There was a time when I fancied I could only exist m 
 the stir and bustle of a London life, but perhaps, after all, I 
 should not make a bad country gentleman if I were happy.' 
 
 On going back to the lane after one of these meditative pauses 
 before the iron gates, John Treverton was surprised to find that 
 he was no longer alone there. A tall man, wrapped in a loose 
 great-coat, and with the lower part of his face hidden m the 
 folds of a wooUen scarf, was walking slowly to and fro before a 
 narrow little wooden door in the garden wall. In that uncertain 
 light, and with so much of his face hidden by the brim of his hat and 
 the folds of his scarf, it was impossible to tell what this man was like, 
 but John Treverton looked at him with a very suspicious feeling 
 as he passed him near the garden door, and walked on to the end 
 of the lane. When he turned back he was surprised to see that 
 the door was open, and that the man was standing on the thres- 
 hold, talking to some one within. He went quickly back in 
 order to see, if possible, who this some one was, and as he came 
 close to the garden door he heard a voice that he knew very well 
 indeed — the voice of Laura Malcolm. 
 
 • There is no fear of our being interrupted/ she said, I would 
 rather talk to you in the garden.' . 
 
 The man seemed to hesitate a little, muttered something about 
 
30 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' the servants,' and then went into the garden, the door of which 
 was immediately shut. 
 
 John Treverton was almost petrified by this circumstance. 
 Who could this man be whom Miss Malcolm admitted to her 
 presence in this stealthy manner ? Who could he be except some 
 seci-et lover, some suitor she knew to be unworthy of her, and 
 whose visits she was fain to receive in this ignoble fashion. The 
 revelation was unspeakably shocking to John Treverton ; but he 
 could innoother manner account for the incidentwhichhehad just 
 witnessed. He lit another cigar, determined to wait in the lane 
 till the man came out again. He walked up and down for about 
 twenty minutes, at the end of which time the garden door was re- 
 opened, and the stranger emerged and walked hastily away, John 
 following him at a respectful distance. He went to an inn not 
 far from the Manor-house, where there was a gig waiting for him, 
 with a man nodding sleepily over the reins. He jumped lightly 
 into the vehicle, took the reins from the man's hands and drove 
 away at a smart pace, very much to the discomfiture of Mr. 
 Treverton, who had not been able to see his face, and who had no 
 means of tracing him any further. He did, indeed, go into the 
 little inn and call for soda-water and brandy, in order to have an 
 excuse for asking who the gentleman was who had just driven 
 away ; but the innkeeper knew nothing more than that the gig 
 had stopped before his door half-an-hour or so, and that the horse 
 had had a mouthful of hay. 
 
 ' The man as stopped with the horse and gig cam© in for a 
 glass of brandy to take out to the gentleman,' he said, ' but I 
 didn't see the gentleman's face.' 
 
 John Treverton went back to the Laurels after this, very 
 ill at ease. He determined to see Miss Malcolm next morning 
 before he left Hazlehurst, in order, if possible, to find out some- 
 thing about this mysterious reception of the unknown individual 
 in the loose coat. He made his plans, therefore* for going to 
 London by an afternoon train, and at one o'clock presented him- 
 self at the Manor-house. 
 
 Miss Malcolm was at home, and he was ushered once more 
 into the study, where he had first seen her. 
 
 He told her of his intended departure, an announcement 
 which was not calculated to surprise her very much, as he had 
 told her the same thing when they met on the common. They 
 talked a little of indifferent subjects; she with perfect ease of 
 manner, he with evident embarrassment ; and then, after rather 
 an awkward pause, he began : — 
 
 ' Oh, by the way, Miss Malcolm, there is a circumstance which 
 I think it my duty to mention to you. It is perhaps of less 
 importance than I am inclined to attach to it, but in a lonely 
 country house like this one cannot be too careful. I was out 
 
A Mysterious Visitor. 31 
 
 walking rather late last night, smoking my solitary cigar, and I 
 happened to pass through the lane at the side of these grounds.' 
 
 He paused a moment. Laura Malcolm gave a perceptible 
 start, and he fancied that she was paler than she had been before 
 he began to speak of this affair ; but her eyes met his with a 
 steady, inquiring look, and never once faltered in their gaze as he 
 went on : — 
 
 ' I saw a tall man, very much muffled up in an overcoat and 
 neckerchief — with his face quite hidden, in fact — walking up and 
 down before the little door in the wall, and five minutes after- 
 wards T was surprised by seeing the door opened, and the man 
 admitted to the garden. The secret kind of way in which the 
 thing was done was calculated to alarm anyone interested in 
 the inmates of this house. I concluded, of course, that it was one 
 of the servants who admitted some follower of her own in this 
 clandestine manner.' 
 
 He could not meet Laura Malcolm's eyes quite steadily as he 
 said this, but the calm scrutiny of hers never changed. It was 
 John Treverton who faltered and looked down. 
 
 ' Some follower of her own,' Miss Malcolm repeated. ' You 
 know, then, that the person who let this stranger into the garden 
 was a woman ] ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, not a little startled by her self-possession. 
 ' I heard a woman's voice. I took the trouble to follow the man 
 when he came out again, and I discovered that he was a stranger 
 to this place, a fact which, of course, makes the affair so much the 
 more suspicious. I know that robberies are generally managed 
 by collusion with some servant, and I know that the property in 
 this house is of a kind to attract the attention of professional 
 burglars. I considered it, therefore, my duty to inform you of 
 what I had seen.' 
 
 ' You are very good, but I can fortunately set your mind quite 
 at rest with regard to the plate and other valuables in this house. 
 The man you saw last night is not a burglar, and it was I who 
 admitted him to the garden.' 
 
 'Indeed?' 
 
 ' Yes. He is a relation of mine, who wished to see me with- 
 out making his appearance here the subject of gossip among the 
 Hazlehurst people. He wrote to me, telling me that he was 
 about to travel tin-ough this part of the country, and asking me 
 to give him a private interview. It suited his humour best to 
 come to this place after dark, and to leave it unobserved, as he 
 thought.' 
 
 ' I trust you will not think me intrusive for having spoken of 
 tHs subject, Miss Malcolm ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all. It was natural you should be interested in the 
 wlfare of the house.' 
 
82 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * And in yours. I Lope that you will believe that was neare? 
 my thoughts than any sordid fears as to the safety of the old 
 plate and pictures. And now that I am leaving Hazlehnrst, 
 Miss Malcolm, may I venture to ask your plans for the future ? ; 
 
 ' They are scarcely worth the name of plans. I intend moving 
 from this house to the lodgings I spoke of the other day ; that ia 
 all' 
 
 ' Don't you think you will find living alone very dull ? Would 
 it not be better for you to go into a school, or some place where 
 you could have society 1 ' 
 
 ' I have thought of that, but I don't fancy I should quite like the 
 monotonous routine of a school. I am prepared to find my life a 
 little dull, but 1 am very fond of this place, and I am not without 
 friends here.' 
 
 ' I can quite imagine that. You ought to have many friends in 
 Hazlehurst.' 
 
 " But I have not many friends. I have not the knack of form- 
 ing friendships. There are only two or three people in the 
 world whose regard I feel sure of, or who seem to understand me.' 
 
 ' I hope your heart is not quite inaccessible to new claims. 
 There is a subject which I dare not speak of just yet, which it 
 might be cruel to urge upon you at a time when I know your 
 mind is full of grief for the dead ; but when the fitting time does 
 come I trust I may not find my case quite hopeless.' 
 
 He spoke with a hesitation which seemed strange in so experi- 
 enced a man of the world. Laura Malcolm looked up at him 
 with the same steady gaze with which her eyes had met his when 
 he spoke of the incident of the previous night. 
 
 ' When the fitting time comes you will find me ready to act in 
 obedience to the wishes of my benefactor,' she answered quietly. 
 ' I do not consider that the terms of his will are calculated to 
 secure happiness for either of us ; but I loved him too dearly — J 
 respect his memory too sincerely to place myself in opposition to 
 his plans.' 
 
 ' Why should not our happiness be secured by that will, Laura ? ' 
 John Treverton asked, with sudden tenderness. 'Is there no 
 hope that I may ever win your love 1 ' 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 ' Love very seldom grows out of a position such as ours, Mr. 
 Treverton.' 
 
 ' We may prove a happy exception to the general rule. But 
 I said I would not talk of this subject to-day. I only wish you 
 to believe that I am not altogether mercenary — that I would rather 
 forego this fortune than force a hateful alliance upon you.' 
 
 Miss Malcolm made no reply to this speech, and after a few 
 minutes' talk upon indifferent subjects, John Treverton wished 
 her good-bye. 
 
... La Chicot. 83 
 
 1 She would accept me,' lie said to himself as he left the house. 
 1 Her words seemed to imply as much ; the rest remains with 
 me. The ice has been broken, at any rate. But who can that 
 man be, and why did he visit her in such a secret, ignominious 
 manner ? If we were differently circumstanced, if I loved her 4 
 I should insist upon a fuller explanation.' 
 
 He went back to The Laurels, to bid his friends the Sampsons 
 good-bye. The lawyer was ready to drive him over to the station, 
 and made him promise to run down to Hazlehurst again as soon 
 as he was able, and to make The Laurels his headquarters on 
 that and all other occasions. 
 
 ' You'll have plenty of love-making to do between this and the 
 end of the year,' Mr. Sampson said, facetiously. 
 
 He was in very good spirits, having that morning made an 
 advance of money to Mr. Treverton on extremely profitable terms, 
 and he felt a personal interest in that gentleman's courtship and 
 marriage. 
 
 John Treverton went back to town in almost as thoughtful a 
 mood as that in which he had made the journey to Hazlehurst. 
 Plan his course as he might, there was a dangerous coast ahead 
 of him, which he doubted his ability to navigate. Very faraway 
 gleamed the lights of the harbour, but between that harbour and 
 the frail bark that earned his fortunes how many shoals and 
 rocks there were whose perils he must encounter before he could 
 lie safe at anchor ? 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LA CHICOT. 
 
 About this time there appeared among the multifarious placard 
 which adorned the dead walls and hoardings and railway arches 
 and waste spaces of London one mystical dissyllable, which was 
 to be seen everywhere. 
 
 Chicot. In gigantic yellow capitals on a black ground. The 
 dullest eye must needs see it, the slowest mind must needs be 
 stirred with vague wonder. Chicot 1 What did it mean ? Wa3 
 it a name or a tiling 1 A common or a proper noun 1 Something 
 to eat or something to wear 1 A quack medicine for humanity, 
 or an ointment to cure the cracked heels of horses ? "Was it anew 
 vehicle, a patent cab destined to supersede the world-renowned 
 Hansom, or a new machine for cutting up turnips and mangold- 
 wurzel 1 Was it the name of a new periodical ? Chicot ! There 
 was something taking in the sound. Two short, crisp syllables, 
 tripping lightly off the tongue. Chicot ! The street arabs 
 shouted the word *h a savage cry, neither knowing nor caring 
 
 e 
 
34 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 what it meant. But before those six-sheet posters had lost their 
 pristine freshness most of the fast young men about London, the 
 medical students and articled clerks, the dapper gentlemen at the 
 War Office, the homelier youths from Somerset House, the 
 shining-hatted City swells who came westward as the sun sloped 
 to his rest, knew all about Chicot. Chicot was Mademoiselle 
 Chicot, premiere danseuse at the Royal Prince Frederick Theatre 
 and Music-hall, and she was, according to the highest authorities 
 on the Stock Exchange and in the "War Office, quite the hand- 
 somest woman in London. Her dancing was distinguished for 
 its audacity rather than for high art. She was no follower of 
 the Taglioni school of saltation. The grace, the refinement, the 
 shaste beauties of that bygone age were unknown to her. She 
 would have ' mocked herself of you ' if you had talked to her 
 about the poetry of motion. But for flying bounds across the 
 stage — for wild pirouettings on tiptoe — for the free use of the 
 loveliest arms in creation — for a bold backward curve of a full 
 white throat more perfect than ever sculptor gave his marble 
 bacchanal, La Chicot was unrivalled. 
 
 She was thoroughly French. Of that there was no doubt. 
 She was no scion of the English houses of Brown, Jones, or 
 Robinson, born and bred in a London back slum, and christened 
 plain Sarah or Mary, to be sophisticated later into Celestine or 
 Mariette. Zaire Chicot was a weed grown on Gallic soil. All 
 that there was of the most Parisian La Chicot called herself ; but 
 her accent and many of her turns of phrase bebed her, and to the 
 enlightened ear of her compatriots betrayed her provincial origin. 
 The loyal and pious province of Brittany claimed the honour of 
 La Chicot's birth. Her innocent childhood had been spent among 
 the fig-trees and saintly shrines of Auray. Not till her nineteenth 
 year had she seen the long, dazzling boidevards stretching into 
 unfathomable distance before her eyes ; the multitudinous lamps ; 
 the fairy-like kiosks — all infinitely grander and more beautiful 
 than the square of Duguesclin at Dinan illuminated with ten 
 thousand lampions on a festival night. Here in Paris life seemed 
 an endless festival. 
 
 Paris is a mighty schoolmaster, a grand enlightener of th& 
 provincial intellect. Paris taught La Chicot that she was beau- 
 tiful. Paris taught La Chicot that it was pleasanter to whirl and 
 bound among serried ranks of other Chicots in the fairy spectacle 
 of ' The Sleeping Beauty,' or the ' Hart with the Golden Collar,' 
 clad in scantiest drapery, but sparkling with gold and spangles, 
 with hair flowing wild as a Maenad's, and satin boots at two 
 napoleons the pair, than to toil among laundresses on the quay. 
 La Chicot had come to Paris to get her Uving, and she got it very 
 pleasantly for herself as a member of the corps de ballet, a cypher 
 m the sum total of those splendid fairy spectacles, but a cypher 
 
La Chicot. 35 
 
 whose superb eyes and luxuriant hair, whose statuesque figure 
 and youthful freshness did not fail to attract the notice of 
 individuals. 
 
 She was soon known as the belle of the ballet, and speedily 
 made herself obnoxious to the principal dancers, who resented her 
 superior charms as an insolence, and took every occasion to snub 
 her. But while her own sex was unkind, the sterner sex showed 
 itself gentle to la belle Chicot. The ballet-master taught her 
 steps which he taught to none other of the sisterhood under his 
 tuition ; he made opportunities for giving her a solo dance now 
 and then ; he pusned her to the front ; and at his advice she 
 migrated from the large house where she was nobody, to a smaller 
 house in the students' quarter, a popular little theatre on the 
 left bank of the Seine, amidst a labyrinth of narrow streets and. 
 tall houses between the School of Medicine and the Sorbonne, 
 where she soon became everybody. C'etait le plus gentil de mes 
 rats, cried the ballet-master regretfully, when La Chicot had been 
 tempted away. Cette petite ira loin, said the manager, vexed with 
 himself for having let his handsomest coryphee slip through his 
 fingers ; die a du chien. 
 
 At the Students' Theatre it was that La Chicot met with her 
 fate, or in other words, it was here that her husband first saw her. 
 He was au Englishman, leading a rather wild life in this students' 
 quarter of Paris, living from hand to mouth, very poor, very clever, 
 very badly qualified to get his own living. He was gifted with 
 those versatile talents which rarely come to a focus or achieve 
 any important result. He painted, he etched, he sang, he played 
 on three or four instruments with taste and fancy, but little tech- 
 nical skill ; he wrote for the comic papers, but the comic papers 
 generally rejected or neglected his contributions. If he had in- 
 vented a lucifer match, or originated an improvement in the sew- 
 ing-machine, he might have carved his way to fortune ; but these 
 drawing room accomplishments of his hardly served to keep him. 
 from starving. Not a very eligible suitor, one would imagine, f8t 
 a young lady from the provinces who wished to make a great figure 
 in life ; but he was handsome, well-bred, with that unmistakable 
 air of gentle birth which neither poverty nor Bohemianism can 
 destroy, and in the opinion of La Chicot the most fascinating man 
 she had ever seen. In a word, he admired the lovely ballet- 
 dancer, and the ballet-dancer adored him. It was an infatuation 
 on both sides — his first great passion and hers. Both were strong 
 in their faith in their own talents and the future ; both believed 
 that they had only to live in order to become rich and famous. 
 La Chicot was not of a calculating temper. She was fond of 
 money, but only of money to spend in the immediate present ; 
 money for fine dresses, good dinners, wine that foamed and 
 sparkled, and plenty at" promenading in hired carriages in the 
 
36 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Bois de Boulogne. Money for the future, for sickness, for old 
 age, for the innumerable necessities of life, she never thought of 
 Without having ever read Horace, or perhaps ever having heard of 
 his existence, she was profoundly Horatian in her philosophy. To 
 snatch the pleasure of the day, and let to-morrow take care of it- 
 self, was the beginning and end of her wisdom. She loved the 
 young Englishman, and she married him, knowing that he had 
 not a napoleon beyond the coin that was to pay for their wedding 
 dinner, utterly reckless as to the consequences of their marriage, 
 and as ignorant and unreasoning in her happiness as a child. To 
 have a handsome man — a gentleman by birth and education — for 
 her lover and slave, — to have the one man who had ensnared her 
 fancy tied to her apron-string for ever, — this was La Chicot's no- 
 tion of happiness. She was a strong-minded young woman, who 
 to this point had made her way in life unaided by relatives or 
 friends, uncared for, uncounselled, untaught, a mere straw upon 
 the tide of life, but not without a fixed idea of her own as to 
 where she wanted to drift. She desired no guardianship from a 
 husband. She did not expect him to work for her, or support 
 her ; she was quite resigned to the idea that she was to be the 
 breadwinner. This child of the people set a curious value upon 
 the name gentleman. The fact that her husband belonged to a 
 superior race made up, in her mind, for a great many shortcom- 
 ings. That he should be variable, reckless, a creature of fits and 
 starts, beginning a picture with zeal in the morning, to throw it 
 aside with disgust in the evening, seemed only natural. That 
 was race. Could you. put a hunter to the same kind of work 
 which the patient packhorse performs without a symptom of re- 
 volt 1 La Chicot hugged the notion of her husband's superiority 
 to that drudging herd from which she had sprung. His very 
 vices were in her mind virtues. 
 
 They were married, and as La Chicot was a person of some 
 importance in her own small world, while the young Englishman 
 had done nothing to distinguish himself, the husband came some- 
 how to be known by the name of the wife, and was spoken of 
 everywhere as Monsieur Chicot. 
 
 It was an odd kind of life which these two led in their 
 meagrely-furnished rooms on the third floor of a dingy house in a 
 1 dingy street of the students' quarter ; an odd, improvident, dissi- 
 ' pated life, in which night was turned into day, and money spent 
 like water, and nothing desired or obtained out of existence 
 except pleasure, the gross, sensual pleasures of dining and drink- 
 ing ; the wilder pleasure of play, and moonlight drives in the 
 Bois ; the Sabbath delights of free-and-easy rambles in rural 
 neighbourhoods, beside the silvery Seine, on the long summer 
 days, when a luxurious idler could rise at noon without feeling 
 the effort too hard a trial ; winding up always with a dinner at 
 
La Chicot. 37 
 
 some rustic house of entertainment, where there was a vine-cur- 
 tained arbour that one could dine in, and where one could see the 
 dinner being cooked in a kitchen with a wide window opening on 
 yard and garden, and hear the balls clicking in the low-ceiled 
 billiard-room. There were winter Sundays, when it seemed 
 scarcely worth one's while to get up at all, till the scanty measure 
 of daylight had run out, and the gas was aflame on the boulevards, 
 and it was time to think of where one should dine. So the Chicots 
 spent the first two years of their married life, and it may be sup- 
 posed that an existence of this kind quite absorbed Madame Chi- 
 cot's salary, and that there was no surplus to be put by for a rainy 
 day. Had La Chicot inhabited a world in which rain and foul 
 weather were unknown, she could not have troubled herself less 
 about the possibilities of the future. She earned her money gaily, 
 and spent it royally ; domineered over her husband on the strength 
 of her superb beauty ; basked in the sunshine of temporary pros- 
 perity ; drank more champagne than was good for her constitution 
 or her womanhood ; grew a shade coarser every year ; never opened 
 a book or cultivated her mind in the smallest degree ; scorned all 
 the refinements of life ; looked upon picturesque scenes and rustic 
 landscapes as a fitting background for the riot and drunkenness 
 of a Bohemian picnic, and as good for nothing else ; never 
 crossed the threshold of a church, or held out her hand in an act 
 of charity ; lived for herself and her own pleasure ; and had no 
 more conscience than the butterflies, and less sense of duty than 
 the birds. 
 
 If Jack Chicot had any compunction about the manner in 
 which he and his wife were living, and the way they spent their 
 money, he did not give any expression to his quaims of con- 
 science. It may be that he was restrained by a false sense of 
 delicacy, and that he considered his wife had a right to do what 
 she liked with her own. His own earnings were small, and 
 intermittent — a water-colour sketch sold to the dealers, a dramatic 
 criticism accepted by the director of a popular journaL Money 
 that came so irregularly went as it came. 
 
 ' Jack comes to have sold a picture ! ' crieS the wife ; ' that 
 great impostor of mine has taken it into his head to work. Let 
 us go and dine at the "Red Mill." Jack shall make the 
 cost.' 
 
 And then it was but to whistle for a couple of light open 
 carriages, which, in this city of pleasure, stand in every street, 
 tempting the idler to excursionize ; to call together the half- 
 dozen chosen friends of the moment, and away to the favourite 
 restaurant to order a private room and a little dinner, Men sotgn§, 
 and one's particular brand of champagne, and then, hey for a 
 drive in the merry green wood, while the marmitons are per- 
 spiring over their casseroles, and anon back to a noisy feast, eaten 
 
38 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 in the open air, perhaps, under the afternoon sunshine, for La 
 Chicot has to be at her theatre before seven, since at eight all 
 Bohemian Paris will be waiting, eager And open-mouthed, to see 
 the dancer -with wild eyes and floating hair come bounding on to 
 the stage. La Chicot was growing more and more like a Thracian 
 Maenad as time went on. Her dancing was more audacious, her 
 gestures more electrical. There was a kind of inspiration in those 
 wild movements, but it was the inspiration of a Bacchante, not the 
 calm grace of dryad or sea-nymph. You could fancy her whirling 
 round Pentheus, mixed with the savage throng of her sister 
 Maenads, thirsting for vengeance and murder ; a creature to be 
 beheld from afar with wondering ad mir ation, but a being to be 
 shunned by all lovers of peaceful lives and tranquil paths. Those 
 who knew her best used to speak pretty freely about her in the 
 second year of her wedded life, and her third season at the 
 Theatre des Etudiants. 
 
 ' La Chicot begins to drink like a fish,' said Autoine, of the 
 orchestra, to Gilbert, who played the comic fathers. ' I wonder 
 whether she beats her husband when she has had too much cham- 
 pagne?' 
 
 ' They lead but a cat-and-dog sort of life, I believe,' answered 
 the comedian ; ' one day all sunshine, the next stormy weather. 
 Benaud, the painter, who has a room on the same story, tells me 
 that it sometimes hails cups and saucers and empty champagne- 
 bottles when the weather is stormy in the Chicot domicile. But 
 those two are desperately fond of each other all the same.' 
 
 ' I should not appreciate such fondness,' said the fiddler : 
 ' when I marry it will not be for beauty. I would not have as 
 handsome a wife as La Chicot if I could have her for the asking. 
 A woman of that stamp is created to be the torment of her hus- 
 band's life. I find that this Jack is not the fellow he used to 
 be before he married. C'est un garcon bemolise par le manage.' 
 
 When the Chicots had been man and wife for about three 
 years — a long apprenticeship of bliss or woe — the lady's power of 
 attracting an audience to the little theatre in the students' quar- 
 ter began visibly to wane. The parterre grew thin, the students 
 yawned or talked to each other in loud whispers while the dancer 
 was executing her most brilliant steps. Even her beauty had 
 ceased to charm. The habitues of the theatre knew that beauty 
 by heart. 
 
 ' Cest cliche" comme une tartine de journal,' said one. ' Cest 
 connu comme le d6me des Invalides,' said another. ' Cela fatigue; 
 on commence a, se desillusionner sur La Chicot.' 
 
 La Chicot saw the decline of her star, and that lively temper 
 of hers, which had been growing more and more impulsive during 
 the last three years, took reverse of fortune in no good spirit. 
 She used to come home from the theatre in a diabolical humour, 
 
La Chicot. 39 
 
 after having danced to empty benches and a languid audience, 
 and Jack Chicot had to pay the cost. She would quarrel with 
 him about a straw, a nothing, on these occasions. She abused 
 the students who stayed away from the theatre in roundest and 
 strongest phraseology. She was still more angry with those 
 who came and did not applaud. She upbraided Jack for his help- 
 lessness. Was there ever such a husband ? He could not ad- 
 vance her interests in the smallest degree. Had she married any 
 one else — one of those little gentlemen who wrote for the papers, 
 for instance — she would have been engaged at one of the boulevard 
 theatres before now. She would be the rage among the best 
 people in Paris. She would be earning thousands. But her hus- 
 band had no influence with managers or newspapers, not enough 
 to get a puff paragraph inserted in the lowest of the little jour- 
 nals. It was desolating. 
 
 This upbraiding was not without its effect upon Jack Chicot. 
 He was a good-tempered fellow by nature, prone to take life 
 easily. In all their quarrels it was his wife who took the leading 
 part. "When the cups and saucers and empty bottles went flying, 
 she was the Jove who hurled those thunderbolts. Jack was too 
 brave to strike a woman, too proud to lower himself to the level 
 of his wife's degradation. He suffered and was silent. He had 
 found out his mistake long ago. The delusion had been brief, the 
 repentance was long. He knew that he had bound himself to a 
 low-born, low-bred fury. He knew that his only chance of escaping 
 suicide was to shut his eyes to his surroundings, and to take what 
 pleasure he could out of a disreputable existence. His wife's 
 reproaches stung him into activity. He wrote half-a-dozen 
 letters to old friends in London — men more or less connected with 
 the press or the theatres — asking them to get La Chicot an engage- 
 ment. In these letters he wrote of her only as a clever woman 
 in whose career he was interested ; he shrank curiously from 
 acknowledging her as his wife. H e took care to enclose cut- 
 tings from the Parisian journals in winch the dancer's beauty and 
 chic, talent and originality, were lauded. The result of this 
 trouble on his part was a visit from Mr. Smolendo, the enter- 
 prising proprietor of the Prince Frederick Theatre, who had come 
 to Paris in search of novelty, and the engagement of Mademoiselle 
 Chicot for that place of entertainment. Mr. Smolendo had been 
 going in strongly for ballet of late. Hi3 scenery, his machinery, 
 his lime-light and dresses were amongst the best to be seen in 
 London. Everybody went to the Prince Frederick. It had be- 
 gun its career as a music-hall, and had only lately been hcensed 
 as a theatre. There was a flavour of Bohemianism about the 
 house, but it only gave a zest to the entertainment. .All the most 
 notorious Parisian successes in the way of spectacular drama, all 
 the fairy extravaganzas and demon ballets and comic operettas, 
 
40 . The Cloven Foot. 
 
 were reproduced by Mr. Smolendo at the Prince Frederick. Ho 
 
 knew where to find the prettiest actresses, the best dancers, the 
 freshest voices. His chorus and his ballet were the most perfect 
 in London. In a word, Mr. Smolendo had discovered the secret of 
 dramatic success. He had found out that perfection always pays. 
 
 La Chicot's beauty was startling and incontestible. There 
 could not be two opinions about that. Her dancing was eccentric 
 and clever. Mr. Smolendo had seen much better dancing from 
 more carefully-trained dancers, but what La Chicot wanted in 
 training she made up for with dash and audacity. 
 
 ' She won't last many seasons. She's like one of those high- 
 etepping horses that knock themselves to pieces in a year or two,' 
 Mr. Smolendo said to himself; ' but she'll take the town by storm, 
 and she'll draw better for her first three seasons than any star I've 
 had since I began management.' 
 
 La Chicot was delighted at being engaged by a London 
 manager, who offered her a better salary than she was getting at 
 the students' theatre. She did not like the idea of London, which 
 she imagined a city given over to fog and lung disease, but she 
 was very glad to leave the scene where she felt that her laurels were 
 fast withering. She gave her husband no thanks for his inter- 
 vention, and went on railing at him for not having got her an 
 engagement on the boulevard. 
 
 ' It is to bury myself to go to your dismal London,' she ex- 
 claimed ; ' but anything is better than to dance to an assembly of 
 idiots and cretins.' 
 
 ' London is not half a bad place,' answered Jack Chicot, with 
 his listless air, as of a man long wearied of life, and needing a 
 stimulant as strong as aquafortis to rouse him to animation. ' It 
 is a big crowd in which one may lose one's identity. Nobody 
 knows one, one knows nobody. A man's sense of shame gets 
 comfortably deadened in London. He can walk the streets with- 
 out feeling that fingers are being pointed at him. It is all the 
 same to the herd whether he has just come out of a penitentiary 
 or a palace. Nobody cares.' 
 
 The Chicots crossed the Channel, and took lodgings in a street 
 in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, near which, as every- 
 one knows, the Prince Frederick is situated. It was a dingy 
 street, offering scanty attractions to the stranger, but it was a 
 street which from the days of Garrick and Woffington had been 
 favoured by actors and actresses, and Mr. Smolendo recommended 
 the Chicots to seek a lodging there. He gave them the names of 
 three or four householders who let lodgings to ' the profession,' 
 and among these Madame Chicot made her choice. 
 
 The aj>axtments which pleased her best were two fair-sized 
 rooms on a first floor, furnished with a tawdry pretentiousness 
 which would have been odious to a refined eye, and which was 
 
La Chicot. 61 
 
 particularly offensive to Jack's artistic taste. The cheap velvet 
 on the chairs, the gaudy tapestry curtains, the tarnished ormolu 
 clock and candelabra, delighted La Chicot. It was almost 
 Parisian, she told her husband. 
 
 The drawing-room and bedroom communicated with folding* 
 doors. Thera was a little third room — a mere hole — with a win- 
 dow looking northward, which would do for Jack to paint in. 
 That convenience reconciled Jack to the shabby finery of the 
 sitting-room, the doubtful purity of the bedroom, the woe-begone 
 air of the street, with its half-dozen dingy shops sprinkled among 
 the private houses, like an eruption. 
 
 ' How it is ugly, your London ! ' exclaimed La Chicot. ' Is 
 it that all the city resembles this, by example 1 ' 
 
 'No/ answered Jack, with his cynical air. 'There are 
 brighter-looking streets, where the respectable people live.' 
 
 ' What do you call respectable people 1 ' 
 
 ' The people who pay income-tax on two or three thousand 
 a year.' 
 
 Jack inquired as to the other lodgers. It was as well to find 
 out what kind of neighbours they were to have. 
 
 ' I am not particular,' said Jack, in Trench, to his wife, ' but 
 I should not like to find ruyself living cheek by jowl with a 
 burglar.' 
 
 ' Or a spy,' suggested Zaire. 
 
 ' We have no spies in London. That is a profession whick 
 has never found a footing on this side of the Channel.' 
 
 The landlady was a lean-looking widow, with a false front of 
 gingery curls, and a cap that quivered all over with artificial 
 flowers on corkscrew wires. Her long nose was tinted at the 
 extremity, and her eyes had a luminous yet glassy look, suggestive 
 of ardent spirits. 
 
 ' I have only one lady in the parlours,' she explained, ' and a 
 very clever lady she is too, and quite the lady — Mrs. Eawber, who 
 plays leading business at the Shakespeare. You must have heard 
 of her. She's a great woman.' 
 
 Mr. Chicot apologized for his ignorance. He had been living 
 so long in Paris that he knew nothing of Mrs. Eawber. 
 
 1 Ah,' sighed the landlady, ' you don't know how much you've 
 lost. Her Lady Macbeth is as fine as Mrs. Siddons's.' 
 
 ' Did you ever see Mrs. Siddons V 
 
 ' No, but I've heard my mother talk about her. She couldn't 
 have been greater in the part than Mrs. Eawber. You should go 
 and see her some night. She'd make your flesh creep.' 
 
 'And a respectable old party, I suppose/ suggested Jack 
 Chicot. 
 
 'As regular as clockwork. Church every Sunday morning 
 and evening. No hot suppers. Crust of bread and cheese and 
 
42 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 glass of ale left ready on her table against she conies home — 
 lets herself in with her key — no sitting up for her. Chop and 
 imperial pint of Guinness at two o'clock, when there ain't 
 no rehearsal ; something plain and simple that can be kept 
 hot on the oven top, when the rehearsal's late. She's a model 
 lodger. No perquisites, but pay as regular as the Saturday comes 
 round, and always the lady.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Jack, ' that's satisfactory. How about upstairs ? 
 I suppose you've another pattern of commonplace respectability 
 on your second floor 1 ' 
 
 The landlady gave a faint cough, as if she were troubled with 
 a sudden catching of the breath, and her eyes wandered absently 
 to the window, where she seemed to ask counsel from the grey 
 October sky. 
 
 ' Who are your upstairs lodgers 1 " asked Jack Chicot, repeating 
 his inquiry with a shade of impatience. 
 
 ' Lodgers 1 No, sir. There's only one gentleman on my second 
 floor. I have never laid myself out for families. Children are 
 such mischievous young monkeys, and always tramping up and 
 down stairs, or endangering their lives leaning out of winder, or 
 leaving the street door open. And the damage they do the 
 furniture ! Well, nobody can understand that except them as 
 have passed through the ordeal. No, sir, for the last six years I 
 haven't had a child across my threshold.' 
 
 ' I wasn't inquiring about children,' said Mr. Chicot ; ' I was 
 asking about your upstairs lodger,' 
 
 ' He's a single gentleman, sir.' 
 
 ' Young 1 ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; middle-aged.' 
 
 ' An actor 1 ' 
 
 ' No, sir. He has nothing to do with the theatres.' 
 
 ' What is he V 
 
 1 Well, sir, he is a gentleman — everyone can see that — but a 
 gentleman as has run through his property. I should gather 
 from his ways that he must have had a great deal of property, 
 and that he's run through most of it. He is not quite so regular 
 in his payments as I could wish — but he does pay, — and he's 
 very little trouble, for he's often away for a week at a time, the 
 rent running on all the same, of course.' 
 
 ' That would hardly matter to him if he doesn't pay it,' said 
 Chicot. 
 
 'Oh, but he does pay, sir. He's dilatory, but I get my 
 money. A poor widow like me couldn't afford to lose by the best 
 of lodgers.' 
 
 ' What is the gentleman's name 1 ' 
 
 ' Mr. Desrolles.' 
 
 ' That sounds like a foreign name.' 
 
La Chicot. 43 
 
 4 It may, sir, but the gentleman's English. I haven't in a 
 general way laid myself out for foreigners,' said the landlady, with 
 a glance at La Chicot, ' though this is rather a foreign neigh- 
 bourhood.' 
 
 The lodgings were taken, and Jack Chicot and his wife began 
 a new phase of existence in London. The life lacked much 
 that had made their life in Paris tolerable — the careless gaiety, 
 she brighter skies, the Bohemian pleasures of the French city — 
 and Jack Chicot felt as if a dense black curtain had been drawn 
 across his youth and all its delusions, leaving him outside in a 
 cold, commonplace world, a worn-out, disappointed man, old 
 before his time. 
 
 He missed the gay, happy-go-lucky comrades who had helped 
 him to forget his troubles. He missed the drives in the leafy 
 wood, the excursions to suburban dining-houses, the riotous 
 suppers after midnight, all the merry dissipations of his Parisian 
 Hfe. London pleasures were dull and heavy. London suppers 
 meant no more than eating and drinking too many oysters and 
 too much wine. 
 
 Mr. Smolendo's expectations were fully realised. La Chicot 
 made a hit at the Prince Frederick. Those flaming posters 
 under every railway arch and on every hoarding in London 
 were not in vain. The theatre was crowded nightly, and La 
 Chicot was applauded to the echo. She breathed anew the 
 intoxicating breath of success, and she grew daily more insolent 
 and more reckless, spent more money, drank more champagne, 
 and was more eager for pleasure, flattery, and fine dress. The 
 husband looked on with a gloomy face. They were no longer 
 the adoring young couple who had walked away arm-in-arm 
 from the Mairie, s milin g and happy, to share their wedding 
 dinner with the chosen companions of the moment. The wife 
 was now only affectionate by fits and starts, the husband had a 
 settled air of despondency which nothing but wine coidd banish, 
 and which, like the seven other spirits, returned with greater 
 power after a temporary banishment. The wife loved the 
 husband just well enough to be desperately jealous of his least 
 civility to another woman. The husband had long ceased to be 
 jealous, except of his own honour. 
 
 Am ong the frequenters of the Prince Frederick there was 
 one who at this time was to be seen there almost nightly. He 
 was a man of about five-and-twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, with 
 strongly-marked features and the eye of a hawk ; a man whose 
 clothes were well worn, and whose whole appearance was 
 elovenly, yet who looked like a gentleman ; evidently uncared 
 for, possibly destitute, but however low he might have sunk, a 
 gentleman still. 
 
 He was a medical student, and one of the hardest workers 
 
44 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 at St. Tliomas'a — a man who had chosen his profession because 
 he loved it, and whose love increased with his labour. Those 
 who knew most about him said that he wag a man destined to 
 make his mark upon the age in which he lived. But he was not 
 a man to achieve rapid success, to distinguish himself by a happy 
 accident. He went slowly to work, sounded the bottom of 
 every well, took up every subject as resolutely as if it were the 
 one subject he had chosen for his especial study, flung himself 
 into every scientific question with the feverish ardour of a lover, 
 yet worked with the steadiness and self-denial of a Greek 
 athlete. For all the vulgar pleasures of life, for wine or play, 
 for horse-racing, or riot of any kind, this young surgeon cared 
 not a jot. He was so Httle a haunter of theatres, that those of 
 his fellow-students who recognised him night after night at the 
 Prince Frederick were surprised at his frequent presence in such 
 a place. 
 
 ' What has come to Gerard ? ' cried Joe Latimer, of Guy's, to 
 Harry Brown, of St. Thomas's. ' I thought he despised ballet- 
 dancing. Yet this is the third time I have seen him looking on 
 at this rot, with his attention as fixed as if he were watching 
 Paget using the knife 1 ' 
 
 * Can't you guess what it all means 1 * exclaimed Brown. 
 Gerard is in love.' 
 
 ' In love ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, over head and ears in love with La Chicot — never saw 
 such a well-marked case — all the symptoms beautifully developed 
 — sits in the front row of the pit and gazes the whole time she is 
 on the stage — never takes his eyes off her — raves about her to 
 our fellows — the loveliest woman that ever lived since the 
 unknown young person who served as a model for the Yenus 
 that was dug up in a cave in the island of Milo. Fancy having 
 known that young woman, and put your arm round her waist ! 
 Somebody did, I dare say. Yes, George Gerard is gone — anni- 
 hilated. It's too pathetic' 
 
 'And Mademoiselle Chicot is a married woman, I hear?' 
 said Latimer. 
 
 ' Yery much married. The husband is always in attendance 
 upon her. Waits for her at the stage door every night, or stands 
 at the wing while she dances. La Chicot is a most correct per- 
 son, though she hardly looks it. Ah ! here comes Gerard. Well, 
 old fellow, has the disease reached its crisis 1 ' 
 
 1 What disease 1 ' asked Gerard, curtly. 
 
 ' The fever called love.' 
 
 ' Do you suppose I'm in love with the new dancer, because I 
 drop in here pretty often to look at her 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't see any other motive for your presence here. You're 
 not a play-going man.' 
 
A Disappointed Lover. 45 
 
 ' I come to see La Chicot simply because she is quite the most 
 Deautif ul woman in face and form that I ever remember seeing. 
 I come as a painter might to look at the perfection of human 
 loveliness, or as an anato mis t to contemplate the completeness of 
 God's work, a creature turned out of the divine workshop without 
 a flaw.' 
 
 'Did you ever hear such a fellow?' cried Latimer. 'He 
 comes to look at a ballet-dancer, and talks about it as if it were a 
 kind of religion.' 
 
 ' The worship of the beautiful is the religion of art,' answered 
 Gerard, gravely. ' I respect La Chicot as much as I admire her. 
 I have not an unworthy thought about her.' 
 
 Latimer touched his forehead lightly with two fingers, and 
 looked at his friend Brown. 
 
 ' Gone ! ' said Latimer. 
 
 * Very far gone ! ' replied Brown. 
 
 'Come and try the Dutch oysters, Gerard, and let us make a 
 night of it,' said Latimer persuasively. 
 
 ' Thanks, no. I must go home to my den and read.' 
 
 And so they parted, the idlers to their pleasure, the plodding 
 student — the man who loved work for its own sake — to his 
 books. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A DISAPPOINTED LOVEIl. 
 
 Laura Malcolm remained at the Manor-house. Mr. Clare, the 
 vicar, had persuaded her to relinquish her idea of going into 
 lodgings in the village. It would be a pity to abandon the good 
 old house, he argued. A house left to the care of servants must 
 always suffer some decay ; and this house was full of art trea- 
 sures, objects of interest and of price which hitherto had been in 
 Laura's charge. Why should she not stay in the home of her 
 girlhood till it was decided whether she was to rule there as mis- 
 tress, or to abandon it for ever ? 
 
 ' Your rema inin g here will not compromise your freedom of 
 choice,' said Mr. Clare kindly, ' if you find before the end of the 
 ^ear that you cacnot make up your mind to accept John Trever- 
 ton as a husband.' 
 
 ' He may not ask me,' interjected Laura, with a curious smile. 
 
 ' Oh yes, he will. He will come to you in good time to offer 
 you his heart and hand, you may be sure, my dear. It cannot be 
 a difficult thing for any young man to fall in love with such a 
 girl as you, and it seems to me that this John Treverton is very 
 worthy of any woman's regard. I see no wmson why your mar- 
 
46 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 riage should not be a love match on both sides, in spite of my old 
 friend's eccentric will.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid that can never be,' answered Laura, with a sigh. 
 ' Mr. Treverton will never be able to think of me as he might of 
 any other woman. I must always seem to him an obstacle to his 
 freedom and his happiness. He is constrained to assume an 
 affection for me, or to surrender a splendid fortune. If he is mer- 
 cenaiy he will not hesitate. He will take the fortune and me, 
 and I shall despise him for his readiness to accept a wife chosen 
 for him by another. No, dear Mr. Clare, there is no possibility 
 of happiness for John Treverton and me.' 
 
 'My dear child, if you are convinced that you cannot be 
 happy in this marriage, you are free on your part to refuse him,' 
 said the vicar. 
 
 Laura's pale cheek crimsoned. 
 
 ' That would be to doom him to poverty, and to frustrate his 
 cousin's wish,' she answered, falteringly. ' I should hate myself 
 if I could be so selfish as to do that.' 
 
 ' Then, my dear girl, you must resign yourself to the alter- 
 native : and if John Treverton and you are not as passionately 
 in love as the young people who defy their parents and run away 
 to Gretna Green to be married — or did when I was a young man 
 — you may at least enjoy a sober kind of happiness, and get on 
 as well together as the princes and princesses whose marriages 
 are arranged by cabinet councils and foreign powers.' 
 
 ' Do you know anything about Mr. Treverton 1 ' asked Laura, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Very little. He is an only son — an only child, I believe. 
 His father and mother died while he was a boy, and he became 
 a ward in Chancery. He had a nice little property when he 
 came of age, and ran through it nicely, after the manner of idle 
 young men without friends to advise and guide them. He 
 began his career in the army, but sold out after he had spent his 
 money. I have no idea what he has been doing since — living by 
 his wits, I'm afraid.' 
 
 So it was settled that Laura was to remain at the Manor- 
 house, with so many of the old servants as would suffice to keep 
 things in good order — the servants to be paid and fed at the 
 expense of the estate, Laura to maintain herself out of her own 
 modest income. She was a young lady of particularly indepen- 
 dent temper, and upon this point she was resolute. 
 
 ' The money is nobody's money at present,' she said. ' I will 
 aot touch a penny of it.' 
 
 Sad as were the associations of the house, dreary as was the 
 blank left in the familiar rooms by the absence of one revered 
 figure, dismal as was the silence which that voice could never 
 kreak again, Laura was better pleased to stay in her old home 
 
A Disappointed Lover. it 
 
 than she would have been to leave it. Even the niute, lifeles3 
 things among which she had lived so long had some part of her 
 love, some hold upon her heart. She would have felt herself a 
 waif and stray in a stranger's house. Here she felt always at 
 home. If the rooms were haunted by the shadow of the dead, 
 the ghost was a friendly one, and looked upon her with loving 
 eyes. She had never thwarted, or neglected, or wronged her 
 adopted father. There was no remorse mingled with her grief. 
 She thought of him with deepest sadness, but without pain. 
 
 The vicar was anxious that Miss Malcolm should have a com- 
 panion. There were plenty of homeless young women — women 
 of spotless reputation and genteel connections — who would no 
 doubt have been delighted to be her unsalaried companion, for 
 the «ake of a pleasant home. But Laura declared that she wanted 
 no companion. 
 
 ' You must think me very empty-minded if you suppose I can- 
 not endure my life without a young woman of the same age to 
 sit opposite me and answer to all my idle fancies like an echo, or 
 to walk out with me and help me admire the landscape, or to 
 advise me what I should order for dinner,' she said. ' No, dear 
 Mr. Clare, I want no companion, except Celia now and -then. 
 You will let her come and see me very often, won't you 'I ' 
 
 ' As often as you like, or as often as she can be spared from her 
 parish work,' answered the vicar. 
 
 ' Ah, you are all such hard workers at the Vicarage,' exclaimed 
 Laura. 
 
 ' Some of us work hard enough, I believe.' answered Mr. Clare, 
 with a sigh. ' I wish my son could make up his mind to work a 
 little harder.' 
 
 ' That will come in good time.' 
 
 ' I hope so, but I am almost tired of waiting for that good 
 time.' 
 
 ' He is clever and artistic,' said Laura. 
 
 ' His cleverness allowed him to leave the University without a 
 degree, and his artistic faculties will never help him to a living,' 
 answered the vicar, bitterly. 
 
 This only son of the vicar's was a thorn in his side. Edward 
 Clare was everybody's favourite, and nobody's enemy but his 
 own. That was what the village said of him. He was good- 
 looking, clever, agreeable, but he had no ballast. He was a 
 feather to be blown by every puff of wind. He had never been 
 able to discover the work which he had been sent into the world 
 to do, but he had speedily found out the work for which he was 
 not adapted. At the University he discovered that the curri- 
 culum of an English classical education was not fitted to the 
 peculiar cast of his mind. How much better he could have done 
 at Heidelb&ig or Bonn ! But when he made this discovery h© 
 
d8 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 had wasted three years at Oxford, and had cost his father some* 
 thing very close to a thousand pounds. 
 
 The vicar wanted his only son to go into the Church, and 
 Edward had been educated with that view, but after failing to 
 get his degree, Edward found out that he had a conscientious re- 
 pugnance to the Church. His opinions were too broad. 
 
 ' A man who admires Ernest Benan as warmly as I do has no 
 right to be a parson,' said Edward, with agreeable frankness ; so 
 poor Mr. Clare had to submit to the disappointment of his most 
 cherished hopes, because his son admired Eenan. 
 
 After having made up his mind upon this point Edward 
 stayed at home, read a good deal in a desultory way, wrote a 
 little, sketched a little in tine weather, fished, shot, and dawdled 
 away life in the pleasantest manner, finding Ids days never so 
 sweet as when they were spent at the Manor-house. 
 
 Jasper Treverton had warmly esteemed the vicar, and he 
 had liked the son for the father's sake. Edward had always 
 been welcome at the Manor-house while the old man lived, and 
 as Edward's sister was Laura Malcolm's chosen friend, it was 
 natural that the Oxonian should be very often in Laura'3 
 society. 
 
 But now his visits to the good old house where he had felt 
 himself so completely at home, the library in which he had read, 
 the garden in whose formal walks he had delighted to smoke, 
 were suddenly restricted. Miss Malcolm had given him to under- 
 stand, through his sister, that she considered herself no longer at 
 liberty to receive him. Her friendship for him was in no wise 
 lessened, but it would not do for him to drop in at all hours, or 
 to spend half his afternoons in the library, as in the days that 
 were gone. 
 
 ' I don't see why there should be such restrictions among 
 old friends,' said Edward, with an injured air. ' Laura and I 
 are like sister and brother.' 
 
 ' Very likely, Ned, but then, you see, everybody knows you 
 and Laura are not brother and sister, and I think there are a 
 good many people in Hazlehurst who think that you feel some- 
 thing a good deal stronger than brotherly regard for her. If she 
 and I were drowning, I know which of us you would try to 
 6ave.' 
 
 ' You can swim,' growled Edward, remembering Talleyrand's 
 famous answer. ' Well, I suppose I must submit to fate. Miss 
 Malcolm no doubt considers herself engaged to the mysterious 
 heir, who does not seem in any hurry to begin his courtship. If 
 old Treverton had bequeathed such a chance to me I should have 
 seized upon my opportunity without an instant's hesitation.' 
 
 ' I admire the delicacy which prompts Mr. Treverton to kesp 
 m the background just at first,' said Celia. 
 
A Disappointed Lovet. 49 
 
 • How do you know that it is delicacy which restrains him, 
 exclaimed Edward. ' How do you know that it is net seme 
 entanglement — some degrading connection, perhaps — or at any 
 rate a previous engagement of some kind which ties his hands, 
 and hinders his advancement with Laura 1 No man, unless so 
 constrained, would be besotted enough to neglect such an oppor- 
 tunity, or to hazard his chances of success. If he offends Laura, 
 she is just the kind of girl to refuse him, fortune and all.' 
 
 ' I don't think she would do that, except upon very serious 
 grounds,' said Celia. ' Laura has a strong sense of duty, and 
 she believes it her duty to her adopted father to assist in carrying 
 out his wishes. I believe she would sacrifice her own inclination 
 to that duty.' 
 
 ' That's going far,' said Edward, discontentedly. ' I begin to 
 think that she has fallen in love with this fellow, meteorio as 
 was his appearance here.' 
 
 ' He stayed nearly a fortnight,' remarked Celia, l and Laura 
 saw him several times. I don't mean to say that she is in love 
 with him. She has too much common sense to fall in love in 
 that rapid way — but I am sure she does not dislike him.' 
 
 Oh, when love begins common sense ends. I dare say she is 
 in love with him. Hasn't she told you as much now, Celia? 
 Girls like to talk about such things.' 
 
 ' What do you know about girls 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing. I've got a sister who is one of the breed ; a 
 model always at hand to draw from. Come, now, Celia, be 
 sisterly for once in your life. "What has Laura told you about 
 John Treverton 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing. She is particularly reserved upon the subject. I 
 know that it is a painful one for her, and I rarely approach it.' 
 
 ' Well, he is a lucky dog. I never hated a fellow so much. I 
 have an instinctive idea that he is a scoundrel.' 
 
 ' Are not instinctive ideas convictions that jump with our own 
 inclinations 1 ' speculated Celia, philosophically. ' I am heartily 
 sorry for you, Ned dear, for I know vou are fond of Laura, and 
 it does seem hard to have her willed away from you like this. 
 But seriously now, would you be pleased to marry her with no 
 better portion than her own little income ? ' 
 
 ■ Six thousand in Consols,' said Edward, meditatively. ' That 
 would not go very far with a young man and woman of refined 
 tastes. We might love each other ever so dearly, and be ever so 
 happy together, but I'm afraid we should starve, Celia, and that 
 our children's only inheritance would be their legal claim oh 
 their own parish. I thought that wicked old man would lep,V6 
 her handsomely provided for.' 
 
 ' You had no right to think that, knowing that he hf^ pledged 
 Wmself to leave Ver nothing.' 
 
50 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Oh, there would always have been a way of evading that. 
 I call his will absolutely shameful — to force a high-spirited girl 
 to take a husband of his choosing — a fellow whom he had never 
 t <jen when he made the stipulation.' 
 
 'He took care to see young Mr. Treverton before he died. 
 1 lare say if he had not been favourably impressed he would 
 have altered his will at the last moment.' 
 
 This conversation took place nearly four months after Jasper 
 Treverton's death. The hedgerows were growing green ; the 
 birds had eaten the last of the crocuses ; the violets were all in 
 bloom in the shrubbery borders, the grass grew fast enough to 
 require weekly shearing, and the Manor-house garden was 
 a pleasant place to walk in, full of budding trees and opening 
 blossoms, and the songs of birds, telling each other rapturously 
 that spring had come in earnest, and that winter days and a 
 stony-hearted, frost-bound earth were things of the past. 
 
 Edward Clare believed himself the most ill-used of young 
 men. He was good-looking — nay, according to the general 
 judgment of his particular circle, remarkably handsome ; he was 
 cleverer and more accomplished than most young men of his age 
 and standing. If he had done nothing as yet to distinguish 
 himself it was not for lack of talent, he told himself complacently. 
 It was only because he had never yet put his shoulder to the 
 wheel. He did not consider that duty strongly called upon every 
 man to do his uttermost part in the labour of moving that mighty 
 wheel. A clever young man, like himself, might stand on one 
 idde and watch other fellows toiling at the job, knowing that he 
 could do it ever so much better if he only cared to try. 
 
 Four years ago, when he first went to Oxford, he had made up 
 his mind that he was to be Laura Malcolm's husband. Of course 
 Jasper Treverton would leave her a handsome fortune, most 
 likely his entire estate. There must be a dozen ways of evading 
 that ridiculous oath. The old man might makeover his property 
 to Laura by deed of gift. He might leave it to trustees for her 
 use and benefit. In some manner or other she would be hia 
 heiress. Edward felt very sure of that, seeing as he did Jasper's 
 deep love of his adopted daughter. So when he found himself 
 falling in love with Laura's sweet face and winning ways, the 
 young Oxonian made no struggle against Cupid, the mighty 
 conqueror. To fall in love with Laura was the high road to 
 fortune, infinitely better than Church or Bar. But he was in no 
 hurry to declare himself — he was not an impulsive young man ; 
 slow and cautious rather. To make Laura an offer and be rejected 
 would mean banishment from her society. He thought she liked 
 him, but he wanted to be very sure as to the strength of her feel- 
 ings before he declared himself her lover. His position as her 
 friend was too advantageous to be lightly hazarded. 
 
La Chicot has her Own Way. 51 
 
 CHAPTEE YL 
 
 LA CHICOT HAS HER OWN WA7. 
 
 Slowly, reluctantly, Winter crawled away to his bidden lair, 
 andniade.roorn for a chilly, uncomfortable spring. It bad been the 
 longest, dullest winter that Jack Chicot had ever lived through. 
 He did not wonder that the Continental idea associated London 
 fog and suicide in a natural sequence. Never had he felt himself 
 eo inclined to self-destruction as in the foggy December afternoons, 
 the bleak January twilights, when he paced the dull grey streets 
 under the dull grey sky, smoking his solitary cigar, and thinking 
 what a dismal ruin he had made of himself and his lif e ; he who 
 had entered upon the bustling scene of manhood ten years ago, 
 with such bright hopes, such an honourable ambition, such an ar- 
 rogant confidence in the future as the bringer of all good things. 
 
 Now where was he 1 What was he 1 The husband of La 
 Chicot, a being in himself so worthless, so aimless and obsciu'e that 
 no one ever took the trouble to inquire his real name. His wife's 
 name — the name made notorious by a ballet-dancer, the goddess 
 of medical students and lawyers' clerks — was good enough for 
 him. In himself and by himself he was nothing. He was only the 
 husband of La Chicot, a woman who drank like a fish and swore 
 like a trooper. 
 
 It was a sorry pass for a man to have come to in whom the 
 sense of shame was not utterly dead. Perhaps it was something 
 to be remembered in Jack Chicot's favour that at this time of his 
 life, when despair had fastened its claw upon his aching heart, 
 when love and liking had given place to a mute and secret 
 abhorrence, he was not cruel or harsh to his wife. He never said 
 hard or bitter things to her : so long as he had any lingering 
 belief in her capability of amendment he remonstrated with her 
 on the folly of her ways, always temperately, often with much 
 kindness : and when he saw that reform was hopeless he hdd his 
 peace and did not upbraid her. 
 
 She had never done him that kind of wrong which honour 
 forbids a husband to forgive. So far she had been true to him, 
 and loved him, in her maudlin way, flying at him like a fury when 
 ehe was betwixt sobriety and intoxication, calling him her angel, 
 or her cat, cr her cabbage, with imbecile tenderness, when she was 
 comfortably tipsy. He who had quarrelled with her a good deal 
 before he began to hate her, could now endure her utmost violence 
 and keep calm. He dared not give the reins to passion. It 
 might carry him — he knew not whither. He felt like a man 
 standing on the edge of a black gulf, blindfolded, yet knowing 
 that the pit was there. One false step might be fatal. He had 
 
52 The, Cloven Foot. 
 
 been luckier in tliis gloomy London than in his much-regretted 
 Paris, so far as the exercise of his own small talents went. He 
 had obtained a regular engagement as draughtsman on one of the 
 comic journals, and his caricatures, pencilled on a wood block 
 while his heart ached with misery and his head burned with fever, 
 amused the idle youth of London with reminiscences of Cham 
 and Gavarni. By the use of his pencil he contrived to earn 
 something like two pounds a week, more than enough for his own 
 wants ; so La Chicot could spend every sixpence of her salary on 
 herself, an arrangement which suited her temper admirably. 
 She had a bottle of champagne in her dressing-room every night, 
 and finished it before she went on for her great pas. So long as she 
 abstained from brandy this meant sobriety. She was a woman 
 of limited ideas, and as in San Francisco champagne is ' wine ' par 
 excellence, no meaner liquor being deemed worthy of the noble 
 name, so, with La Chicot, champagne was the only wine worth 
 drinking. When she felt that its sustaining power was insuffi- 
 cient she fortified it with brandy, and then La Chicot was a 
 creature to be shunned. 
 
 "Winter lingered late that year. Though the green banks 
 of every country lane and every hollow of the leafless woodland 
 were starred with primroses and spangled with dog-violets, 
 wintry winds were still wracking the forest trees, and whistling 
 shrill among the London chimney-pots. 
 
 March had come in like a Hon, and continued to roar 
 and bluster in leonine fashion to the very verge of April. A dry, 
 dusty, bitter March, dealing largely in death and shipwreck. A 
 villainous March, better calculated to inspire thoughts of suicide 
 than even the fogs and creeping mists of November. 
 
 But even this miserable March came to an end at last. The 
 London season had begun. La Chicot was attracting not only 
 medical students and lawyers' clerks, the Stock Exchange and 
 the War Office, but the fine flower of the aristocracy — the topmost 
 strawberries in the basket — the Brobdingnagian Guardsmen, 
 whose gloves were numbered nine and a half at the little hosier's in 
 Piccadilly, the dainty f oplings who wore a lady's six and three- 
 quarters with four buttons, and who were beings of so frail and 
 effeminate a type that a whisper through the telephone might blow 
 them to the utmost ends of the earth. These opposite species, the 
 athletics and the aesthetics, the hammer throwers, bicycle riders, 
 boating men, hunting men, and pugilists, and the china collectors, 
 art lunatics, and tame-cat section of society, met and mingled in 
 the stalls at the Prince Frederick, and resembled each other in 
 nothing except their appreciation of La Chicot. 
 
 Mr. Smolendo produced a new ballet early in April, a ballet 
 which was as ridiculous and generally imbecile in plot and pur- 
 pose as most of its kind, but which for scenery, dresses, and effects 
 
La Chicot has her Own Way. 53 
 
 was supposed to surpass anything that had ever been accomplished 
 at his theatre. Everything in this ballet tended to the glori- 
 fication of La Chicot. She was the central figure, the cynosure : 
 every crest was lowered to give prominence to here, principal 
 dancers were her handmaidens, a hundred ballet-girls prostrated 
 themselves before her throne, a hundred and fifty auxiliaries, 
 specially engaged for this great spectacle, licked the dust beneath 
 her feet. The final tableau, which was to cost Mr. Smolendo 
 2nore money than he could calculate, was an apotheosis of La 
 Chicot, a beautiful, bold, half -tipsy peasant, going to heaven on a 
 telescopic arrangement of iron. It was a wonderful sight. The 
 athletics called it ' no end of jolly.' The aesthetics described it as 
 ' unspeakably touching.' 
 
 This final tableau was supposed to represent the coral caves of 
 the Indian Ocean. La Chicot was a mermaid who lured mariners to 
 their doom beneath the wave. She lived in a jewelled cavern, a 
 hall sparkling and shining with sapphires and emeralds and lapis- 
 lazuli, all flooded with rainbow light, where she and her sister 
 mermaidens, golden, glittering, and scaly, danced perpetually. 
 Then came the end, and she floated upward through an ocean of 
 blue gauze, in a moving frame of rosiest coral. 
 
 The ironwork upon which she mounted was a somewhat com- 
 plicated piece of machinery, a telescope in three parts, requiring 
 nice adjustment on the part of the stage carpenter. It was per- 
 fectly safe if properly worked ; but a hitch, the slightest careless- 
 ness in the working, would be perilous, and might be fatal. 
 
 ' I don't like that business by any means,' said Jack Chicot, 
 when he saw his wife ascending to the sky borders, in the dust 
 and gloom of rehearsal, clad in her practising petticoats, and with 
 a lace-bordered handkerchief tied under her chin, like a coquettish 
 nightcap. ' It looks dangerous. Can't you dispense with it, 
 Smolendo?' 
 
 ' Impossible ; it's the great feature of the scene. Perfectly 
 safe, I assure you. Roberts is the best carpenter in London.' 
 
 Mr. Smolendo's people were always the best. He had a knack 
 of getting first-rate talent in every line, from his prima donna to 
 his gasman. 
 
 ' He seems clever, but rather a queer-tempered man, I hear.' 
 
 'Talent is always queer-tempered,' answered Smolendo, 
 lightly. ' Amiability is the redeeming virtue of fools.' 
 
 Mr. Chicot was not convinced. He took his wife aside pre- 
 sently in a grove of dingy wings and side pieces, and entreated 
 her to refuse that ascent in the coral bower. 
 
 ' Pas si bete,' sho answered, curtly. ' I know what suits me. 
 I shall look lovely in that coral frame with my hair down. 
 You needn't be frightened, my friend. Pas de danger. Or, 
 if I should be killed — come 3 I don't think that would break 
 
54 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 your hea^t. It's a long time since you've left off caring for me aa 
 much as that.' 
 
 She snapped her fingers under his nose, -with one of those little 
 audacious movements of hers which were infinitely fascinating — 
 to strangers. Jack Chicot shuddered visibly. Yes, it -was 
 horribly true. Her death would be his release from bondage. 
 Eer death? Would he know himself, believe in his own 
 identity, if she were gone, and he was free to walk the world 
 again, his own master, with hopes and ambitions of his own, 
 bearing his own name, not ashamed to look mankind in the face, 
 no longer known as the husband of La Chicot ] 
 
 He persuaded her earnestly to have nothing to do with the 
 /ronwork that had been made to bear her to the theatrical skies. 
 Why should she run such a risk ? Any ballet-girl would do as 
 well, he argued. 
 
 ' Yes, and the ballet-girl would show off her good looks, and 
 get all the applause. I am not such a fool as to give her the 
 chanc'e. Don't waste your breath in talking about it, Jack. I 
 mean to do it.' 
 
 ' Of course,' he said bitterly. ' When did you ever renounce a 
 caprice to please me '? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps never. I am a creature of caprices. It was a caprice 
 that made me marry you, a caprice that made you marry 
 me, and now we are both honestly tired. That's a pity, isn't 
 
 itr 
 
 ' I try do my duty to you, my dear,' he answered gravely, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 La Chicot had her own way, naturally, being one of those 
 women who, once having taken their bent, are no more to be 
 diverted than a mountain torrent which the rains have swollen. 
 The new ballet was a success ; the final tableau was a triumph for 
 La Chicot. She looked lovely, in an attitude more perfect than 
 anything that was ever done in marble — her round white arms 
 lifted above her head, flinging back the loose branches of coral, 
 her black hair covering her like a mantle. That long rich hair 
 was one of her chief beauties — something to be remembered 
 where all was beautiful. 
 
 The machinery worked splendidly. Jack was at the wings the 
 first night, anxious and watchful A fragment of conversation 
 which he heard just behind him while the coral bower was rising, 
 did not tend to reassure him. 
 
 ' It's all very well to-night,' said one of the scene-shifters to 
 his mate, ' they're both sober ; but when she's drunk, and he's 
 drunk, God help her.' 
 
 Jack went to Mr. Smolendo directly the curtain was do wn. 
 
 'Well,' cried the manager, radiant, 'a screaming success. 
 There's money in it. I shall run this three hundred nights.' 
 
La Chicot has her Own Way. 55 
 
 ' I don't like that ascent of my wife's. I hear that the man 
 who works the machinery is a drunkard.' 
 
 f My dear fellow, these men all drink,' answered Smolendo, 
 cheerfully. ' But Koberts is a treasure. He's always sober in 
 business.' 
 
 Again Jack tried the effect of remonstrance with his wife, just 
 as vainly as before. 
 
 ' If you weren't a fool you would make Smolendo give me an 
 extra five pounds a week on account of the danger, instead of 
 worrying me about it,' she said. 
 
 ' I am not going to make the safety of your life a question 
 of money,' he answered ; and after this there was no more said 
 between them on the subject of the coral bower, but that speech 
 of the scene-shifter's haunted Jack Chicot. 
 
 ' When she is drunk.' The memory of that speech was bitter. 
 Though his wife's habits had long been patent to him, it was not 
 the less galling to think that everyone — the lowest servant in the 
 theatre even — knew her vices. 
 
 Towards the end of April, Chicot and his wife had a serious 
 quarrel. It arose out of a packet which had been left -at the 
 stage door for the dancer — a packet containing a gold bracelet, in 
 a morocco case, bearing the name of one of the most fashionable 
 and expensive jewellers at the West End. There was nothing 
 to show whence the offering came ; but on a narrow strip of 
 paper, nestling under the massive gold band, there was scrawled 
 in a mean little, foreign-looking hand : — 
 
 ' Homage to genius.' 
 
 La Chicot carried the gift home in triumph and exhibited it to 
 her husband, clasped upon her round white arm, a solid belt of 
 gold, flat, wide, and thick, like a fetter, severely simple, an 
 ornament for the arm of a Greek dancing-girl. 
 
 ' You will send it back, of course,' said Jack, frowning at the 
 thing. 
 
 ' But, my friend, where should I send it 1 ' 
 
 ' To the jeweller. He must know his customer.' 
 
 ' I am not so stupid. There can be no harm in accepting an 
 anonymous gift. I shall keep it, of course.' 
 
 ' I did not think you had fallen so low.' 
 
 Upon this La Chicot retorted insolently, and there were very 
 hard words spoken on both sides. The lady kept the bracelet, 
 and the gentleman went next day to the jeweller who had 
 supplied it, and tried to discover the name of the purchaser. 
 
 The jeweller was studiously polite, but he had no memory. 
 Jack Chicot minutely described the bracelet, but the jeweller 
 assured him that he sold a dozen such in a week. 
 
 ' I think you must be mistaken,' said Chicot ; ' this is a bracelet 
 
56 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 of vevy uncommon form. I never saw one like it,' and then ha 
 repeated his description. 
 
 The jeweller shook his head with a gentle smile. 
 
 ' The style is new,' he said, ' but I assure you we have Bold 
 several exactly corresponding to your description. It would be 
 quite impossible to recall ' 
 
 ' I see, 5 said Chicot ; 'you would not like to disoblige a good 
 customer. I dare say you know what the bracelet was meant for. 
 Such shops as yours could hardly thrive unless they were indul- 
 gent to the vices of their patrons.' 
 
 And after launching that shaft Mr. Chicot left the shop. 
 
 He returned to his lodgings to pack a small portmanteau, and 
 then went off to take his own pleasure. What need had such a 
 wife as his of a husband's care 1 She would not accept his advice, 
 or be ruled by him. She had chosen her road in life, and would 
 follow it to the fatal end. Of what avail was his weak arm to 
 bar the path 1 To this daughter of the people, with her deadened 
 conscience and indomitable will, that interposing arm was no 
 more thaa a straw in her way. 
 
 ' Henceforth I have done with her,' he said to himself. ' The 
 law could desire no stronger divorce between us than this which 
 she has made. And if she does me wrong the law shall part us. 
 I will have no mercy.' 
 
 While he was packing his portmanteau an idea flashed into 
 his mind. It was a horrible notion, and his cheek paled at the 
 first aspect of it, but he took it to his heart nevertheless. 
 
 He was going away, for an indefinite time, perhaps. He 
 would set a watch upon his wife. Her audacity, her insolence, 
 had aroused the darkest suspicions. A woman who thus openly 
 defied him must be capable of anything. 
 
 ' Whom can I trust ? ' he asked himself, pausing in his pre- 
 parations, on his knees before the open portmanteau. ' The 
 landlady, Mrs. Evitt ? No, lAie is sly enough, but she has too 
 long a tongue. A glass of grog would loosen that tongue of hers 
 at any time, and she would betray me to my wife. It must be a 
 man. Desrolles. Yes, the very man. He has all the q ualities 
 if the trade.' 
 
 Chicot locked his portmanteau, strapped it, and carried it out 
 on to the landing. Then he ran up to the second floor, and 
 knocked at the door of the front room. 
 
 ' Come in,' said a languid voice, and Jack Chicot went in. 
 
 The room aruelt of brandy and stale cigars. It was shabbier 
 and tawdrier than the sitting-room on the first floor — a sordid 
 copy of that sordid original. There was the same attempt at 
 finery, tarnished ormolu, gaudy chintz curtains and chair-covers, 
 where roses and lilies were almost effaced by dirt. The cheap 
 tapestry carpet was threadbare, a desert of arid canvas, with her© 
 
La Chicot has her Own Way. 57 
 
 and there an oasis of faded colour, which hinted at the former 
 richness of the soil. The windows were clouded with London 
 grime and London smoke, and lent an additional gloom to the 
 chilly sky and the clingy street npon which they looked. The 
 cracked and bulging ceiling was brown with the smoke of ages. 
 Dirt was the pervading impression which the room left upon the 
 stranger's mind. 
 
 On a rickety old sofa lay the present proprietor of the apart- 
 ment, dozing gently at noontide, with the Daily Telegraph 
 slipping from his loosened grasp. The remains of a bachelor 
 breakfast, a kalf-ernpty egg-shell, a fragment of toast, and a 
 cracked coffee-cup, indicated that he had but lately taken his 
 morning meaL 
 
 He lifted him self lazily from the crumpled pillow, and con- 
 fronted his visitor with a prolonged and audible yawn. 
 
 ' Dear boy ! ' he exclaimed, ' what an untimely hour ! What 
 has happened that you are astir so early ? ' 
 
 He was not a common-looking man. He was tall, broad, and 
 deep of chest, with lean, muscular arms, an aquiline nose, large 
 and somewhat prominent eyes, bloodshot and tarnished by long 
 years of evil experience, thin iron-gray hair, worn unduly long 
 to conceal its scantiness, a complexion of a dull leaden hue, 
 stained with patches of bistre — the complexion of a man to whom 
 fresh air was an unusual luxury — thin lips, a high, narrow fore- 
 head. He wore a threadbare frock coat, closely buttoned, a 
 frayed black satin stock, gray trousers, tightly strapped over 
 well-worn boots, boots that had begun their career as dress boots. 
 
 Despite the shabbiness of his attire the man looked every 
 inch a gentleman. That he was a gentleman who had fallen 
 about as low as gentle breeding can fall, outside the Old Bailey, 
 there was no doubt. Vice had set its mark upon him so deeply 
 that the brand of crime itself could scarcely have done more to 
 separate him from respectability. A man must have been very 
 young indeed, and utterly unlearned in the experience of life, 
 who would have trusted Mr. Desrolles in any virtuous enterprise. 
 But Jack Chicot showed himself by no means wanting in pene- 
 tration when he pitched upon Mr. Desrolles as a likely instrument 
 for doing dirty work. He was the material of which the French 
 moucharcl is made. 
 
 ' I've been worried, Desrolles,' answered Jack, dropping 
 .wearily into a chair. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, the normal condition of life is worry,' 
 replied Desrolles, languidly. ' The wisest of Jews knew all about 
 it. Man was born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. The 
 most that philosophy can suggest is to take trouble easily, as I 
 do. All the Juggernaut cars of life have gone over me, but I 
 am not crushed. 5 
 
58 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 The tone was at once friendly and familiar. Jack Chicot and 
 the second-floor lodger had become acquainted very soon aftel 
 the Chicots' advent in Cibber Street. They met each other on 
 the stairs, first smiled, then nodded, then loitered to discuss and 
 generally to anathematise the weather, then went a little further, 
 and talked about the events of the day — the shocking murder 
 recorded in the morning paper — the fire down Millwall way — 
 the chances of war, or disturbances in the political atmosphere. 
 B-y-and-by Jack Chicot asked Desrolles into his room, and they 
 played a hand or two at ecarte — first-rate players both — for three- 
 penny points. Soon the ecarte became an institution, and they 
 played two or three times a week, while La Chicot was standing 
 on the tips of her satin-shod toes, and enchanting the gilded 
 youth of the capital. Jack found his acquaintance a man of in- 
 finite resources and wide experience. He had begun life in a 
 good social position, had — according to his own account — distin- 
 guished himself as a soldier under such men as Gough and 
 Hardinge ; and had descended slowly, step by step, to be the 
 thing he was. That gradual descent had carried him through 
 scenes so strange and varied that his experiences of all that is 
 oddest and worst in life would have made a book as big as ' Les 
 Miserables.' And the creature knew how to talk. He never 
 told the same story twice. Jack sometimes fancied this must be 
 because he invented his stories upon the spot, and forgot them 
 immediately afterwards. The man was no pretender to virtues 
 which he did not possess, but rather advertised his vices. The 
 only redeeming qualities he affected were a recklessness in money 
 matters, which he appeared to consider generosity, and a rough- 
 and-ready notion of honour, such as is supposed to obtain among 
 thieves. Jack tolerated, despised, and allowed himself to be 
 amused by the man. If he had been a king he would have liked 
 such a fellow to lounge beside his throne, dressed in niotley, 
 flinging Rabelaisian witticisms in the smug faces of the cour- 
 tiers. 
 
 ' What's the particular trouble to-day, Jack 1 ' asked Desrolles, 
 selecting a meerschaum from the Utter on the mantelpiece, and 
 lazily filling the blackened bowl. ' Financial, I conclude.' 
 
 ' No. I am anxious about my wife.' 
 
 ' The natural penalty for marrying the handsomest woman in 
 Paris. "What's the mischief you're afraid of ? ' 
 
 ' She has received a present from an anonymous admirer ; and 
 because it is anonymous, she imagines she is justified in receivingit.' 
 
 ' Where's the harm 1 ' 
 
 1 You ought to see it. The anonymous gift is the thin end of 
 the wedge. The giver will see my wife dancing with his brace- 
 let on ber arm, and will believe her as venal as the girl who sold 
 Rome for the same kind of gewgaw. He will follow up his first 
 
La Chicot has her Own Way. £9 
 
 offering with, a second, and then will come letters, anonymous at 
 first, perhaps, like the bracelet, but when by insidious flattery 
 he has smoothed the way to dishonour, he will declare himself — 
 and then ' 
 
 ' Unless your wife is a better woman than you believe her, 
 there will be danger. Is that what you mean £ ' asked DesroZes 
 calmly, slowly puffing at his meerschaum. 
 
 ' No,' said Chicot, reddening indignantly. He had not fallen 
 low enough to hear his wife maligned, though he hated her. ' No, 
 If my wife were a woman to be led away by temptation of tha<- 
 kind, she and I would have parted long ago. But I don't wan?: 
 to leave her exposed to the pursuit of a scoundrel. She and .<" 
 have quarrelled about this trumpery bracelet, and I am going to 
 2eave her for a few days, till we are both in a better temper. I 
 don't want to leave her unprotected, with some silky rascal lying 
 in wait for her between her lodgings and the theatre. I want 
 some one, a man I can trust ' 
 
 ' To keep an eye upon her while you're away,' said Desrolles. 
 ' My dear fellow, consider it done. Madame Chicot and I are 
 excellent friends. I a dmir e her ; and I think she likes me. I 
 will be her slave and her guardian in your absence ; a father, with 
 more than a father's devotion.' 
 
 ' She must not know,' exclaimed Jack. 
 
 1 Of course not. "Women are children of a larger growth, and 
 must be treated as such. The pills we give them must be coated 
 with sugar, the powders concealed in raspberry jam. I will 
 make myself so agreeable to Madame Chicot that she will be de- 
 lighted to accept my escort to and from the theatre ; but I will 
 keep her anonymous admirer at a distance as thoroughly as the 
 fiercest dragon that ever kept watch over beauty.' 
 
 ' A thousand thanks, Desrolles. You won't find me ungrate- 
 ful. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Are you going across the Channel ? ' 
 
 Mr. Chicot did not say where he was going, and Desrolles was 
 too discreet to push the question. He was a man who boasted 
 sometimes, when drink had made him maudlin, that, whatever 
 had become of his morals, he had never lost his manners. 
 
 Jack Chicot left a brief pencilled note for his wife : — 
 
 'Dear Zaire, — Since we get on so badly together, a few 
 days' separation will be good for both of us. I am off to the 
 country for a breath of fresh air. I sicken in the odour of gas 
 and stale brandy. Take care of yourself for your own sake, if 
 tiot for mine. — Yours, ' J. C 
 
60 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A LITTLE WHILE SUCH LIPS AS THINE TO KISS.'' 
 
 It was midwinterwhen Jasper Treverton died. Spring had coma 
 in all her glory — her balmy airs and sultry noontides, stolen from 
 summer ; her variety and wealth of wood and meadow blossoms ; 
 her snowy orchard bloom, tinted with carnation ; her sweetness 
 and freshness of beauty — a season to be welcomed and enjoyed 
 like no other season in the changing year ; a little glimpse of 
 Paradise on earth between the destroying gales of March and the 
 fatal thunderstorms of July. Spring had filled all the lanes and 
 glades round Hazlehurst with perfume and colour when John 
 Treverton reappeared in the village, as unexpectedly as if he had 
 dropped from the skies. 
 
 Eliza Sampson was destroying the aphids on a favoimte rose 
 tree, handling them daintily with the tips of her gloved fingers, 
 as if she loved them, when Mr. Treverton appeared at the little 
 iron gate, carrying his own portmanteau. He, the heir of all the 
 ages, and of what signified much more in Miss Sampson's 
 estimation, an estate worth fourteen thousand a year. 
 
 ' Oh,' she cried, ' Mr. Treverton, how could you 1 "We would 
 have sent the boy to the station.' 
 
 ' How could I do what 1 ' he asked, laughing at her horrified 
 look. 
 
 ' Carry your own portmanteau. Tom will be so vexed.' 
 
 ' Tom need know nothing about it, if it will vex him. The 
 portmanteau is light enough, and I have only brought it 
 from the " George," where the 'bus dropped me. You see I have 
 taken your brother at his word, Miss Sampson, and have come to 
 quarter myself upon you for a few days.' 
 
 ' Tom will be delighted,' said Eliza. 
 
 She was meditating how the dinner she had arranged for Tom 
 and herself could be made to do for the heir of Hazlehurst 
 Manor. It was one of those dinners in which the economical 
 housekeeper delights, a dinner that clears up every scrap in the 
 larder, and leaves not so much as a knuckle-bone for 
 the predatory ' follower,' male or female, the cook's hungry niece, 
 or the housemaid's young man. A little soup, squeezed, as by 
 hydraulic pressure, out of cleanly picked bones and odd remnants 
 of gristle ; a dish of hashed mutton, a very small hash, fenced 
 round with a machicolated parapet of toasted bread ; a beefsteak 
 pudding with a kidney in it, boiled in a basin the size of a 
 
1 A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kiss. 1 61 
 
 breakfast-cup. This latter savoury mess was intended to gratify 
 Tom, who was prejudiced against hashed mutton, and alwaya 
 pretended that it disagreed with him. For entremets Sucre's 
 there were a dish of stewed rhubarb and a nioidd of boiled rice, 
 wholesome, simple, and inexpensive. It was a little dinner 
 which did honour to Miss Sampson's head rnd heart ; but she 
 felt that it was not good enough for the future lord of Hazlehurst, 
 a gentleman out of whom her brother hoped to make plenty of 
 money by-and-by. 
 
 ' I'll go and see about your room while you have a chat with 
 Tom in the office/ she said, tripping lightly away, and leaving 
 John Treverton on the lawn in front of the drawing-room 
 windows, a closely-shorn piece of grass about fifty feet by twenty- 
 five. 
 
 ' Pray don't give yourself any trouble/ he called after her; ' I'm 
 used to roughing it.' 
 
 Eliza was in the kitchen before he had finished his sentence. 
 She was deep in consultation with the cook, who would have 
 resented the unanounced arrival of any ordinary guest, but who 
 felt that Mr. Treverton was a person for whom people must be 
 expected to put themselves about. He had given liberal' vails, 
 too, after his last visit, and that was much in his favour. 
 
 ' We must have some fish, Mary/ said Eliza, ' and poultry. 
 It's dreadfully dear at this time of year, and Trimpson does 
 impose so, but we must have it.' 
 
 Trimpson was the only fishmonger and poulterer of Hazle- 
 hurst, a trader whose stock sometimes consisted of a pound and 
 a half of salmon, and a single fowl, long-necked and skinny, 
 hanging in solitary glory above the slate slab, where the salmon 
 steak lay frizzling in the afternoon sun, which shone full upon 
 Trimpson's shop. 
 
 ' Well, miss, if I was you, I'd have a pair of soles and a duck 
 to follow, with the beefsteak pudding for a bottom dish,' sugges- 
 ted cook; ' but, lawks, what's the good of talking 1 we must have 
 what we can get. But I saw two ducks in Trimpson's window 
 this morning when I went up street.' 
 
 ' Put on your bonnet, Mary, and run and see what you can 
 do/ said Eliza. And then, while Mary ran off, without stopping 
 to put on her bonnet, Miss Sampson and the housemaid went 
 upstairs together and took out lavender-scented linen, and 
 decorated the spare room with all those pin-trays, china candle- 
 sticks, and pomatum pots, which went into retirement when 
 there was no company. 
 
 ' Of course he has come to make her an offer/ mused Eliza, as 
 she lingered to give a finishing touch to the room, after the house- 
 maid had gone downstairs. 
 
 ' Hp ha«. waited a proper time after ^;ie old gentleman's death, 
 
62 Tlie Cloven Foot. 
 
 and now lie has come down to .ask her to marry Iiiro, and I dart 
 say they will be married before the summer is over. It will be 
 rather awkward for her to throw off such deep mourning all at 
 once, but that's her own fault for going into crape, just as if Mr. 
 Treverton had really been her father ! I put it down to pride.' 
 
 Mies Sampson had a knack of finding motives for all the acta 
 of her acquaintance* and those motives were rarely of the 
 best. 
 
 John Treverton's chat with Mr. Sampson did not last more 
 than ten minutes, friendly, and even affectionate, as was the law- 
 yer's reception. 
 
 ' I see you're busy,' said Treverton ; ' I'll go and have a stroll 
 in the village.' 
 
 ' No, upon my honour, I was just going to strike work. I'll 
 come with you if you like.' 
 
 ' On no account ; I know you haven't half finished. Dinner 
 at six, as usual, I suppose. I'll be back in time for a talk before 
 we sit down.' 
 
 And before Mr. Sampson could remonstrate, John Treverton 
 was gone. He wanted to see what Hazlehurst Manor was like 
 in the clear spring light, framed in greenery, brightened with all 
 the flowers that bloom in early May, musical with thrush and 
 blackbird, noisy with the return of the swallows. Never had he 
 so longed to look upon anything as he longed to-day to see the 
 home of his ancestors, the home which might be his. 
 
 He walked quickly along the village street. Such a quaint 
 little street, with never one house like another ; here a building 
 bulging forward, with bow windows below and projecting 
 dormers above ; there a house retiring modestly behind a patch 
 of garden ; further on an inn set at right angles with the high- 
 way, its chief door approached by a flight of stone steps that time 
 had worn crooked. Such a variety of chimneys, such com- 
 plexities in the way of roofs and gables ; but everywhere clean- 
 liness and spring flowers, and a purer air than John Treverton 
 had breathed for a long time. Even this queer little village 
 street, with its dozen shops and its half-dozen publichouses waa 
 very fair and pleasant in his town-weary eyes. 
 
 When he left the street he entered a noble high-road, bordered 
 on each side by a row of fine old elms, which made the turnpike 
 road an avenue worthy to be the approach to a king's palace. 
 The Manor-house lay off this road, guarded by tall gates of florid 
 iron tracery, manufactured in the Low Countries two hundred 
 years ago. He stopped at the gates to contemplate the scene, 
 looking at it dreamily, as at something unreal — a picture that 
 was fair but evanescent, and might vanish as he gazed. 
 
 Between the gates and the house the ground undulated 
 gently. It was all smooth sward, too small for a park, too 
 
*A Little Wliile such Lips as Thine to Kiss.' 63 
 
 irregular for a lawn. A winding carriage-road, shadowed with 
 fine old trees, skirted the green expanse, and groups of shrubs 
 here and there adorned it, rhododendrons, laurels, bay, deodoras, 
 cypresses, all the variety of ornamental conifers. Two great 
 cedars made islets of shadow in the sunny grass, and a copper 
 beech, a giant of his kind, was just showing its dark brown 
 buds. Beyond stood the Manor-house, tall, and broad, and red, 
 with white stone dressings to door and windows, and a noble 
 cornice, a house of Charles the Second's reign, a real Sir Christo- 
 pher "Wren house, massive and grand in its stern simplicity. 
 
 John Treverton roused himself from his waking dream and 
 rang the bell. A woman came out of the lodge, looked at him, 
 dropped a low curtsey, opened the gate, and admitted him 
 without a word, as if he were master there. In her mind he 
 was master, though the trustees paid her wages. It was 
 s.31 understood thing in the household that Mr. Treverton was 
 going to marry Miss Malcolm and reign at Hazlehurst Manor. 
 
 He walked slowly across the smooth, well-kept grass. 
 Everything was changed and improved by the altered season. 
 House and grounds seemed new to him. He remembered the 
 flower-garden on the left of the house, the cheerless garden 
 without a flower, where he had walked in the bleak winter 
 mornings, smoking his solitary cigar ; he remembered the walled 
 fruit-garden beyond, to which he had seen that strange guest 
 admitted under cover of darkness. 
 
 The thought of that night scene in the winter disturbed 
 him even to-day, despite the apparent frankness of Laura's 
 explanation. 
 
 ' I suppose there is a mystery in every life,' he said, with a 
 sigh ; ' and , after all, what can it matter to me 1 ' 
 
 He had heard nothing of the change in Miss Malcolm's plans, 
 and supposed the house abandoned to the care of servants. He 
 was surprised to see the drawing-room windows open, nowers on 
 the tables, and a look of domesticity everywhere. He went past 
 the house and into the flower-garden, a garden of the Dutch 
 school, prim and formal, with long, straight walks, box borders, 
 junipers clipped into obelisks, a dense yew hedge, eight feet high, 
 with arches cut in it to give admittance to the adjoining 
 orchard. The beds and borders were a blaze of red and yellow 
 tulips, wliich shone out against the verdure of the close-shorn 
 bowling-green and the tawny hue of the gravel, and made a feast 
 of vivid colour, like the painted windows of a cathedral. John 
 Treverton, who had not seen such a garden for years, was 
 almost dazzled by its homely beauty. 
 
 He walked slowly to the end of the long path, looking about 
 him in dreamy contentment. The sweet, soft air, the sunshine — 
 fust at that quiet hour of the afternoon when the light begins to 
 
64 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 be golden— the whistling of the blackbirds in the shrubbery, the 
 freshness and beauty of all things, steeped his soid in a new 
 delight. His life of late had been spent in cities, fenced from 
 the beauty of earth by a wilderness of walls, the glory of heaven 
 screened by smoke, the air thick and foul with the breath of 
 men. This placid garden scene was as new to him as if he had 
 come straight from the bottom of a mine. 
 
 Presently he stopped, as if struck with a new thought, looked 
 straight before him, and muttered between clenched teeth : — 
 
 ' I shall be a fool if I let it slip from my hand.' 
 
 ' It ' meant Hazlekurst Manor, and the lands and fortune 
 thereto belonging. 
 
 He was standing within a few yards of the yew-tree hedge, 
 and just at this moment the green arch opposite him became the 
 frame of a living picture, and that a lovely one. 
 
 Laura Malcolm stood there, bareheaded, dressed in black, 
 with a basket of flowers upon her arm — Laura, whom he had 
 no idea of meeting in this place. 
 
 The western sky was behind her, and she stood, a tall, slim 
 figure in straight, black drapery, against a golden background, 
 like a saint in an early Italian picture, an edge of light upon her 
 chestnut hair making almost an aureole, her face in shadow. i 
 
 For a few moments she paused, evidently startled at the 
 apparition of a stranger, then recognised the intruder, and came 
 forward and offered him her hand frankly, as if he had been 
 quite a commonplace acquaintance. 
 
 ' Pray forgive me for coming in unannounced/ he said ; ' I 
 had no idea I should find you here. Yet it is natural that 
 you should come sometimes to look at the old gardens.' 
 
 ' I am living here,' answered Laura. ' Didn't you know ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed. No one informed me of the change in your 
 plans.' 
 
 'I am so fond of the dear old house and garden, and the 
 place is so full of associations for me, that I was easily induced to 
 stay when Mr. Clare told me that it would be better for the 
 house. I am a kind of housekeeper in charge of everything.' 
 
 ' I hope you will stay here all your life,' said Treverton 
 quickly, and then he coloured crimson, as if he had said some- 
 thing awful. 
 
 The same crimson flush mounted almost as quickly to Laura's 
 pale cheeks and brow. Both stood looking at the ground, 
 embarrassed as a school-boy and girl, while the blackbirds 
 whistled triumphantly in the shrubbery, and a thrush in the 
 orchard went into ecstasies of melody. 
 
 Laura was the first to recover. 
 
 'Have you been staying long at Hazlehurst ? ' she asketi. 
 quietly. 
 
1 A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kiss.' 65 
 
 e I only eame an hour ago. My first visit was to the Manor, 
 though I expected to find it an empty house.' 
 
 Another picture now appeared in the green frame — a young 
 lady with a neat little figure, a retrousse nose, and an agreeably 
 vivacious countenance. 
 
 'Come here, Celia,' cried Laura, 'and let me introduce 
 Mr. Treverton. You have heard your father talk about him. 
 Mr. Treverton, Miss Clare.' 
 
 Miss Clare bowed and smiled, and murmured something 
 indefinite. 'Poor Edward!' she was thinking all the while. 
 .' This Mr. Treverton is awfully good-looking.' 
 
 'Awfully' was Miss Clare's chief laudatory adjective ; her 
 superlative form of praise was 'quite too awfully,' and when 
 enthusiasm carried her beyond herself she called things 'nice.' 
 1 Quite too awfully nice,' was her maximum of rapture. 
 
 As she rarely left Hazlehurst Vicarage, and knew in all about 
 twenty people, it is something to her credit that she had made 
 herself mistress of the current metropolitan slang. 
 
 'I suppose you are staying at the Sampsons?' she said. 
 ' Mr. Sampson is always talking of you. " My friend Treverton," 
 he calls you, but I suppose you won't mind that It's rather 
 'trying.' 
 
 ' I think I can survive even that,' answered John, who felt 
 grateful to this young person for having come to his rescue at a 
 moment when he felt himself curiously embarrassed. 'Mr. Samp- 
 son has been very kind to me.' 
 
 'If you can only manage to endure him he is an awfully 
 good-natured little fellow,' said Miss Clare with her under- 
 graduate air. She modelled her manners and opinions upon 
 those of her brother, and was in most things a feminine copy of 
 the Oxonian. ' But how do you contrive to get on with his 
 sister ? She is quite too dreadful.' 
 
 ' I confess that she is a lady whose society does not afford me 
 unqualified delight,' said John, ' but I believe she means 
 kindly.' 
 
 ' Can a person with white eyelashes mean kindly 1 ' inquired 
 Celia, with a philosophical air. ' Has not Providence created 
 4hem like that as a warning, just as venomous snakes have flat 
 heads?' 
 
 ' That is treating the matter rather too seriously,' said John. 
 ' I don't admire white eyelashes, but I am not so prejudiced as to 
 consider them an indication of character.' 
 
 ' Ah,' replied Celia, with a significant air, ' you will knot* 
 better by-and-by.' 
 
 She was only twenty, but she talked to John Treverton with 
 as assured a tone as if she had been ages older than he in wisdom 
 and experience of life. 
 
66 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 I How pretty the gardens are at this season ! ' said Treverton, 
 looking round admiringly, and addressing hi3 remark to Laura. 
 
 ' Ah, you have only seen them in winter,' she answered ; ' per- 
 haps you would like to walk round the orchard and shrubberies V 
 
 I I should, very much.' 
 
 ' And after that we will go indoor3 and have some tea/ said 
 Celia. ' You are fond of tea, of eourse, Mr. Treverton ? ' 
 
 ' I confess that weakness.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it. I hate a man who is not fond of tea. 
 There is that brother of mine appreciates nothing but strong 
 coffee without milk. I'm afraid he'll come to a bad end.' 
 
 1 1 am glad you think tea-drinking a virtue,' said John, 
 laughing. 
 
 And then they all three went under the yew-tree arch, into 
 the loveliest of orchards — an orchard of seven or eight acres — an 
 orchard that had been growing a century and a half ; pears, plums, 
 cherries, apples ; here and there a walnut tree towering above 
 the rest ; here and there a gray old medlar ; a pool in a corner 
 overshadowed by two rugged old quinces ; grass so soft, and deep, 
 and mossy ; primroses, daffodils ; pale purple crocuses ; the whole 
 bounded by a sloping bank on which the ferns were just unfolding 
 their snaky, gray coils, and revealing young leaves of tenderest 
 green, under a straggling hedge of hawthorn, honeysuckle, and 
 eglantine. 
 
 Here among the old gnarled trunks, and on the hillocky grass, 
 Mr. Treverton and the two young ladies walked for about half-an- 
 hour, enjoying the beauty and freshness of the place, in this 
 sweetest period of the balmy spring day. Celia talked much, and 
 John Treverton talked a little, but Miss Malcolm was for the 
 most part silent. And yet John did not think her dull or stupid. 
 It was enough for him to look at that delicate, yet firmly- 
 modelled profile, the thoughtful brow, grave lips, and calm, dark 
 eyes, to know that neither intellect nor goodness was wanting in 
 her whom his kinsman had designed for his wife. 
 
 ' Poor old man,' he thought, ' he meant to secure my happi- 
 ness without jeopardising hers. If he could have known — if he 
 could have known ! ' 
 
 They returned to the garden by a different arch ; they visited 
 the hot-houses, where the rose-hued azaleas and camellias made 
 pyramids of vivid colour ; they glanced at the kitchen garden 
 with its asparagus-beds and narrow box-edged borders, its all- 
 pervading odour of sweet herbs and wallflowers. 
 
 'I am positively expiring for want of a cup of tea,' cried 
 Celia. ' Didn't you hear the church clock strike five, Laura ? ' 
 
 John remembered the six o'clock dinner at The Laurels. 
 
 ' I really think I must deny myself that cup of tea,' ha said. 
 ' The Sampsons dine at six.' 
 
'A Little While, such Lips as Thine to Kiss.' 67 
 
 * What of that ? ' exclaimed Celia, who never would let a mam 
 out of her clutches till stern necessity snatched him from her. ' It 
 is not above ten minutes' walk from here to The Laurels.' 
 
 ' What an excellent walker you must be, Misa Clare. Well, 
 J'll hazard everything for that cup of tea.' 
 
 They went into a pretty room, opening out of the garden, a 
 room with two long windows wreathed round with passion- 
 flower and starry white clematis — the clematis inontana, which 
 flowers in spring. It was not large enough for a library, so 
 it was called the book-room, and was lined from floor to ceiling 
 with books — a great many of which had been collected by Laura. 
 It was quite a lady's collection. There were all the modern poets, 
 from Scott and Byron downwards, a good many French and Ger- 
 man books — Macaulay, De Quincey, Lamartine, Victor Hugo — a 
 good deal of history and belles-lettres, but no politics, no science, 
 no travels. The room was the essence of snugness — flowers on 
 mantelpiece and tables, basket-work easy chairs, cushions adorned 
 with crewel-work, delightful little tables (after Chippendale), and 
 on one of the tables a scarlet Japanese tea-tray, with the 
 quaintest of old silver tea-pots, and cups and saucers in willow- 
 pattern Nankin ware. Laura poured out the tea, while Celia 
 began to devour hot buttered cake, the very look of which sug- 
 gested dyspepsia ; but to some weak minds earth has no more 
 overpowering temptation on a warm spring afternoon than hot 
 buttered cake and strong tea with plenty of cream in it. 
 
 John Treverton sat in one of the low basket arm-chairs — such 
 chairs as they make in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire — and 
 drank tea as if it were the elixir of life. He had a strange 
 feeling as he sat in that chair by the open window, looking across 
 the beds of tulips, above which the bees were humming noisily — a 
 feeling as if his life were only just beginning ; as if he were a 
 child in his cradle, dimly conscious of the dawning of existence •, 
 no burdens on mind or conscience ; no tie or encumbrance ; nc 
 engagement of honour or faith ; a dead blank behind him ; and 
 before him life, happiness, the glory and freshness of earth, love, 
 home, all things which fate reserves for the man born to good luck. 
 
 This dream or fancy of bis was so pleasant that he let it stay 
 with him while he drank three cups of tea, and while Celia 
 rattled on about Hazlehurst and its inhabitants, giving him what 
 she called a social map of the country, which might be useful for 
 his guidance during the week he proposed to spend there. He 
 only roused himself when the church clock •himed the three- 
 quarters, and then he pulled himself out of the basket ch#*r with 
 a jerk, put down his cup and saucer, and wished Laura good-bye. 
 
 ' I shall have to do the distance in ten minutes, Miss Clare,' 
 be said, as he shook hands with that vivacious young lady. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I ought fto haY** said ten minutes for a bicycle/ 
 
68 The Cloven Foot 
 
 replied Celia ; 'but the Sampsons won't mic^ waiting cb'nner for 
 you, and I don't suppose the delay will hurt their dinner.' 
 
 ' It will be nearer for you through the orchard,' said Laura. 
 
 So John Treverton went through the orchard, at the end of 
 which there was a gate that opened into a lane leading to the 
 highroad. It was the same lane that skirted tfee walled fruit- 
 garden, with the little door that John had seen mysteriously 
 opened that winter night. The sight of the little wooden door 
 made him curiously thoughtful. 
 
 ' I'll never believe that there was anything approaching guilt 
 in that mystery,' he said to himself. ' No, I have looked into 
 those lovely eyes of hers, and I believe her incapable of an un-' 
 worthy thought. Some poor relation, I dare say — a scamp whom 
 she would have been ashamed of before the servants, so she 
 received him secretly ; doubtless to help him with money.' 
 * * # * * 
 
 ' What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura ! ' said Celia, 
 draining the teapot. ' Why did you never tell me that John 
 Treverton was so perfectly lovely ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Celia, how am I to know what constitutes your idea 
 of perfect loveliness in a young man ? I have heard you praise 
 so many, all distinctly different. I told you that Mr. Treverton 
 was gentlemanlike and good-looking.' 
 
 ■ Good-looking ! ' cried Celia. ' He is absolutely perfect. To see 
 him sitting in that chair drinking tea and looking dreamily out 
 of the garden with those exquisite eyes of his ! Oh, he is quite 
 too awfully nice. Do you know the colour of his eyes 1 ' 
 
 ' I have not the slightest idea.' 
 
 ' They are a greeny-gray — a colour that changes every minute, 
 a tint between blue and brown ; I never saw it before. And his 
 complexion — just that olive paleness which is so positively de- 
 lightful. His nose is slightly irregular in line, not straight 
 enough to be Grecian, and not curved enough to be aquiline — 
 but his mouth is awfully nice — so firm and resolute-looking, yet 
 lapsing now and then into dreamy thought. Did you see him 
 lapse into dreamy thought, Laura ? ' 
 
 Miss Malcolm blushed indignantly ; vexed, no doubt, at such 
 foolishness. 
 
 ' Eeally, Celia, you are too ridiculous. I can't think how you 
 can indulge in such absurd raptures about a strange man.' 
 
 ' Why not about a strange man ? ' asked Celia, with her philo- 
 sophical air. ' Why should the perfections of a strange man be 
 a forbidden subject? One may rave about a landscape ; one may 
 be a» enthusiastic as one likes about the "t&rs or the moon, the 
 sea, or a sunset, or even the last popular novel ? Why must not 
 oae udmire a man ? I am not going to put a padlock upon my 
 lips to natter such an absurd prejudice As for you, Laura, it is 
 
• A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kiss.* 69 
 
 all very well to sit there stitching at that faded blackberry leaf 
 — you are putting too much brown in it, I am sure — and looking 
 the image of all that is demure. To my mind you are more to be 
 envied than any girl I ever heard of, except the Sleeping Beauty 
 in the Wood.' 
 
 • Why should I be envied ? ' 
 
 * Because you are to have a splendid fortune and John 
 Treverton for your husband.' 
 
 ' Celia, I shall be so grateful to you if you will be quite silent 
 on that subject, supposing that you can be silent about anything.' 
 
 ' I can't,' said Celia frankly. 
 
 1 It is by no means certain that I shall marry Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 ' Would you be so utterly idiotic as to refuse him ? ' 
 
 ' I would not accept him unless I could believe that he really 
 liked me — better than any other woman he had ever seen.' 
 
 ' And of course he will ; of course he does,' cried Celia. ' You 
 know, as a matter of personal inclination, I would much rather 
 you should marry poor Edward, who adores the ground you walk 
 upon, and, of course, adores you much more than the ground. 
 But there is a limpness about Ted's character which makes me 
 fear that he will never get on in the world. He is a clever 
 young man, and he thinks that he has nothing to do but go on 
 being clever, and write verses for the magazines — which even I, 
 as his sister, must confess are the weakest dilution of Swinburne — 
 and that Fame will come and take him by the hand, and lead 
 him up the steps of her temple, while Fortune will meet him in 
 the portico with a big bag of gold. No, Laura, dearly as I love 
 Ted, I should be sorry to see you sacrifice a splendid fortune, 
 and refuse such a man as John Treverton.' 
 
 ' There will be time enough to debate the question when Mr. 
 Treverton asks me to marry him,' said Laura gravely. 
 
 ' Oh, that will come upon you all in a moment,' retorted Celia, 
 ' when you won't have me to help you. You had better make up 
 your mind beforehand.' 
 
 ' I should despise Mr. Treverton if he were to make me an 
 offer before he knew a great deal more of me than he does now. 
 But I forbid you to talk any more of this, Celia. And now we 
 had better go and walk in the orchard for half-an-hour, or you 
 will never be able to digest all the cake you have eaten.' 
 
 ' What a pity digestion should be so difficult, when eating 
 is so easy/ said Celia. 
 
 And then she went dancing along the garden paths with the 
 airy lightness of a nymph who had never known the meaning of 
 indigestion. 
 
 Once more John Treverton drove round his late kinsman's 
 estate, and this second time, in the sweet spring weather, the 
 feums, and homesteads, the meadows where the buttercups were 
 
70 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 beginning to show golden among the grass, the broad sweeps ot 
 arable land where the young corn was growing tall — seemed to 
 *im a hundredfold more fair than they had seemed in the winter. 
 Se felt a keener longing to be the master of all these things. It 
 3eemed to him as if no life could be so sweet as the life he might 
 lead at Hazlehurst Manor, with Laura Malcolm for his wife. 
 
 The life he might lead if 
 
 What was that ' if ' which barred the way to perfect bliss ? 
 
 There was more than one obstacle, he told himself gloomily, 
 as he paced the elm avenue on the London road, one evening at 
 sunset, after he had been at Hazlehurst more than a week, during 
 which week he had seen Laura very often. 
 
 There was, among many questions, the doubt as to Laura's 
 liking for him. She might consider herself constrained to accept 
 him, were he to offer himself, in deference to the wish of her 
 adopted father ; but could he ever feel sure that she really cared 
 for him, that he was the one man upon earth whom she would 
 choose for her husband ? 
 
 A flattering whisper which crept into the ear of his mind, 
 like a caressing breath of summer wind gently fanning his cheek, 
 told him that he was already something nearer and dearer to 
 this sweet girl than the ruck of mankind ; that her lovely hazel 
 eyes took a new light and colour at his coming, that their beauty 
 was shadowed with sadness in the moment of parting from him ; 
 that there were tender, broken tones of voice, fleeting blushes, 
 half smiles, sudden droopings of darkly-fringed eyelids, and many 
 other more subtle signs, that told of something more than common 
 friendship. Believing this, what had he to do but snatch the 
 prize ? 
 
 Alas ! between him and the light and glory of life stood a 
 dark, forbidding figure, a veiled face, an arm sternly extended to 
 stop the way. 
 
 ' It is not to be thought of,' he said to himself. ' I honour 
 her too much — yes, I love her too well. The estate must go, and 
 she and I must go on our several ways in the wilderness of life — - 
 to meet by chance, perhaps, half-a-century hence, when we have 
 grown old, and hardly remember each other.' 
 
 It was to be his last evening at Hazlehurst, and he was going to 
 the Manor-house to bid Laura and her friend good-bye. A very 
 simple act of politeness, assuredly, yet he hung back from the 
 performance of it, and walked slowly up and down under the elra 
 trees, smoking a meditative cigar, and chewing the cud offahci&i 
 which were mostly bitter. 
 
 At last, just when the topmost edge of the sinking sun 
 dropped below the dark line of distant woods, John Treverton 
 made up his mind there was no more time to be lost, if he meant 
 to call at the Mr nor-house that evening. He quickened his pace, 
 
' A Little While such Lips as Thine to Kisa.' 71 
 
 anxious to find Laura in the garden, where she spent most of her lifa 
 in this balmy spring weather. He felt himself more at ease with 
 her in the garden than when he was brought face to face with her 
 within four walls. Out of doors there was always something to 
 distract attention, to give a sudden turn to the conversation if it 
 became embarrassing to either of them. Here, too, it was easier 
 to escape Celia's searching eye, which was so often upon them 
 indoors, where she had very little to occupy her attention. 
 
 He went in at the lodge gate, as usual unquestioned. All the 
 old servants agreed in regarding him as the future owner of the 
 estate. They wondered that he asserted himself so little, and 
 went in and out as if he were nobody. The way to the old Dutch 
 garden was by this time very familiar to him. He had been 
 there at almost every hour of the day, from golden noon to gray 
 evening. 
 
 As he went round by the house he heard voices, a man's voice 
 among them, and the sound of that masculine voice was not 
 welcome to his ear. Celia's shrill little laugh rang out merrily, 
 the sky-terrier yapped in sympathy. They were evidently enjoy- 
 ing themselves very much in the Dutch garden, and John Tre- 
 verton felt as if their enjoyment were an affront to him. 
 
 He turned the angle of the house, and saw the group seated 
 on a little lawn in front of the book-room windows ; Laura and 
 Celia in rustic chairs, a young man on the grass at their feet, the 
 dog dancing round him. John Treverton guessed at once that 
 the young man was the Edward, or Ted, about whom he had 
 heard Celia Clare so often discourse ; the Edward Clare who, 
 according to Miss Sampson, was in love with Laura Malcolm. 
 
 Laura half rose to shake hands with her guest. Her face at 
 least was grave. She had not been laughing at the nonsense 
 which provoked Celia's mirth. John Treverton was glad of 
 that. 
 
 1 Mr. Clare, Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 Edward Clare looked up and nodded — a rather supercilious 
 nod, John thought, but he did not expect much friendliness from 
 the vicar's son. He gave the young man a grave bow, and 
 remained standing by Laura's chair. 
 
 *ji. hope you will forgive my late visit, Miss Malcoifli/ he 
 said. ' I have come to wish you " good-bye." ' 
 
 She glanced up at him with a startled look, and he fancied — 
 yes, he dared to fancy — that she was sorry. 
 
 ' You have not stopped long at Hazlehurst,' she said, after a 
 palpable pause. 
 
 ' As if any one would who was not absolutely obliged,' cried 
 Celia. ' I can't imagine how Mr. Treverton has existed through 
 an entire week.' 
 
 ' T. assure you that I have not found my existence a burden, 
 
72 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 said John, addressing himself to Celia. ' I shall leave Hazlehtuwk 
 with deep regret.' 
 
 He could not for worlds, in his present mood, have said as 
 much to Laura. 
 
 ' Then you must be one of two things,' said Celia. 
 
 'What things?' 
 
 ' You must be either a poet, or intensely in love. There ia 
 my brother here. He never seems tired of roaming about 
 Hazlehurst. But then he is a poet, and writes verses about 
 March violets, and the first leafbuds on the willows, and the 
 reappearance of the May-fly, or the return of the swallow. 
 And he smokes no end, and he reads novels to an extent that is 
 absolutely demoralizing. It's dreadful to see a man dependent 
 upon Mudie for getting through his life,' exclaimed Celia, making 
 a face that expressed extreme contempt. 
 
 ' I am not a poet, Miss Clare,' said John Treverton, quietly ; 
 ' yet I confess to having been very happy at Hazlehurst.' 
 
 He stole a glance at Laura to see if the shot told. She was 
 looking down, her sweet, grave face pure and pale as ivory in 
 the clear evening light. 
 
 ' It's very civil of you towards the parish to say as much,' 
 said Edward with a veiled sneer, ' and it is kind of you to shrink 
 from wounding our feelings as aborigines, but I am sure you 
 must have been ineffably bored. There is positively nothing to 
 do at Hazlehurst.' 
 
 ' I suppose that's why the place suits you, Ted 1 ' observed 
 Miss Clare innocently. 
 
 The conversation had an uncomfortable tone which was quite 
 out of harmony with the soft evening sky, and shadowy garden, 
 where the flowers were losing their colour as the light declined, 
 John Treverton looked curiously at the man he knew to be his 
 rival. 
 
 He saw a man of about six-and-twenty, of the middle height, 
 slim almost to fragility, yet with a compactness of form which 
 indicated activity and possibly strength. Gray eyes inclining to 
 blue, long lashes, delicately-pencilled eyebrows, a fair complexion, 
 low, narrow brow, and regular features, a pale brown moustache, 
 more silky than abundant, made up a face that was very v «md- 
 some in the estimation of some people, but which assuredly ^ .Ted 
 on the side of effeminacy. It was a face that would have suited 
 the velvet and brocade of one of the French Henry's minions, 
 or the lovelocks and jewel-broidered doublet of one of James 
 Stuart's silken favourites. 
 
 It would have been difficult to imagine the owner of that face 
 doing any good or great work in the world, or leaving any 
 mark upon his time, save some petty episode of vanity, profligacy, 
 and selfishness in the memoirs of a modern St. Simon, 
 
' A Little Wliile such Lips as Thine to Kiss.' 73 
 
 Anything new in the evening papers ? ' asked Mr. Clare, 
 with a stifled yawn. 
 
 The languid inquiry followed upon a silence that had lasted 
 rather too long to be pleasant. 
 
 ' Sampson had not got his Globe when I left him,' answered 
 John Treverton ; ' but in the present stagnation of everything 
 at home and abroad I confess to feeling very little interest in the 
 evening papers.' 
 
 ' I should like to have heard if that unlucky dancer is dead,' 
 said Celia. 
 
 John Treverton, who had been standing beside Laura's chair 
 like a man lost in a waking dream, turned suddenly at this 
 remark. 
 
 ' "What dancer 1 ' he asked. 
 
 ' La Chicot. Of course you have seeij her dance. You happy 
 Londoners see everything under the suit that is worth seeing. 
 She is something wonderful, is she not 1 And now I suppose 1 
 shall never see her.' 
 
 ' She's a very handsome woman, and a very fine dancer, in 
 her particular style,' answered Treverton. ' But what did you 
 mean just now when you talked about her death 1 She is as 
 much alive as you and I are ; at least I know that her name was 
 on all the walls and she was dancing nightly when I left 
 London.' 
 
 'That was a week ago,' said Celia. 'Surely you saw the 
 account of the accident in this morning's Times ? There was 
 nearly a column about it.' 
 
 ' I did not look at the Times. Mr. Sampson and I started 
 early this morning for a long round. What was this accident '] ' 
 
 ' Oh, quite too dreadful ! ' exclaimed Celia. ' It made my 
 blood run cold to read the description. It seems that the poor 
 thing had to go up into the flies, or the skies, or something, 
 hooked on to some movable irons — a kind of telescopic arrange- 
 ment, you know.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know,' said Treverton. 
 
 1 Well, of course that would be awfully jolly as long as it 
 was safely done, for she must look lovely floating upwards, with 
 the limelight shining on her ; but it seems the man who had the 
 management of the iron machine got tipsy, and did not know 
 what he was doing, so the irons were not properly braced to- 
 gether, and just as she was near the top the thing gave way and 
 she came down headlong.' 
 
 ' And was killed 1 ' asked John Treverton breathlessly. 
 
 ' No, she was not killed on the spot, but her leg was broken 
 — a compound fracture, I think they call it, and she was hurt 
 about the head, and the paper said she was altogether in a very 
 precarious state. Now I have noticed that when a newspaper 
 
74 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 says that a person is in a precarious state, the next thing one 
 hears of that person is that he or she is dead ; so that I shouldn't 
 at all wonder if La Chicot's death were in the evening papers.' 
 
 ' What a loss to society ! ' sneered Edward Clare. ' I think 
 you are the most ridiculous girl in the world, Celia, to interest 
 yourself in people who are as far off your groove aa if they were 
 the inhabitants of the moon.' 
 
 ' Homo sum,' said Celia, proud of a smattering of Latin, the 
 crumbs that had fallen from her brother's table, 'and all the 
 varieties of mankind are interesting to me. I should like to have 
 been a dancer myself, if I had not been a clergyman's daughter. 
 It must be an awfully jolly life.' 
 
 ' Delightful,' exclaimed Edward, ' especially when it ends 
 abruptly through the carelessness of a drunken scene-shifter.' 
 
 ' I must say good-night and good-bye,' said John Treverton 
 to Laura. ' I have my portmanteau to pack ready for an early 
 start to-morrow morning. Indeed, I am inclined to go by the 
 mail to-night. It would save me half-a-day.' 
 
 ' The mail leaves at a quarter past ten. You'll have to look 
 sharp if you travel by that,' said Edward. 
 
 ' I'll try it, at any rate.' 
 
 ' Good-night, Mr. Treverton,' said Laura, giving him her nand. 
 
 The lively Celia was not going to let him depart with so cold 
 a farewell He was a man, and, as such, eminently interesting 
 to her. 
 
 ' We'll all walk to the gate with you,' she said ; ' it will be 
 better for us than sitting yawning here, watching the bats skim- 
 ming across the flower-beds.' 
 
 They all went, and it happened somehow, to John Treverton's 
 tremulous delight, that Laura and he were side by side, a little 
 behind the other two. 
 
 ' I am sorry you are obliged to leave so soon,' said Laura, 
 anxious to say something vaguely civiL 
 
 ' I should go away more happy than I can tell you if I thought 
 my going could make you sorry.' 
 
 ' Oh, I did not mean in such a particular sense,' she said, with 
 a little laugh. ' I am sorry for your own sake that you have to 
 leave the country, just when it is so lovely, and to go back to 
 smoky London.' 
 
 ' If you knew how I hate that world of smoke and all foul 
 things, you would pity me with the uttermost compassion your 
 kind heart can feel,' he answered, very much in earnest. ' I am 
 going from all I love to all I detest ; and I know not how long it 
 may be before I can return ; but if I should be able to come 
 quickly will you promise me a kindly welcome, Laura ? Will you 
 promise to be as glad of my return as I am sorry to go to-night. 1 
 
 ' I cannot make any such bargain,' she said gently, • for 1 
 
' A Little While such Lips as thine to Kiss.' 75 
 
 cannot measure your sadness to-night. You are altogether a 
 mysterious person ; I have not even begun to understand you. 
 But I hope you may come back soon, when our roses are in 
 bloom and our nightingales are singing, and if their welcome is 
 not enough for you I will promise to add mine.' 
 
 There was a tender playfulness in her tone which was un- 
 speakably sweet to him. They were quite alone, in a part of the 
 carriage-drive where the trees grew thickest, the shadow of 
 chestnut leaves folding them round, the low breath of the evening 
 wind whispering in their ears. It was an hour for tender avowals, 
 for unworldly thoughts. 
 
 John Treverton took Laura's hand, and held it uureproved. 
 
 ' Tell me that you do not hate the memory of my cousin Jas- 
 per because of that absurd will,' he said. 
 
 ' Could I hate the memory of one who was so good to me, the 
 oidy father I ever knew 1 ' 
 
 ' Say then that you do not hate me because of my cousin's will.' 
 
 ' It would be very unchristianlike to hate you for an act of 
 which you are innocent.' 
 
 ' No doubt, but I can imagine a woman hating a man under 
 such circumstances. You take away your hand. Yes, I feel 
 convinced that you detest me.' 
 
 ' I took away my hand because I thought you had forgotten 
 to let it go,' said Laura, determined not to be too serious. ' Will 
 it really make you more satisfied with yourself if I tell you that 
 I heartily forgive my adopted father for his wiU 1 ' 
 
 ' Infinitely.' 
 
 ' And that, in spite of our ridiculous position towards each 
 other, I do not quite — hate you.' 
 
 ' Laura, you are making me the happiest of men.' 
 
 ' But I am saying very little.' 
 
 ' If you knew how much it is to me ! A world of hope, a 
 world of delight, an incentive to high thoughts and worthy deeds, 
 a regeneration of body and souL' 
 
 ' You are talking wildly.' 
 
 ' I am wild with gladness. Laura, my love, my darling.' 
 
 ' Stop,' she said suddenly, turning to him with earnest eyes, 
 very pale in the dim light, now completely serious. ' Is it me 
 or your cousin's estate you love ? If it is the fortune you think 
 of, let there be no stage-play of love-making between us. I am 
 willing to obey your cousin — as I would have obeyed him living, 
 honouring him and submitting to him as a father — but let us be 
 true and loyal to each other. Let us face life honestly and 
 earnestly, and accept it for what it is worth. Let us be faithful 
 friends and companions, but not sham lovers.' 
 
 ' Laura, I love you for yourself, and yourself only. As I live, 
 that is the truth. Come to me to-morrow penniless, and tell me 
 
f6 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 that Jasper Treverton's will was a forgery. Come to me and 
 say : " I am a pauper like yourself, John, but I am yours," and 
 see how fond and glad a welcome I will give you. My dearest, 
 I love you truly, passionately. It is your lovely face, your ten- 
 der voice, yourself I want.' 
 
 He put his arm round her, and drew her, not unwilling, to his 
 breast, and kissed her with the first lover's kiss that had ever 
 crimsoned her cheek. 
 
 ' I like to believe you,' she said softly, resting contentedly in 
 hie arms. 
 
 This was their parting. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 'days that are over, dreams that are done. 
 
 There was excitement and agitation in Cibber Street, Leicester 
 Square, that essentially dramatic, musical, and terpsichorean nook 
 in the great forest of London. La Chicot had narrowly escaped 
 death. It had been all but death at the moment of the accident. 
 It might be absolute death at any hour of the night and day that 
 followed the catastrophe. At least this is what the inhabitants 
 of Cibber Street told each other, and they were one and all as 
 graphic and as full of detail as if they had just left La Chicot's 
 bedside. 
 
 ' She has never stirred since they laid her in her bed/ said 
 the shoemaker's wife, at the dingy shop for ladies' boots, two 
 doors from the Chicot domicile ; ' she lies there like a piece of 
 waxwork, pore thing, and every five minutes they takes and 
 wets her lips with a feather dipped in brandy ; and sometimes 
 she says " more, more," very weak and pitiful J * 
 
 ' That looks as if she was sensible, at any ra.^e,' answered the 
 good woman's gossip, a letter of lodgings at the end of the 
 street. 
 
 ' I don't believe it's sense, Mrs. Bitters ; I believe iVs only an 
 inward craving. She feels that low in her inside that the brandy's 
 a relief to her.' 
 
 ' Have they set her leg yet 1 ' 
 
 1 Lord love you, Mrs. Bitters, it's a compound fracture, and 
 the swelling ain't begun to go down. They've got a perfessional 
 nurse from one of the hospitals, and she's never left off applying 
 cooling lotion, night or day, to keep down the inflammation. 
 The doctor hasn't left the house since it happened.' 
 Is it Mr. Mivart V 
 
r ' Days that are Over, Dreams that are T)one. % 77 
 
 1 Lor, no ; it's quite a stranger ; a young man tfoit's just been 
 walking the orspital, but they say he's very clever. He was at 
 the Prince Frederick when it happened, and see it all ; and 
 helped to bring her home, and if she was a duchess he couldn't be 
 more careful over her.' 
 
 ' Where's the husband ? ' isked Mrs. Bitters. 
 
 ' Away in the country, tic? one knows where, for she hasn't 
 sense to tell 'em, pore lamb. But from what Mrs. Evitt tells me, 
 they was never the happiest of couples.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' sighed Mrs. Bitters, with an air of widest worldly 
 experience, ' dancers and such like didn't ought to marry. What 
 do they want with 'usbands, courted and run after as they are ] 
 Out every night too, like Tom cats. 'Ow can they make a 'ome 
 'appy?' 
 
 ' I can't say as I ever thought Mr. Chicot 'ad a 'appy look,' 
 assented the shoemaker's wife. ' He's got a way of walking with 
 his eyes on the ground and his hands in his pockets, as if he 
 didn't take no interest in life.' 
 
 Thus, and in various other manners, was the evil fate of La 
 Chicot discussed in Ciboer Street and the surrounding- neigh- 
 bourhood. Everybody was interested in her welfare. If she 
 had been some patient domestic drudge, a devoted wife and 
 mother, the interest would have been mild in comparison, the 
 whole thing tame and commonplace. But La Chicot — whose 
 name was on the walls in capitals three feet high, whose bold, 
 bright face smiled on the foot passenger at every turn in the 
 road — La Chicot was a personage, and whether she was to draw 
 the lot of life or death from fate's mysterious urn was a public 
 question. 
 
 It had been as the scene-shifter had shrewdly prophesied. 
 She had been drunk, and the st ige-carpenter had been drunk, 
 and the result had been calamity. There had been a perennial 
 supply of champagne in La Chicot's dressing-room during the 
 last week, thanks to the liberality of an anonymous admirer, who 
 had sent a three-dozen case of Boederer, pints — fascinating little 
 gold-tipped bottles that looked as innocent as flowers or butter- 
 flies. La Chicot had an idea that a pint of champagne could 
 hurt nobody. Of a quart she opined, as the famous glutton did 
 of a goose, that it was too much for one and not enough for two. 
 
 She naturally suspected that the anonymous champagne came 
 from the unknown giver of the bracelet, but she was not going 
 to leave the case unopened on that account. It was very 
 pleasant to have an admirer who gave so freely and asked 
 nothing. Poor fellow ! It would be time enough to snub him 
 when he became obtrusive. In the meanwhile she accepted 
 kis bounty as unquestioningly as she received the gifts of all- 
 bounteous nature — the sun that warmed her, the west wind that 
 
78 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 fanned her cheek, the wallflowers and primroses at the street 
 corners that told her spring was abroad in the land. 
 
 Yet she was a woman, and, therefore, naturally curious 
 about her nameless admirer. Her splendid eyes roamed among 
 the faces of the audience, especially among the gilded youth in 
 the stalls, until they alighted on a countenance which La 
 Chicot believed likely to be the one she sought. It was a face 
 that watched her with a grave attention she had seen in no other 
 countenance, though all were attentive — a sallow face, of 
 a Jewish type, black eyes, an almost death-like pallor, a firinly- 
 moukled mouth, the lips too thick for beauty, black hair, smooth 
 and sleek. 
 
 ' That is the man,' La Chicot said to herself, ' and he looks 
 inordinately rich.' 
 
 She stole a glance at him often after this, and she always saw 
 the same expression in the pallid Israelitish face, an intensity she 
 had never seen in any other countenance. 
 
 ' Cest un homme a parvenir,' she told herself ; ' si ca etait 
 guerrier il aurait vaincu un monde, comme Napoleon.' 
 
 The face fascinated her somehow, or, at all events, it made her 
 think of the man. She drank his champagne with greater gusto 
 after this, and on the night after her discovery, the weather being 
 unusally sultry for the season, she drank two bottles in the 
 course of her toilet. When she went down to the wings, glitter- 
 ing with silvery tinsel, clad in a cloud of snowy gauze, she could 
 hardly stand ; but dancing was a second nature with her, and 
 she managed to get through her solos without disgrace. There 
 was a certain wildness, an extra audacity, a shade too much of 
 that peculiar quality which the English call ' go,' and the French 
 call ' chic,' but the audience at the Prince Frederick liked 
 extremes, and applauded her to the echo. 
 
 ' By Jove, she's a wonderful woman ! ' exclaimed Mr. Smolendo, 
 watching her from the prompter's entrance. ' She's a safe draw 
 for the next three seasons.' 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards came the ascent through the coral 
 oaves. The ironwork creaked, groaned, trembled, and then gave 
 way. There was a shrill scream from the dancer, a cry of horror 
 from the men at the wings, and La Chicot was lying in the 
 middle of the stage, a confused heap of tumbled gauze and silver, 
 silent and unconscious, while the green cuftain came down with 
 a run. 
 
 It was lata on the night after the accident when Jack Chicot 
 came home. He found his wife lying in a dull stupor, as the 
 gossips had described her, life sustained by the frequent adminis- 
 tration of brandy. The woman was as near death as she could be 
 vithout being ready for her grave. A stranger was sitting by 
 her bedside when Jae 1 * went into the room, a young man with a 
 
s Days that are Over, Dreams that are Done.' 79 
 
 gravity of face and manner which was older than his years. 
 The nurse was on the other side of the bed, applying a cooling 
 lotion to La Chicot's burning forehead. The leg had been 
 successfully set that afternoon, by one of the cleverest surgeons in 
 London, and was suspended in a cradle under the light coverlet. 
 
 Jack went to the bedside and bent over the motionless figure, 
 and looked at the dull, white face. 
 
 ' My poor Zaire, this is bad,' he murmured, and then he turned 
 to the stranger, who had risen and stood beside him, ' You are 
 the doctor, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 1 1 am the watch-dog, if you like. Mr. Smolendo would not 
 trust my inexperience with so delicate an operation as setting 
 the broken leg. It was a terrible fracture, and required the 
 highest art. He sent for Sir John Pelham, and everything has 
 been done well and successfully. But he allowed me to remain 
 as surgeon in charge. Your wife's state is perilous in the 
 extreme. I fear the brain is injured. I was in the theatre 
 when the accident happened. I am deeply interested in this 
 case. I have lately passed my examination creditably, and am a 
 qualified practitioner. I shall be glad if you will allow me to 
 attend your wife — under Pelham, of course. It is not a question of 
 remuneration,' the young man added hurriedly. ' I am actuated 
 only by my professional interest in Madame Chicot's recovery.' 
 
 ' I have no objection to my wife's profiting by your generous 
 care, provided always that Sir John Pelham approves your treat- 
 ment,' answered Chicot, in a calmer tone than George Gerard 
 expected from a man who had just come home after a week's 
 absence to find his wife in peril of death. ' Do you think she 
 will recover 1 ' 
 
 This question was asked deliberately, with intense earnestness. 
 Gerard saw that the eyes winch looked at him were watching 
 for the answering look in his own eyes, waiting as for the 
 sentence of doom. 
 
 That look set the surgeon wondering as to the relations 
 between husband and wife. A minute ago he had wondered at 
 Chicot's coldness — a tranquillity that seemed almost indifference. 
 Now the man was all intensity. "What did the change mean 1 
 
 * Am I to tell you the truth 1 ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' By all means.' 
 
 1 Bemember I can give you only my opinion. It is an obscure 
 case. The injury to the brain is not easily to be estimated.' 
 
 ' I will take your opinion for what it is worth. For God's 
 sake be candid.' 
 
 ' Then in my opinion the chances are against her recovery.' 
 
 Jack Chicot drew a long breath, a strange shivering sigh, 
 which the surgeon, clever as he was, knew not how to interpret. 
 
 ' Poor thing ! ' said the husband, after a brief ailenne, looking 
 
80 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 down at the dull, blank face. ' And three years ago she and I 
 came out of the Mairie very happy, and loving each other dearly I 
 Gest dommage que cela passe si vite.' 
 
 These last words were spoken too low for Gerard to hear. 
 They were a brief lament over a love that was dead. 
 
 ' Tell me about the accident,' said Jack Chicot, sitting down in 
 the chair Gerard had vacated. ' You were in the theatre, you 
 say. You saw it all.' 
 
 ' I did, and it was I who picked your wife up. I was behind 
 the scenes soon enough for that. The panic-stricken wretches 
 about were afraid to touch her.' 
 
 Gerard told everything faithfully. Jack Chicot listened with 
 an unchanging face. He knew the worst that could be told 
 him. The details could make little difference. 
 
 ' I said just now that in my opinion the chances were against 
 your wife's recovery,' said Gerard, full of earnestness, * but I 
 did not say the case was hopeless. If I thought it were, I should 
 not be so anxious to undertake the care of your wife. I ask you 
 to let me watch her because I entertain the hope — a faint hope 
 at present, I grant — of curing her.' 
 
 Jack Chicot gave a little start, and looked curiously at the 
 Bpeaker. 
 
 ' You mu«»t be tremendously in love with your profession, to 
 be so anxious about another man's wife ? ' he said. 
 
 ' I am in love with my profession. I have no other mistress. 
 
 I desire no other ! ' 
 
 ' Well, you may do all you can to snatch her from the jaws of 
 death,' said Chicot. ' Let her have her chance, poor soul. That 
 is only fair. Poor butterfly ! Last night the star of a crowded 
 theatre, the delight of every eye ; ./to-night to lie thus, a mere 
 log, living and yet dead. It is hard.' 
 
 He walked softly up and down the room, deep in thought. 
 
 ' Do you know I implored her to refuse that ascent 1 ' he said. 
 
 I I had a foreboding that harm would come of it.' 
 
 ' You should have forbidden it,' said the surgeon, with his 
 fingers on the patient's wrist. 
 
 ' Forbidden ! You don't know my wife.' 
 
 ' If I had a wife she should obey me.' 
 
 ' Ah ! that's a common delusion of bachelors. "Wait till you 
 have a wife, and you will tell a different story.' 
 
 ' She will do for to-night,' said Gerard, taking up his hat, yet 
 lingering for one long scrutiny of the white, expressionless face 
 on the pillow. ' Mrs. Mason knows all she has to do ; I will be 
 here at six to-morrow morning.' 
 
 * At six ! You are an early riser.' 
 
 'I am a hard worker. One is impossible without the other. 
 Good-night, Mr. Chicot ; I congratulate you upon your power 
 
'Days that are Over, Dreams that are Done.' 8i 
 
 to take a great trouble quietly. There is no better proof of 
 strong nerve.' 
 
 Jack fancied there was a hidden sneer in this parting com- 
 pkment, but it made very little impression upon him. The 
 perplexity of his life was big enough to exclude every other 
 thought. * You had better go to bed, Mrs. Mason,' he said U 
 the nurse. ' I shall sit up with my wife.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, sir, I could not feel that I was doing my 
 duty if I indulged myself with a nightf s rest while the case is so 
 critical ; by-and-by I shall be thankful to get an hour's sleep.' 
 ' Do you think Madame Chicot will ever be better 1 ' 
 The nurse looked down at her white apron, sighed gently, and 
 as gently shook her head. 
 
 'We always like to look at the bright side of thino^, sir' she 
 answered. 
 
 ' But is there any bright side to this case ? ' 
 
 ' ^ at rests ^th Providence, sir. It is a very bad case.' 
 
 Well,' said Jack Chicot, ' we must be patient.' 
 He seated himself in the chair by the bedside and remained 
 there all night, never sleeping, hardly changing his attitude, 
 sunk to the bottom of some deep gulf of thought. 
 
 Day came at last, and soon after daybreak came George 
 Gerard, who found no change either for better or worse in his 
 patient, and ordered no change in the treatment. 
 
 ' Sir John Pelham is to be here at eleven,' he said. ' I shall 
 come at eleven to meet him.' 
 
 The great surgeon came, made his inspection, and said that, 
 all was going on well. 
 
 "We shall make her leg sound again,' he said, ' I have no fear- 
 about that ; I wish we were as certain about the brain.' 
 
 ' Do you think the brain is seriously hurt 1 ' asked Chicot. 
 ' We can hardly tell. The iron struck her head as she fell 
 There is no fracture of the skull, but there is mischief of some 
 kind— rather serious mischief, I fear. No doubt a good deal will 
 depend on care and nursing. You are lucky to have secured 
 Mrs. Mason ; I can highly recommend her.' 
 
 ' Frankly, do you think my wife will recover ? ' asked Chicot, 
 questioning Sir John Pelham to-day as earnestly as he had ques- 
 tioned George Gerard last night. 
 
 \ 5t y dear sir ' I ho P e for * he Lest ; but ^ is a bad case.' 
 lhat must mean that it is hopeless,' thought Chicot, but ha 
 only bowed his head gently, and followed the surgeon to the door, 
 where he tried to slip a fee into his hand. 
 
 'No, no my dear sir, Mr. Smolendo will arrange that little 
 matter, said the surgeon, rejecting the money, 'and vexy properly 
 too, .since your wife was injured in his service.' 
 
 I wouW rather have paid her debts myself,' answered Chicot 
 
82 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'though Heaven knows how long I could have done it. We ara 
 never very much beforehand with the world. Oh, by the way, 
 how about that young man upstairs, Mr. Gerard? Do you 
 approve his treatment of the case ? ' 
 
 ' Very much so ; a remarkably clever young man — a man who 
 ought to make rapid way in his profession.' 
 
 Sir John Pelham gave a compassionate sigh at the end of his 
 speech, remembering how many young men he had known 
 deserving of success, and how few of them had succeeded, and 
 thinking what a clever and altogether commendable young man 
 he must himself have been to be one of the few. 
 
 After this Jack Chicot allowed Mr. Gerard to prescribe for 
 his wife with perfect confidence in the young man's ability. Sir 
 John Pelham came once a week, and gave his opinion, and some- 
 times made some slight change in the treatment. It was a 
 lingering, wearying illness, hard work for the nurse, trying work 
 for the watcher. The husband had taken upon himself the office 
 of night nurse. He watched and ministered to the invalid every 
 night, while Mrs. Mason enjoyed four or five hours' sleep. 
 Mr. Smolendo had suggested that they should have two nurses. 
 He was willing to pay for anything that could ameliorate the 
 sufferer's condition, though La Chicot's accident had almost 
 ruined his season. It had not been easy to get a novelty strong 
 enough to replace her. 
 
 ' No,' said Jack Chicot, ' I don't want to take more of your 
 money than I can help ; and I may as well do something for my 
 wife. I'm useless enough at best.' 
 
 So Jack went on drawing for the comic periodicals, and 
 worked at night beside his wife's bed. Her mind had never 
 awakened since the accident. She was helpless and unconscious 
 now as she had been when they brought her home from the 
 theatre. Even Georgs Gerard was beginning to lose heart, bu^ 
 he in no way relaxed his efforts to bring about a cure. 
 
 In the day Jack went for long walks, getting as far away from 
 that close and smoky region of Leicester Square as his long legs 
 would take him. He tramped northward to Hampstead and 
 Hendon, to Highgate, Barnet, Harrow ; southward to Dulwich, 
 Streatham, Beckenham ; to breezy commons where the gorse w^ 
 still golden, to woods where the perfume of pine trees filled t! 
 warm, still air; to hills below which he saw London lying, a 
 silent city, wrapped in a mantle of blue smoke. 
 
 The country had an inexpressible charm for him at thia 
 period of his life. He was not easy till he had shaken the dust 
 of London off his feet. He who a year ago in Paris had wasted 
 half his days playing billiards in the entresol of a cafe on the 
 Boulevard St. Michel, or sauntering the stony length of the 
 boulevards from the Madeleine to the Chateau dEau — was now » 
 
'Days that are Over, Dreams thai are Dons.' 83 
 
 solitary rambler in suburban lanes, choosing every path that led 
 him furthest from the haunts of men. 
 
 • ' You are always out when I come in the daytime, Mr. Chicot ■ 
 said Gerard one evening, when he had called later than usual 
 and found Jack at home, dusty, tired after his day's ramble 
 
 Is not that rather hard on Madame Chicot V 
 
 ' What can it matter to her ? She does not know when I am 
 here ; she is quite unconscious.' 
 
 «. I I am , not l so sure of that - She seems unconscious, but beneath 
 that apathy there may be some struggling sense of outward things 
 
 m? 7 ope that the mhld is there still > under a dense cloud.' 
 
 The struggle was long and weary. There came a day on which 
 even George Gerard despaired. The wound in the leg had been 
 slow to heal, and the pain had weakened the patient. Despite all 
 that watchful nursing could do, she had sunk to the lowest ebb 
 
 She is very weak, is she not?' asked Jack, that summer 
 afternoon— a sultry afternoon late in June, when the close 
 London street was like a dusty oven, and faint odours from stale 
 strawberries and half-rotten pineapples on the costermon^r ; s 
 barrows tainted the air with a sickly sweetness. 
 
 ' She is as weak as she can be and live/ answered Gerard 
 
 ' You begin to lose faith ? ' 
 
 ' I begin to fear.' 
 
 As lie spoke he saw a look of ineffable relief flash into Jack 
 Chicot s eyes. His own eyes caught and fixed that look, and the 
 two men stood facing each other, one of them knowing that the 
 secret of his heart was discovered. 
 
 < I fear,' said the surgeon, deliberately, ' but I am not goin* 
 to leave off trying to save her. I mean to save her life if it is in 
 human power to save it. I have set my heart upon it.' 
 
 * Do your utmost,' answered Chicot. « Heaven is above us all 
 It must be as fate wills.' 
 
 < You loved her once, I suppose V said Gerard, with searching 
 eyes still on the other's face. 
 
 ' I loved her truly.' 
 
 ' When and why did you leave off loving her 1 ' 
 
 'How do you know that I have ever done so 1 ' asked Chicot, 
 startled by the audacity of the question. 
 
 ' I know it as well as you know it yourself. I should be a 
 poor physician for an obscure disease of the brain if I could not 
 read your secret. This poor creature, lying here, has for some 
 time past been a burden and an affliction to you. If Providence 
 were to remove her quietly, you would thank Providence. You 
 would not lift your hand against her, or refuse any aid you can 
 give her, but her death would be an infinite relief. Well I think 
 you will have your wish. I think she is going to die ' ' 
 
 ' You have no right to talk to me like this/ said Chicot 
 
84 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'Have I not? Why should not one man talk freely to 
 another, uttering the truth boldly. I do not presume to judge or 
 to blame. Who among us is pure enough to denounce his 
 brother's sin? But why should I pretend not to understand 
 you ? Why affect to think you a loving and devoted husband ? 
 It is better that I should be plain with you. Yes, Mr. Chicot 
 I believe this business is going to end your way, and not mine.' 
 
 Jack stood looking gloomily out of the open window down 
 into the dingy street, where the strawberry barrow was moving 
 slowly along, while the costermonger's brassy voice brayed out 
 his strange jargon. He had no word to answer to the surgeon's 
 plain speaking. The accusation was true. He could not gain- 
 say it. 
 
 ' Yes, I loved her once,' he said to himself presently, as he sat 
 by the bedside after George Gerard had gone. ' What kind of 
 love was it, I wonder ? I felt my life a failure, and had aban- 
 doned all hope of ever getting back into the beaten tracks of 
 respectability, and it seemed to me to matter very little what I 
 did with my life, or what kind of woman I married. She waa 
 the handsomest woman I had ever seen, and she was fond of me. 
 Why should I not marry her ? Between us we could manage to live 
 somehow, au jour le jour, from hand to mouth. We took lif e 
 lightly, both of us. Those were pleasant days. Yet I look back 
 and wonder that I could have lived in the gutter and revelled in 
 it. How even a gentleman can sink when once he ceases to 
 respect himself ? When did I first begin to be weary ? When 
 
 did I begin to hate her? Never till I had met . Oh, 
 
 Paradise, which I have seen through the half -opened gate, shall 
 I verily be free to enter your shining fields, your garden of glad- 
 ness and delight ? ' 
 
 He sat by the bed in thoughtful silence, till the nurse came in 
 to take his place, and then he went out into the dusty streets, and 
 walked northward in search of air. He had promised the nurse 
 to be back at ten o'clock, when she could have her supper and go 
 to bed, leaving him in charge for the night. This was the usual 
 routine. 
 
 ' All may be over when I go home to-night,' he said to himself, 
 and it seemed to him as if the past few years— the period of his 
 married life — were part of a confused dream. 
 
 It was all over now. Its follies and its joys belonged to the 
 past. He could look back and pity his wife and himself. Both 
 had been foolish, both erring. It was done with. They had 
 come to the last page of a volume that was speedily to be closed 
 for ever. He could forgive, he could pity and deplore all that 
 foolish past, now that it was no longer to fetter the future. 
 
 He rambled far that day— he was lighter of foot— the atmo- 
 sphere out of London was clearer, or it seemed clearer, thaD usual 
 
'Days that are Over, Dreams that are Done.' 85 
 
 He walked to Harrow, and lay on the grass below Byron's 
 tomb, looking dreamily down at the dim world of London. 
 
 It was after eleven when he got back to Cibber Street. The 
 public house at the corner was closed, the latest of the gossips 
 had deserted their door-steps. He looked up to the first-floor 
 windows. La Chicot's bed had been moved into the front room, 
 because it was more cheerful for her, the nurse said ; but it was 
 Mrs. Mason and not La Chicot who looked out of the window. 
 The sickly yellow light shone through the dingy blind, just as it 
 always did after dark. There was nothing to indicate any change. 
 But all things would be the same, no doubt, if death were in the 
 room. 
 
 As Jack stood on the door-fttep feeling in his pockets for the 
 key, the door opened, and Desrolles, the second-floor lodger, 
 came out. 
 
 ' I am going to see if I can get a drop of brandy at the Crown 
 and Sceptre,' he said, explanatorily ; ' I've had one of my old 
 attacks.' 
 
 Mr. Desr*Ues was a sufferer from some chronic complaint 
 which he alluded to vaguely, and which necessitated frequent 
 recourse to stimulants. 
 
 ' The Crown and Sceptre is closed,' said Jack. ' I've some 
 brandy upstairs ; I'll give you a little.' 
 
 ' That's uncommonly good-natured of you,' said Desrolles. ' I 
 should have a night of agony if I couldn't get a Little brandy 
 somewhere. How late you are ! ' 
 
 1 I've walked further than usual. It was such a fine evening.' 
 
 1 Was it really 1 Hereabouts it was dull and grey. I thought 
 we were going to have a thunderstorm. Local, I suppose. I've 
 got some good news for you.' 
 
 ' Good news for me. The rarity of the thing will make it 
 welcome.' 
 
 'Your wife's better, decidedly better. I looked in two 
 hours ago to inquire. The nurse thinks she has taken a turn. 
 Mr. Gerard was here at eight, and thinks the same. It's 
 wonderful. She rallied in an extraordinary manner between 
 three and five o'clock, took her nourishment with an appearance 
 of appetite for the first time since she has been ill. Mrs. Mason 
 is delighted. "Wonderful, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Very wonderful 1 ' exclaimed Jack Chicot ; and who shall tell 
 the bitterness of heart with which he turned from the shining 
 vision of the future — the vision that had been with him all that 
 evening, back to the dreary reality of the present. 
 
 He found Mrs. Mason elated. She had never seen a more 
 marked change for the better. 
 
 ' She's as weak as a new-born infant, poor dear,' she said of 
 her patient, ' but it's just as if life was coming gently and slowly 
 
86 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 back, like the tide coming in over the sands when it has ebbed 
 as low as ever it can ebb.' 
 
 The improvement continued steadily from that hour. The 
 brain, so long clouded, awakened as from sleep. Zaire recovered 
 her strength, her senses, her beauty, her insolence and audacity. 
 Before September she was the old ' Chicot ; ' the woman whose por- 
 trait had flaunted on all the walls of London. Mr. Smolendo was 
 in raptures. The broken leg was as sound as ever it had been. 
 La Chicot would be able to dance early in November. A para- 
 graph announcing this fact had already gone the round of the 
 papers. Another paragraph, more familiar in tone, informed the 
 town that Madame Chicot's beauty had gained new lustre during 
 the enforced retirement of her long illness. Mr. Smolendo knew 
 his public. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 4 AND ART THOU COMB ! AND ART THOU TRTJB !' 
 
 It was late in November, and the trees were bare in the 
 grounds of Hazlehurst Manor. The grand old mansion wore its 
 air of grave dignity, under the dull grey skies of late autumn, 
 but the charms and graces of summer had gone, and there was a 
 shade of melancholy in the stillness of the house and garden, and 
 that pleasant enclosure, too big for a meadow, and too small for a 
 park, over which the rooks swept like a black cloud at evensong, 
 going screaming home to their nests in the tall elms behind the 
 house. 
 
 In this dreary season of the year Laura Malcolm was living 
 quite alone at the Manor-house. Celia Clare had been invited to 
 spend a month with a well-to-do aunt at Brighton, and Brighton 
 in the winter season represented the highest form of terrestrial 
 bliss that had ever come within Celia's experience. She had 
 vague dreams of Paris, as of a city that must far surpass even 
 Brighton in blissfulness ; but she had no hope of seeing Paris, 
 1 unless, indeed, she were to got married, when she would insist on 
 her husband taking her there for the honeymoon. 
 
 ' Of course, the poor creature would do anything I told him 
 then,' said Celia; 'it would be different afterwards. I dare say 
 when we had been married a year he would try to trample on me.' 
 
 'I can't imagine any one trampling upon you, Celia,' said 
 Laura, laughing. 
 
 ' Well, I think I should make it rather difficult for him. But 
 all men are tyrants. Look at papa, for instance ; the best of 
 men, with a heart of gold ; but let the cook make a failure, and 
 
' And art tlwu come I and art thou True I ' 87 
 
 he goes on all dinner-time like the veriest heathen. Oh, they 
 are altogether an inferior breed, believe me. There ia your 
 young man, Laura — very handsome, very gentlemanlike, bat as 
 weak as water.' 
 
 ' Whom do you mean by my young man ? ' asked Laura. 
 
 ' You know, or you would not blush so violently. Of course 
 I mean John Treverton, your future husband. And, by-the-bye, 
 you are to be married within a year after old Mr. Treverton's 
 death. I hope you have begun to order your trousseau.' 
 
 ' I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Celia. You know 
 very well that I am not engaged to Mr. Treverton. I may never 
 be engaged to him.' 
 
 ' Then what were you two talking about that night under the 
 chestnuts, when you lingered so far behind us ? ' 
 
 ' We are not engaged. That is quite enough for you to know.' 
 
 ' Then if you are not engaged you ought to be. That is all I 
 can say. It is ridiculous to leave things to the last moment, if 
 you are ever so sure of each other. Old Mr. Treverton died 
 early in January, and it is now late in November. I feel quite 
 uncomfortable about going away and leaving your affairs in such 
 an unsatisfactory state.' 
 
 Celia, who was the most frivolous of beings, affected a talent 
 for business, and assumed an elder sister air towards Laura 
 Malcolm that was pleasant in its absurdity. 
 
 'Yo\i need not be uneasy, Celia. I can manage my own 
 affairs.' 
 
 1 1 don't believe you can. You are awfully clever, and have 
 read more books than I have ever seen the outside of in the 
 whole course of my life. But you are not the least little bit 
 practical or business-like. You run the risk of losing this dear 
 old house, and the estate that belongs to it, as coolly as if it were 
 the veriest trifle. I begiD to be afraid that you have a sneak- 
 ing kindness for that worthless brother of mine.' 
 
 ' You need have no such fear. I feel kindly towards your 
 brother for auld lang syne, and because I think he likes 
 me ' 
 
 ' As well as he can afford to like anybody, taking into 
 account the small residue of affection that remains over and 
 above his great regard for himself,' interjected Ceba, contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 ' But I have no feeling for him warmer than a commonplace 
 friendship. I never shall have.' 
 
 ' Poor Ted ! I am sorry for his sake, but I am very glad for 
 yours.' 
 
 Celia went off to Brighton radiant with three trunks and 
 two bonnet-boxes, and the Manor-house sank suddenly into 
 silence and gloom. Celia'a small frivolities were often trouble- 
 
88 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 some, but her perennial gaiety of temper had pleasantly enlivened 
 the spacious unpeopled house. Her fun was a mere school- 
 girl's fun, perhaps, at best, but it was genuine, the spontaneou* 
 outcome of animal spirits and a happy disposition. Celia would 
 have chatted as merrily over a cup of tea and a herring in a 
 garret at five shillings a week, as amidst the fleshpots of Hazle- 
 hurst Manor. She was a joyous, improvident, idle creature, 
 with the unreasoning love of life for its own sake which makes 
 a Neapolitan beggar happy in the sunshine, and an English 
 gipsy contented under the low arch of his canvas tent, on the 
 patch of waste grass by the wayside, whence he may be driven 
 at any moment by a relentless constable. 
 
 Celia was gone, and Laura had ample leisure for serious 
 meditation. In the first few days she was glad to be alone, to 
 be free to think her own thoughts, to have no fear of encounter- 
 ing the keen glance of Celia's penetrating eyes ; not to see that 
 canary head, perched on one side with an air of insufferable 
 knowingness. Then, after a little while, a deep melancholy 
 crept over her spirits, a bitter sense of disappointment, which 
 she could not banish from her mind. 
 
 She had never forgotten that long leave-taking in the avenue. 
 Surely, if anything could mean an engagement, the words 
 spoken then, the kiss taken then, meant the most solemn en- 
 gagement. Yet since that night six months had passed and 
 John Treverton had made no sign. And in all that time his 
 image had but rarely been absent from her thoughts. Day 
 after day, hour after hour, she had expected to see him enter 
 the garden unannounced, as when she had seen him from the 
 yew tree archway, standing looking quietly round him at the 
 spring flowers and the smiling sunny lawn, where the shadows 
 of the trees came and went like living things, where the earliest 
 bees were humming, and the first of the butterflies skimming 
 over beds of red and yellow tulips. 
 
 She had seen him every day during his last visit to the 
 Sampsons, and that one week of friendly companionship had 
 brought them very near together. In all that time he had said 
 ao word about the curious position which they occupied towards 
 each other, and she had admired the delicacy of mind to which 
 she ascribed tkis reticence. It seemed to her that no word 
 ought to be said till the final word which fulfilled Jasper 
 Treverton'a wish and united their two destinies for ever. And 
 Laura saw no reason why that word should not be spoken in 
 due time. She fancied that John Treverton liked her. He was 
 somewhat fitful in his spirits during that week of sun and 
 shower, variable as the weather ; at times wildly gay, capping 
 Celia's maddest joke with one still madder ; on other occasions 
 lapsing into gloom, which provoked Celia to protest that he 
 
' And art thou come ! and art thou True ! ' 89 
 
 must have committed a murder in his early youth, and that the 
 memory of his crime was haunting him. 
 
 ' Just like Eugene Aram,' she had said ; ' now positively, 
 Laura, he is like Eugene Arani ; and I feel convinced that 
 somebody's bones are bleaching in a cave ready to be put 
 together like the pieces of a puzzle, and to appear against him 
 at the predestined moment. Don't marry him, Laura, I'm sure 
 there is some dreadful burden on his conscience.' 
 
 They had been infinitely happy together in the most artless 
 fashion, with the unthinking gladness of children whose calcu- 
 lations never travel beyond the present moment. Perhaps it 
 was the delicious April weather, which spread a warm glaze of 
 sunny yellow over the earth, and bathed the young leaves in 
 vivid light, and painted the sky an Italian blue, and set the 
 blackbirds and throstles singing from an hour before sunrise 
 to an hour after sundown. This might in itself be enough for 
 happiness. And then there was youth, a treasure ao rich that 
 none of us have ever learned to measure its value till we have 
 lost it ; when we look back and lament it, as perhaps, after 
 all is said, the dearest of all those dear friends we have buried ; 
 for was it not this which made those others so deeply dear 1 
 
 Whatever the cause, those three, and more especially those 
 two, had been happy. And yet after that week of innocent 
 intimacy, after that parting kiss, John Treverton had remained 
 away for more than half a year, and not by so much as a letter 
 had he assured Laura that she still held a place in his heart and 
 mind. 
 
 She thought of him now with bitterest self-reproach. She 
 was angry with herself for having let her heart go out to him, 
 for having made the tacit engagement involved in that farewell 
 kiss. 
 
 1 After all it is only the fortune he cares about,' she said to 
 herself, ' and after my foolishness that night he fancies himself 
 so secure of me that he can stay in London and enjoy life in his 
 own way, and then come and claim me at the last moment, just 
 in time to fulfil the conditions of his cousin's will. He is making 
 the most of his last year of liberty. He will have no more of 
 me than the law obliges him to have. The year has nearly 
 gone, and he has give me one little week of his society. A cool 
 lover, certainly. A hypocrite, too, for he puts on looks and 
 tones that seemed like deepest, strongest love. A gratuitous 
 hypocrisy,' pursued Laura, lashing herself to sharper scorn, ' for 
 I implored him to be frank with me. I offered him a loyal, 
 friendly alliance. But he is a man, and I suppose it is man's 
 nature to be false. He preferred to declare himself my lover, 
 forgetting that his conduct would belie his words. I will never 
 forgive bom. I will never forgive myself for being so easily de- 
 
90 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ceived. The estate shall go to the hospital. If he were here to- 
 morrow, kneeling at my feet, I would refuse him. I know tho 
 hollowness of his pretended love. He cannot fool me a second 
 time.' 
 
 She had never been vain of her "beauty. The secluded life 
 Bhe had led with her adopted father had left her simple as a 
 cloistered nun in all her thoughts and habits. Edward Clare 
 had told her that she was lovely, many times, and had praised 
 her loveliness in his verses, with all the affectation, and some of 
 the license of that new school of poets of which he was an 
 obscure member ; but Laura had received all such praises as 
 the effervescence of the poet's frothy intellect rather than as a 
 just tribute to her charms. Now, full of anger against John 
 Treverton, she looked in her glass one winter night and wondered 
 if she were really beautiful. 
 
 Yes, if the Guido in the dining-room below was beautiful — 
 if features of purest modelling, dark hazel eyes, and a clear 
 complexion faintly flushed with delicate carnation — if sculptured 
 eyelids darkly fringed, a mouth half sad, half scornful, and 
 dimples that showed momentarily in the mockery of a self- 
 contemptuous smile — if these meant beauty, Laura Malcolm was 
 assuredly beautiful. She was too true an artist not to know 
 that this was beauty which smiled at her bitterly from the 
 darkness of the glass. 
 
 ' Perhaps I am not his style,' she said, with a little laugh. 
 ' I have heard Edward Clare say that of girls I have praised. 
 " Yes, she is very well, but not my style," as if Providence ought 
 to have had him in view whenever it created a pretty woman. 
 " Not my style," Edward would drawl languidly, as much as to 
 say, " and therefore a failure." ' 
 
 Every idea of John Treverton now remaining in Laura's 
 mind was a thought of bitterness. She was so angry with him 
 that she could not give him credit for one worthy act or one 
 honourable feeling. As nearly as a soul so generous could hate 
 did she now approach to the sin of hatred. 
 
 This was her mood one day in the beginning of December, 
 indeed, it had been her mood always for the last three months ; 
 but in the leisure of her late solitude her anger had intensified. 
 This was her mood as she walked in the garden, in the cold 
 sunshine, looking at the pale prim faces of the fading chrysan- 
 themums, — the perky china asters lending the last touch of bright 
 colour to the dying year — the languorous late roses, flaunting 
 their sickly beauty, like ball-room belles who refused to bow 
 their heads to the sentence of time. It was a morning of 
 unusual mildness : the arrow-point of the old-fashioned vane 
 minted .south-west ; the leaves of the evergreen oaks were 
 scarcely ruffled by tho wind ; the tall Scotch firs, red and 
 
1 And art thou come ! and art thou True ! ' 91 
 
 fugged columns topped by masses of swart foliage, stood darkly 
 out against a calm, clear sky. 
 
 This garden was Laura's chief delight in her loneliness. 
 God had gifted her with that deep and abiding love of nature, 
 which is perhaps one of His richest gifts. They who possess it 
 can never be utterly joyless. 
 
 She had walked in garden and orchard for more than an 
 hour, when she came back by the old yew tree arch, and just in 
 the spot where she had seen him more than half a year ago, she 
 saw John Treverton standing again to-day. 
 
 What an unstable thing is a woman's anger against the man 
 she loves ! Laura's first feeling at sight of John Treverton was 
 indignation. She was on the point of receiving him with crush- 
 ing pohteness, of freezing him with coldest courtesy, when she 
 perceived that he looked ill and careworn, and was gazing at her 
 with eyes full of yearning tenderness. Then she forgot her 
 wrongs in one moment, and went up to him and gave him her 
 hand, saying gently, — 
 
 ' What have you been doing with yourself all this time ? ' 
 
 ' Knocking about London, doing very little good for myself 
 or any one else,' he answered frankly. 
 
 Then he seemed to lose himself in the delight of being with 
 her. He walked by her side, saying never a word, only looking 
 at her with fond, admiring eyes ; as if she had come upon him 
 suddenly, like a revelation of hitherto unknown loveliness and 
 delight. 
 
 At last he found a voice, but not for any brilliant utterance. 
 
 ' Are you really just a little glad to see me again ? ' he asked. 
 1 ^Remember, you promised me a welcome.' 
 
 ' You have been in no haste to claim the fulfilment of my 
 promise. It was made more than six months ago. You have 
 had other welcomes in the meanwhile, no doubt, and have 
 forgotten all about Hazlehurst Manor.' 
 
 ' The Manor-house, and she who occupies it, have never been 
 absent from my thoughts.' 
 
 ' Eeally ; and yet you have stayed away so long. That looks 
 rather like forgetfulness.' 
 
 ' It was not forgetfulness. There have been reasons — reasons 
 I cannot explain.' 
 
 ' And do they no longer exist ? ' 
 
 1 No,' he gave a long sigh, ' they are at an ei,d now.' 
 _ ' You have been ill perhaps,' speculated Lau ^a, looking at hiry 
 with a solicitude she could not wholly conceal. 
 
 ' I have been far from well. I have been working rathei 
 harder than usual. I have to earn my bread, you know, Laura. 
 
 ' Have you any profession now that you have left the army ? 
 asked Laura. 
 
92 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * I left the army six years ago. I have managed to live by 
 my own labour since that time. My career has been a chequered 
 one. I have lived partly by art, partly by literature, and have 
 not succeeded in winning a name in either profession. That 
 does not sound a brilliant account, does it? Its only merit is 
 truth. I am nobody. Your generosity and my cousin Jasper's 
 will may make me somebody. My fate depends on you.' 
 
 This was hardly the tone of a lover. It was a tone that 
 Laura's pride would have resented had she not inwardly believed 
 that John Treverton loved her. There is a subtle power in the 
 love which keeps silence mightier than all love's eloquence. A 
 hand that trembles when it touches another, one swift look from 
 loving eyes, a sigh, a tone, will tell more than an oration. John 
 Treverton was the most reticent of lovers, yet his reserve did not 
 offend Laura. 
 
 They went into the grave old house together, and sat down 
 to luncheon, tete-d-tete, waited upon by Trimmer, the old butler, 
 who had lived more than thirty years with Jasper Treverton, 
 and had lifted Laura out of the carriage when his master 
 brought her to the manor a delicate child, looking wistfully 
 round at strange objects with wide-opened eyes. 
 
 ' They looked just for all the world like man and wife, said 
 Trimmer, when he went back to his pantry, ' and I hope before 
 long it '11 be that. They'll make a fine couple, and I'm sure 
 they're fond o' one another already.' 
 
 ' It isn't in Miss Laura to marry a man she wasn't fond of, 
 not for all the fortunes in Christendom,' retorted Mrs. Trimmer, 
 who had been cook and housekeeper nearly as long as her 
 husband had been butler. 
 
 'Well, if I was a young woman I'd marry a'most anybody 
 rather than I'd lose such a 'ome as Hazlehurst Manor,' answered 
 Trimmer. ' I ain't a money-grubber, but a good 'ome ain't to be 
 trifled with. And if they don't marry, and the estate goes to 
 build a norsepital, what's to become of you and me ? Some folks 
 in our position would be all agog for setting up in the public line 
 and making our fortunes, but I've seen more fortunes lost than 
 won that way, and I know when I'm well off. Good wages paid 
 reg'lar, and everything found for me, is all I ask.' 
 
 After luncheon Laura and John went for a walk in the 
 grounds. A mutual inclination led them to the shrubbery where 
 they had parted that April night. The curving avenue of good 
 old trees made a pleasant walk even at this season, when not a 
 green leaf was left, and the ragged crows' nests showed black 
 amidst the delicate tracery of the topmost branches. The air 
 was even milder than in the morning. It might have been an 
 afternoon early in October. John Treverton stopped in front of 
 ihe rugged trunk of the great chestnut under which Laura and 
 
' And art thou come ! and art thou True!' 93 
 
 he had parted. The young leaves had made a canopy of shade 
 that night ; now the big branches stood out dark and bare, 
 stained with moss and weather. The grass at the foot of the 
 tree was strewn with green husks and broken twigs, dead leaves 
 and shining brown nuts. 
 
 ' I think it was at this spot we parted,' said John. ' Do you 
 remember 1 ' 
 
 'I have a vague recollection that it was somewhere about 
 here,' Laura answered, carelessly. 
 
 She knew the spot to an inch, but was not going to admit as 
 much. 
 
 He took her hand, and drew it gently through his arm, as if 
 they were starting upon a pilgrimage somewhere, then bent his 
 head and kissed the delicate bare hand — a lovely tapering hand 
 that could only belong to a lady, a hand which was in itself 
 something for a lover to adore. 
 
 ' Darling, when are we to be married ? ' he asked softly, 
 almost in a whisper, as if an unspeakable shyness took hold of 
 him at that critical moment. 
 
 ' What a question !' cried Laura, with pretended astonishment. 
 ' Who has ever talked about marriage 1 You have never asked 
 me to be your wife.' 
 
 ' Did I not ? But I asked you if you were angry with your 
 adopted father for his will, and you said No. That was as much 
 as to say you were content we should gratify the good old man's 
 wish. And we can only do so by becoming man and wife. 
 Laura, I love you more than I can ever say, and loving you as I 
 do, though I am conscious of many shortcomings — yes, though I 
 know myself in many respects unworthy to be your husband — 
 a pauper — unsuccessful — without name or fame — less than 
 nobody — still, darling, I fall upon my knees here, at your feet ; 
 I, who never knelt to a woman before, and have too seldom 
 knelt to my God, and sue to you in forma pauperis. Perhaps in 
 all England there lives no man less worthy to be your husband, 
 save for the one merit of luving you with all his heart and 
 soul. 
 
 He was kneeling before her, bareheaded, at the foot of the 
 old chestnut tree, among the rugged roots that curved in and out 
 amidst the grass. Laura bent down, and touched his forehead 
 with her lips. It was hardly a kiss. The sweet lips fluttered on 
 his forehead for an instant and were gone. No butterfly's wing 
 was ever lighter. 
 
 'I will take you, dear,' she said gently, 'with all your faults, 
 whatever their number. I have a feeling that I can trust you — 
 all the more, perhaps, because you do not praise yourself. We 
 will try to do our duty to each other, and to our dead benefactor, 
 end to use hia wealth nobly, shall we not, John ? ' 
 
94 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 You will use it, nobly, love ; you can do nothing that is not 
 noble,' he answered, gravely. 
 
 He was pale to the lips, and there was no gladness in hia 
 look, though it was full of love. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ENGAGED. 
 
 John Treverton stayed at the Manor-house till after dark, 
 alone with his betrothed, and happier than he had ever been in 
 his life. Yes, happy, though it was with a desperate happiness 
 as of a child plucking wild flowers on the sunny edge of an 
 abyss. He must have been something less or more than human 
 if he had not been happy in Laura Malcolm's company to-day, as 
 they sat by the fire in the gloaming, side by side, her head leaning 
 against his shoulder, his arm round her waist, her dark eyes 
 hidden under drooping lids as they gazed dreamily downward at 
 the smouldering logs ; the room lit dimly by the fire-glow, 
 grotesque shadows coming and going on the wall behind them, 
 like phantom forms of good or evil angels hovering near them as 
 they sat face to face with fate, the one unconscious of all danger, 
 the other reckless and defiant. 
 
 Now that the word had been spoken, that they two were 
 
 pledged to each other to the end of life, Laura let her heart go 
 
 out to her lover without reserve. She was not afraid to let him 
 
 see her fondness. She did not seek to make her love more 
 
 precious to him by simulated coldness. She gave him all her 
 
 heart and soul, as Juliet gave herself to Romeo. Lips that had 
 
 never breathed a word of love, now murmured sweetest words in 
 
 , his ear ; eyes that had never looked into a lover's eyes, gazed and 
 
 ' lost themselves in the depths of his. Never was lover more 
 
 ' innocently or unreservedly adored. If he had been boastful or 
 
 self-assertive, Laura's pride would have taken alarm. But his 
 
 deep humility, and a shadow of melancholy which hung over him 
 
 even when he seemed happiest, asked for her pity ; and a woman 
 
 is never better pleased with her lover than when he has need of 
 
 her compassion. 
 
 ' j^nd do you really love me, Laura 1 ' he asked, his face bent 
 over the beautiful head which seemed to have found so natural a 
 resting-place upon his shoulder. 'If there had been no such 
 thing as my cousin Jasper's will, and you and I had met in the 
 butside world, do you think I am the man your heart would have 
 Uiosen 1 ' 
 
 That is too abstruse a question in metaphysics,' she answered. 
 
Engaged. 95 
 
 laughingly. ' I only know that my heart chose you, and that 
 papa's will — I must call him by the old name — did not influence 
 my choice. Don't you think that is quite enough for you to 
 know V 
 
 ' It is all I desire to know, my loveliest. Or not quite all. I 
 should like to know — out of mere idle curiosity — when you first 
 began to think me not altogether despicable.' 
 
 ' Do you want the history of the case from the very begin- 
 ning?' 
 
 ' From the eggs to the apples, from the very first instant 
 when your heart began to beat a little more kindly for me than 
 for all the rest of the world.' 
 
 ' I will tell you ' 
 
 She paused, and looked up at him with a smile of innocent 
 coquetry. 
 
 ' Yes, dearest.' 
 
 ' When you have told me the history of your life, from the 
 instant when I became more to you than the common herd of 
 women.' 
 
 His first answer was a deep sigh. 
 
 ' Ah, dear love, my case was different. I struggled against 
 my passion.' 
 
 « Why ? ' 
 
 ' Because I felt myself unworthy of you.' 
 
 ' That was foolish.' 
 
 'No, dear, it was wise and right. You are like a happy 
 child, Laura ; your past is a blank page, it has no dark 
 secrets ' 
 
 He felt her trembling as he spoke. Had his words frightened 
 her? Did she begin to divine the dangers that hemmed him 
 around? 
 
 ' Dearest, I don't want to alarm you ; but in the past ex- 
 perience of a man of my age there is generally one page he would 
 srive ten years of his life to cancel. I have a dark page. Oh, 
 my love, my love, if I felt myself really worthy of you my heart 
 would hardly hold my happiness. It would break with too great 
 a joy. Men's hearts have so broken. When did I begin to love 
 you ? Why, on the night I first entered this house — the cheerless 
 winter night, when I came, like the prodigal son, weary of the 
 husks and the stye, vaguely yearning for some better life. Your 
 thrilling eyes, your grave, sweet smile, your tender voice, came 
 upon me bike the revelation of a new world, in which woman- 
 hood meant goodness and purity and truth. My aenses were as 
 yet unmoved by your beauty ; my mind reverenced your good- 
 ness. You were no more to me than a picture in a gallery, but 
 you thrilled my soul as the picture might have done ; you 
 awakened new thoughts, you opened a door into heaven. Yea* 
 
96 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Laura, admiration, reverence, worship, those began on the first 
 night. Before I left Hazlehurst, -worship had warmed into 
 passionate love.' 
 
 ' Yet you stayed away from January to April ! ' 
 
 ' My absence was one long conflict with my love. 
 
 ' And from April to December — after ' 
 
 ' After you had shown me your heart, dear love, and I knew 
 that you might be mine. That last absence needed a more 
 desperate courage. Well, I came back, you see. Love was 
 stronger than wisdom.' 
 
 ' Why must it be unwise for us to love each other 1 ' 
 
 ' Only because of my unworthiness.' 
 
 ' Then we will forget your unworthiness, or, if your modesty 
 likes better, I will love you and your unworthiness too. I do 
 not suppose you a faultless paragon, John. Papa told me that 
 you had been extravagant and foolish. You will not be extra- 
 vagant and foolish any more, will you, dear, when you are a 
 sober married man 1 ' 
 
 ' No, love.' 
 
 ' And we will both strive to do all the good we can with our 
 large fortune.' 
 
 ' You shall be the chief disposer of it.' 
 
 ' No, no, I would not have it so on any account. You must 
 be lord and master. I shall expect you to be quite the ideal 
 country squire, the sun and centre of our little universe, the 
 general benefactor. I will be your prime minister and adviser, 
 if you like. I know all the poor people for ten miles round, on 
 our estate, and on other people's land. I know their wants and 
 their weaknesses. Yes, John, I think I can help you in doing 
 much good ; in making improvements that will not ruin you, 
 and will make the lives of the labouring people much happier.' 
 
 ' Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and times of your desira? 
 I have no precious time at all to spend, 
 Nor services to do, till you require,' 
 
 quoted John, tenderly. ' Can I ever be happier than in obeying 
 you?' 
 
 ' Do you know that it will be a great happiness to me not te 
 leave the Manor,' said Laura, presently. ' You must not think 
 me mercenary, or that I value a big house and a large fortune. 
 It is not so, John. I could live quite contentedly on the income 
 papa left me, m*re than contentedly, in a cottage with you ; but 
 I love the Manor for its own sake. I know every tree in the 
 grounds, and have watched them all growing, and sketched and 
 painted them untd I almost know the form of every branch. 
 
Engaged. 97 
 
 And I have lived so long in these old rooms that I doubt if any 
 other rooms would ever look like home. It is a dear old house, 
 is it not, John 1 Will you no* be very proud when you are the 
 master of it ? ' 
 
 1 1 shall be very proud of my wife when I can dare to call her 
 mine. That will be pride enough for me/ answered John, draw- 
 ing her a little nearer to his heart. 'And now, I suppose I 
 ought to go and see Sampson, and tell him that everything is 
 definitely settled. When are we to be married, love ? My cousin 
 died on the 20th of January. We ought not to delay our 
 marriage longer than the end of this month.' 
 
 1 Let us be married on the last day of the month/ said Laura. 
 'It is the most solemn day in all the year. We shall never 
 forget the anniversary of our wedding if it is on that day.' 
 
 ' I should never forget it in any case/ answered John Trever- 
 ton. ' Let it be on that day, love. The closing year shall unite 
 me to you for life. I shall see Mr. Clare to-night, and arrange 
 everything.' 
 
 They were a long time saying ' Good-bye/ and just at the last 
 John Treverton suggested that Laura should put on her hat and 
 jacket and walk to the gates with him , so the first ' Good-b} r e ' 
 was wasted trouble. They were a long time walking to the 
 gates, and the early winter night had come, and the stars were 
 shining when they reluctantly parted. Laura tripped along the 
 avenue with as light a foot as Juliet's when she came to the 
 friar's cell to be married ; John Treverton went slowly down the 
 road towards Hazlehurst village, with his head bent upon his 
 breast, and all the joy faded out of his face. 
 
 He found Mr. Sampson and his sister just sitting down to 
 dinner, and was welcomed with enthusiasm by both. 
 
 ' Upon my soul, you're a most extraordinary fellow/ exclaimed 
 the lawyer, after a good deal of handshaking. ' You run off in 
 no end of a hurry, promising to come back in a week or two at 
 latest, and for six months we see no more of you ; and you don't 
 even favour your family solicitor with a line to say why you 
 don't come. There are not many men in England who would 
 play fast and loose with such chances as yours. Your cousin, 
 when he made that curious will of his, told me you had been 
 wild, but I was not prepared for such wildness as this.' 
 
 'Really, Tom/ remonstrated Miss Sampan, blushing the 
 Salmon pink peculiar to sandy -haired beauty, 'you have no 
 right to talk to Mr. Treverton like that.' 
 
 1 Yes, I have/ answered Sampson, who prided himself on his 
 open manner — his ' bonnomy/ as he called it ; ' I have the right 
 given me by a genuine interest in his affairs — the interest of a 
 friend rather than a lawyer. Yoa don't suppose it's for the sake 
 ©i the six-and-eightpences I take so much upon myself, Lizzie ? 
 
98 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 No, it is because I have a sincere regard for my old client! 
 kinsman, and a disinterested anxiety for his welfare.' 
 
 ' I think you may make your mind easy about me,' said John, 
 without any appearance of elation ; ' I am going to be married on 
 the last day of this month, and I want you to prepare the settlement 
 
 ' Bravo ! ' cried Tom Sampson, nourishing his napkin ; ' I'm 
 almost as glad as if I'd backed the winner of the double event 
 and woke up to find myself worth twenty thousand pounds. My 
 dear fellow, I congratulate you. The Hazlehurst property is a 
 good eight thousand a year. There's three thousand in ground 
 rents in Beechampton, and your dividends from railways aid 
 consols bring your income to a clean fourteen thousand.' 
 
 'If Miss Malcolm were penniless, I should be as proud of 
 winning her as I am now,' said John, gravely. 
 
 ' That's a very gentlemanlike way of looking at it,' exclaimed 
 the lawyer, as much as to say, ' We know all about it ; you are 
 bound to say that kind of thing.' 
 
 Miss Sampson looked down at her plate, and felt that appetite 
 was gone for ever. It was foolishness, no doubt, to feel so keen 
 a pang ; but girlhood is prone to foolishness, and Eliza Sampson 
 had not yet owned to thirty. She had known from the first that 
 John Treverton was to marry Laura Malcolm, and yet she had 
 allowed herself to indulge in secret worship at his shrine. He 
 was handsome and attractive, and Miss Sampson had seen so few 
 young men who were either one or the other, that she may be 
 forgiven for fixing her young unhackneyed affection on the firsi 
 distinguished stranger who came within the narrow orbit of hiMP 
 colourless life. 
 
 She had lived under the same roof with him ; she had handed 
 him his coffee in the morning, his tea — ah, how carefully creamed 
 and sugared ! : — in the evening. She had studied his tastes, and 
 catered for him with unfailing care. She had played Rosellen's 
 Reverie in G for his delectation every evening during his two 
 visits. She had sung his favourite ballads, and if her voice 
 sometimes failed her on the high notes, she made up in pathos 
 what she wanted in power. These things are not easily to be 
 forgotten by a youthful mind fed upon three-volume novels, and 
 naturally prone to sentiment. 
 
 ' Our wedding will be a very quiet affair,' said John Treverton, 
 presently ; ' Laura wishes it to be so, and I am of her mind. I 
 shall be glad if you will kindly refrain from talking about it to 
 anyone, Sampson, and you too, Miss Sampson. We don't want 
 to be objects of interest in the village.' 
 
 'I will be as dumb as a skin of parchment,' answered the 
 /awyer, ' and I know that Eliza will be the soul of discretion.' 
 
 Eliza looked up shyly at their guest, her white eyelashes 
 Quivering with emotion. 
 
Engaged. 99 
 
 'I ought to congratulate you, Mr. Treverton,' she faltered, 
 ' but it is all so sudden, so startling, that I can hardly find ■words.' 
 
 ' My dear Miss Sampson, I know your friendly feeling toward* 
 me,' John answered, with tranquil good-nature. 
 
 Oh, how cool he was, how cruelly indifferent to her feelings ! 
 And yet he ought to have known ! Had Eosellen's Reverie, 
 with the soft pedal down, said nothing ? 
 
 Later in the evening John Treverton and his host smoked 
 their cigars tite d tite in Mr. Sampson's office, beside the comfort- 
 able hearth, by which the lawyer was fonder of sitting than in 
 his sister's highly decorated drawing-room, among the starched 
 antimacassars, and chairs that were not to be sat on, and foot- 
 stools that were intended for anything rather than the accommo- 
 dation of the human foot. This unsociable habit of spending his 
 evenings aloof from the family circle Mr. Sampson excused on 
 the plea of business. 
 
 The two men sat opposite each other for some time in friendly 
 silence, John Treverton gravely meditative, Mr. Sampson in an 
 agreeable frame of mind. He was congratulating himself -on the 
 prospect of retaining his position as agent for the Treverton 
 Estate, which profitable stewardship must have been lost to him 
 if John Treverton had been so besotted in his folly as to forfeit 
 his heritage by refusing to comply with the conditions of his 
 kinsman's wilL 
 
 ' I want fully to understand my position,' said John, presently. 
 1 Am I free to make what settlement I please upon my future 
 wife V 
 
 ' You are free to settle anything which you at present possess, 
 answered the lawyer. 
 
 1 My present possessions amount to something less than a five 
 pound note.' 
 
 ' Then I don't think we need talk about a marriage settle- 
 ment. By the terms of your cousin's will his estate is to be held 
 in trust for a twelvemonth. If within that time you shall have 
 married Miss Malcolm, the estate will pass into your possession 
 at the end of the year. You can then make a post-nuptial 
 settlement, on as liberal a scale as you please ; but you cannot 
 give away what you do not possess.' 
 
 ' I see. It must be a post-nuptial settlement. Well, you 
 may as well take my instructions at once. You can rough-draft 
 the settlement, submit your draft to counsel, have it engrossed 
 and ready for execution upon the day on which I pass into 
 possession of the property.' 
 
 ' You are in a desperate hurry,' said Sampson, smiling at his 
 clienf s grave eagerness. 
 
 ' Life is full of desperate uncertainties. I want the welfare 
 of the woman I love to be assured, whatever fate may be mine,' 
 
100 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'That is a generous forethought rare in lovers. However 
 intensely they may love in the present, their love seldom takes 
 the form of solicitude for the beloved one's future. Hence 
 generation after generation of penniless widows and destitute 
 children. After me the deluge, is your lover's motto. Well, 
 Mr. Treverton, what do you propose to settle on your wife in 
 this post-nuptial deed ? ' 
 
 ' The entire estate, real and personal/ answered John Trever- 
 ton, quietly. 
 
 Mr. Sampson dropped his cigar, and sat transfixed, an image 
 of half -amused astonishment. 
 
 'This bangs Banagher ;' he exclaimed, 'you must be mad.' 
 
 ' No, I am only reasonable,' answered Treverton. ' The estate 
 was left to me nominally, to Laura Malcolm actually. What 
 was I to the testator 1 A blood relation, truly, but a stranger. 
 At the time he made that will he had never seen my face ; what 
 little he had ever heard of me must have been to my disadvan- 
 tage ; for my lif e has been one long mistake, and I have given no 
 man reason to sing my praises. What was Laura to him ? Hia 
 adopted daughter, the beloved and the affectionate companion of 
 his declining years ; his faithful nurse, his disinterested slave. 
 Whatever love he had to give must have been given to her. 
 She had grown up by his hearth. She had sweetened and 
 cheered his lonely life. He left his estate to me, in trust for 
 her ; so that he might keep his oath, and yet leave his wealth 
 where his heart prompted him to bestow it. He found in me a 
 convenient instrument for the carrying out of his wishes ; and I 
 have reason to be proud that he was not unwilling to trust me 
 with such a charge, to give me the being he held dearest. I 
 shall settle the whole of the estate on my wife, Sampson. I con- 
 sider myself bound in honour to do so.' 
 
 Mr. Sampson looked at his client with a prolonged and 
 searching gaze, a slow smile dawning on his somewhat stolid 
 countenance. 
 
 ' Don't be offended at my asking the question,' he said. ' Ar« 
 you in debt ? ' 
 
 ' I don't owe sixpence. I have lived a somewhat Bohemiaii 
 life, but I have not lived upon other people's money.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear that,' said Sampson, selecting a fresh 
 cigar from a comfortably -filled case, ' because if you imagine that 
 jy such a settlement as you propose you could escape the pay- 
 ment of any debts now existing you are mistaken. A man can 
 make no settlement to the injury of his creditors. As regards 
 future liability the case would be different, and if you were 
 deeply involved in commerce, a speculator, I could understand 
 your desire to shift the estate from your own shoulders to your 
 wife's. But as it is ' 
 
Engaged. 103 
 
 Can't you understand something not strictly commercial t 
 exclaimed John Treverton, waxing impatient. ' Can't you 
 understand that I want to obey the spirit as well as the letter of 
 my cousin Jasper's will ? I want to make his adopted daughter 
 tne actual mistress of the estate, in the same position she would 
 have naturally occupied had he never made that foolish vow.' 
 ' In so doing you make yourself a pensioner on her bounty.' 
 ' So be it. I am content to occupy that position. Come, my 
 dear Sampson, we need not argue the question any further. If 
 you won't draw up the form of settlement I want, I must find a 
 lawyer who will.' 
 
 _ ' My dear sir,' cried Tom Sampson, briskly, ' when a client of 
 mine is obstinately bent upon making a fool of himself, I always 
 see him through his folly. He had better make a fool of himself 
 in my hands than in anyone else's. I do not suffer by the loss of 
 his business, and I am vain enough to believe that he suffers less 
 than he would if he took his business to any other office. If you 
 have quite made up your mind, I am ready to rough-draft any 
 form of settlement you dictate ; but I am bound to warn you 
 that the dictation of such a settlement is a qualification for 
 Bedlam.' 
 
 'I will risk even as much as that. Nobody need know 
 anything about the settlement but you and I, and, later, my wife. 
 I shall not speak of it to her until it is ready for execution.' 
 
 Mr. Sampson, in a chronic state of wonder, took half a quire 
 of slippery blue foolscap, and began his draft, with a very 
 squeaky quill pen and a large consumption of ink. Simple and 
 uniform as the gift was which John Treverton wished to make 
 to his wife, the transfer of it required to be hedged round and 
 intertwined with so much legal phraseology that Tom Sampson 
 had consumed his half-quire of foolscap before he came to the 
 end of the draft. The estate had to be scheduled, and every 
 homestead and labourer's cottage had to be described in a phrase 
 of abstract grandeur, as ' all that so and so, commonly known as 
 so and so,' and so forth, with almost maddening iteration. John 
 Treverton, smoking his cigar, and letting his thoughts wander 
 away at a tangent every now and then to regions that were not 
 always paths of pleasantness, thought his host would never leave 
 ,off driving that inexorable quill— the sort of pen to sign a death- 
 warrant and feel none the worse for it — over the slippery 
 paper. 
 
 ' Come/ exclaimed Sampson, at last, ' I think that ties tha 
 estate up pretty tightly on your wife and her children after her. 
 She can squander the income as she pleases, and play old goose- 
 berry up to a certain point, but she can't put the tip of her little 
 linger on the principal. And now ycu have only to name two 
 responsible men as trusteea' 
 
102 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 1 don't know two respectable men in the world/ said John, 
 frankly. 
 
 'Yes, you do. You know the vicar of this parish, and yoa 
 know me. Your cousin Jasper considered us worthy to be 
 trustees to his will. You need hardly be afraid to make us 
 trustees to your marriage settlement.' 
 
 * I have no objection, and I certainly know no better men.' 
 
 ' Then we'll consider it settled. I'll send the deed to counsel 
 by to-morrow's post. I hope you quite understand that this 
 settlement will make you a pauper — wholly dependent upon 
 your wife. If you were to throw yourself on the parish, she 
 would have to maintain you. Bar that, she may use you as 
 badly as she likes.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of her ill-usuage.' 
 
 ' Upon my honour and conscience,' mused Thomas Sampson, 
 as he laid himself down to rest that night. 'I believe John 
 Treverton is over head and ears in love with Miss Malcolm. 
 Nothing but love or lunacy can explain his conduct. Which is 
 it ? Well, perhaps the line that divides the two is only a distinc* 
 tion without a difference.' 
 
 CHAPTEB XL 
 
 NO TKOUSSEAU. 
 
 Laura was utterly happy in the brief interval between her 
 betrothal and her wedding. She had given her love and trust 
 unreservedly, feeling that duty and love went hand in hand. In 
 following the inclination of her heart she was obeying the behest 
 of her benefactor. She had been very fond of Jasper Treverton 
 had loved him as truly as ever daughter loved a father. It 
 seemed the most natural process to transfer her love from the 
 adopted father to his young kinsman. The old man in his grave 
 was the bond of union between the girl and her lover. 
 
 ' How pleased papa would have been if he could have known 
 that John and I would be so fond of each other,' she said to her- 
 self, innocently. 
 
 Celia Clare hurried back from Brighton, eager to assist her 
 friend at this momentous crisis of her life. 
 
 ' Brighton was quite too delightful,' said Celia, ' but not for 
 worlds would I be absent from you at such a time. Poor soul, 
 what would you have done without me ? ' 
 
 ' Dear Celia, you know how fond I am of you, but I think I 
 could really have managed to get married without your assis- 
 
No Trov&sem, 108 
 
 'Get married! Yes, but how would you have done it?' 
 cried Celia, making her eyes very round and big. ' You would 
 have made a most horrid muddle of it. Now, what about your 
 trousseau ? I'll wager you have hardly thought of it.' 
 
 * There you are wrong. I have ordered two travelling dresses, 
 and a handsome dinner dress.' 
 
 'And your collars and cuffs, your handkerchiefs, your peig- 
 noirs, your camisoles,' pursued Celia, enumerating a string of 
 articles. 
 
 ' My dear child, do you suppose I have lived all these years 
 without cuffs and collars, and handkerchiefs ? ' 
 
 'Laura, unless you have everything new you might just as 
 well not be married at all.' 
 
 ' Then you may consider my marriage no marriage, for I am 
 not troubling myself about new things.' 
 
 ' Give me carte blanche and leave everything to me. What 
 is the use of my sacrificing Brighton just when it was more than 
 too enchanting, unless I can be of some use to you 1 ' 
 
 'Well, Celia, in order that you may not be unhappy,. I will 
 give you per m ission to review my wardrobe, and if you find an 
 alarming dearth of collars and handkerchiefs I'll drive you to 
 Beechampton in the pony carriage, and you shall buy whatever 
 you think proper.' 
 
 'Beechampton is hideously behind the age, disgustingly ddmodi, 
 and your things ought to be in the latest style. I'll look through 
 the advertisements in the Queen, and send to London for patterns. 
 It is no use having new things if they are not in the newest 
 fashion. One does not wear out one's cuffs and collars — they go 
 out.' 
 
 ' You shall have carte blanche, dear, if it will atone for the 
 loss of Brighton.' 
 
 ' My dearest girl, you know I would not desert you at such a 
 crisis of your life for forty Brightons,' cried Celia, who had lofty 
 ideas about friendship ; ' and now about your wedding gown 1 
 That is the most important point of ahY 
 
 ' It is ordered' 
 
 ' You did not mention it just now.' 
 
 ' Did I not ? I am going to be married in one of the gowns I 
 ordered for travelling, a mixture of grey silk and velvet, the 
 jacket trimmed with chinchilla. I think it will be very handsome.' 
 
 Celia fell back in her chair as if she were going to faint. 
 
 ' No wedding gown ! ' she cried ; ' no trousseau, and no 
 wedding gown ! This is indeed an ill-omened marriage 1 Well 
 may poor Edward talk.' 
 
 Laura flushed indignantly at this last sentence. 
 
 'Pray what has your brother been saying against my 
 warriage?' she asked, haughtily 
 
104 TJie Cloven Feot. 
 
 'Well, dear, yon cannot expect him to feel particularly 
 pleasant about it, knowing — as you must know — how he has 
 gone on doting upon you, and hoping against hope, for the last 
 three years. I don't want to make you unhappy, but I must 
 confess that Edward has a very bad opinion of Mr. Treverton.' 
 
 'I daresay Mr. Treverton will manage to exist without 
 Edward's good opinion.' 
 
 ' He thinks there is something so utterly mysterious in his 
 conduct — something insulting to you in the fact of his holding 
 himself aloof so long, and then coming back at the last moment, 
 just in time to secure the estate ! ' 
 
 ' I am the best judge of Mr. Treverton's conduct,' answered 
 Laura, deeply wounded. ' If I can trust him other people may 
 spare themselves the trouble of speculating upon his motives.' 
 
 ' And you can trust him ? ' asked Celia, anxiously. 
 
 ' "With all my heart and soul.' 
 
 ' Tfcen have a proper wedding gown,' exclaimed Celia, as if the 
 whole question of bliss or woe were involved in that one detail. 
 
 When next Miss Malcolm met Edward Clare there was a 
 ooolness in her greeting which the young man could not mistake. 
 
 'What have I done to offend you, Laura?' he asked, 
 piteously. 
 
 ' I am offended with everyone who doubts the honour of my 
 future husband,' she answered. 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that,' he said, gloomily. ' A man cannot help 
 his thoughts.' 
 
 ' A man can hold his tongue,' said Laura. 
 
 ' Well, I will be silent henceforth. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Where are you going 1 ' 
 
 ' Anywhere, anywhere out of the world ; that is to say out of 
 this little world of Hazlehurst. I think I am going to London. 
 I shall take a lodging close to the British Museum, and work 
 hard at literature. It is time I made my mark.' 
 
 Laura thought so too. Edward had been talking of making 
 his mark for the last five years, but the mark as yet was a very 
 feeble one. 
 
 Next day he was gone, and Laura had a sense of relief in hig 
 absence. 
 
 Celia stayed at the Manor-honse during the time before the 
 wedding. She was always in attendance upon the lovers, drove 
 with them, walked with them, sat by the fire with them at the 
 cheery, dusky afternoon tea time, when those mysterious shadows 
 that looked like guardian angels came and went upon the walls. 
 John Treverton seemed to have no objection to Ceiia's company, 
 he rather courted it, even. He was not an ardent lover, Celia 
 thought ; and yet it would have been difficult to doubt that he was 
 deeply in love. Never since that first evening had Laura's head 
 
No Trousseau. 105 
 
 rested against his breast, never since then had he givau full and 
 unrestrained utterance te his passion. His manner was full of 
 reverent affection ; as if he respected his betrothed almost too 
 deeply to be lavish in the expression of warmer feeling ; as if she 
 stood so high above him in his thoughts of her that love was a 
 kind of worship. 
 
 'I think I should like a more demonstrative lover,' said 
 Celia, with a critical air. ' Mr. Treverton is so awfully serious.' 
 
 'And now that you have seen more of him, Celia, are you 
 still inclined to think that he is mercenary ; that it is the estate 
 and not me he cares for ? ' asked Laura, with no fear as to the 
 answer. 
 
 ' No, dear, I honestly believe that he adores you, that he ia 
 dreadfully, desperately, almost despairingly, in love with you,' 
 answered Celia, very seriously, ' but still he is not my style of 
 lover. He is too melancholy.' 
 
 Laura had no answer to this objection. As the days had 
 hurried on towards the end of this eventful year her lover's 
 spirits had assuredly not grown lighter. He was full of thought, 
 curiously absent-minded at times. She, too, grew grave in 
 sympathy with him. 
 
 ' It is such a solemn crisis of our lives,' she thought. ' Some- 
 times I feel as if all things could not go happily to the end, as if 
 something must happen to part us, at the very last, on the eve of 
 our wedding day.' 
 
 The eve of the wedding came, and brought no calamity. It 
 was a very quiet evening. The lovers dined together at the 
 vicarage, and walked to the Manor-house afterwards, alone with 
 each other, almost for the first time since the night of their 
 betrothal. Everything had been arranged for to-morrow's wed- 
 ding ! Such a quiet wedding ! No one had been invited except 
 Mr. Sampson and his sister. The vicar's wife was to be present, 
 of course. She would in a manner represent the bride's mother. 
 Celia was to be the only bridesmaid. They were to be married 
 by licence, and no one in the village had as yet any inkling of 
 the event. The servants at the Manor-house had only been told 
 the date of the marriage within the last two days, and had been 
 lorbidden to talk about it ; and as they were old servants, who 
 had long learned to identify themselves with ' the family,' they 
 were not likely to disobey Miss Malcolm's orders. 
 
 The house, always the perfection of neatness, had been swept 
 ■and garnished for this important occasion. The chintz covers 
 had been taken off the chairs and sofas in the drawing-room, 
 revealing tapestry wreaths and clusters of flowers, worked by 
 Jasper Treverton's mother and aunts in a period of almost awfol 
 remoteness. The housekeeper had been baking her honest old 
 face in front of & huge kitchen fire, while she stirred her jellies, 
 
106 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 and watched her custards, and turned her game pie. There was 
 to be a breakfast fit for the grandest wedding, though Misa 
 Malcolm had told Mrs. Trimmer that a very simple meal would 
 be wanted. 
 
 * You mustn't deny me the pleasure of doing my best, at such 
 % time,' urged the faithful servant. ' I should feel it a reproach 
 to me all the rest of my life if I didn't. There shan't be no 
 extravagance, Miss, but I must put a pretty breakfast on the 
 table. I'm so glad our barberry bushes bore well this year. The 
 berries make such a tasty garnish for cold dishes.' 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer was roasting herself and her poultry in the 
 spacious old kitchen, at ten o'clock at night, while John and 
 Laura were coming from the vicarage, arm in arm, Laura 
 strangely glad to have him all to herself for one little half hour, 
 he vexatiously silent. Celia was at the Manor-house, laid up 
 with a headache and a new novel. She had excused herself from 
 the dinner in her usual flippant style. 
 
 ' Give them my love, and say I was too seedy to come,' she 
 said. 'Going to dine with one's parents is quite too slow. I 
 dined with them on Christmas Day, you know ; and Christmas Day 
 at the vicarage has always been the quintessence of dulness. 
 The thing I wondered at most, when I came of age, was how 
 I ever could have lived through twenty-one of our Christmases.' 
 
 They were thus, by happy accident, as Laura thought, alone 
 together ; and, behold 1 the lover, the bridegroom of to-morrow, 
 had not a word to say. 
 
 ' John,' Laura began softly at last, almost afraid to break this 
 gloomy silence, ' there is one thing you have not told me, and yet 
 it is what most girls in my position would call a very important 
 matter.' 
 
 ? What is that, dearest ? ' 
 
 ' You have never told me where we are to spend our honey- 
 moon. Celia has been worrying we with questions abo«t our 
 plans, and I have found it difficult to evade her. I did not llKe 
 to confess my ignorance.' 
 
 A simple and a natural question surely, yet John Treverton 
 started, as at the sharpest thrust that Fate could have at him. 
 
 ' My dearest love — I — I have really not thought about it,' he 
 answered, stumblingly. ' We will go anywhere you like. We 
 will decide to-morrow, after the wedding.' 
 
 ' Is not that a rather unusual mode of proceeding V asked 
 Laura, with a faint laugh. 
 
 She was somewhat wounded by this show of indifference as to 
 the very first stage in their journey through life. She would 
 have liked her lover to be full of wild schemes, to be eager to 
 take her everywhere — to the Engadine, the Black Forest, the 
 Bnglisb, Lakes, Killarney, the Trossaehs — all in a breath. 
 
An Ill-omened Wedding. 207 
 
 'Are not all the circumstances of our marriage unusual V lie 
 replied gravely. ' There is only one thing certain, there is only 
 one thing sweet and sacred in the "whole business — we love each 
 other truly and dearly. That is certain, is it not, Laura 1 ' 
 
 * On my side quite certain.' 
 
 ' And on my side quite as certain as that I live and that I 
 shall die. Our love is deep and fixed, rooted in the very ground 
 of our lives, is it not, Laura 1 Nothing, no stroke of time or fate 
 can change it.' 
 
 ' No stroke of time or fate can change my love for you,' she 
 said, solemnly. 
 
 i That is all I W2.4 to know. That is the certainty which 
 makes my soul glad and hopeful' 
 
 ' Why should it be otherwise ? Were there ever two people 
 more fortunate than you and I. My dear adopted father dies, 
 leaving a will that might have made us both wretched, that 
 might have tempted you to pretend a love you could not feel, me 
 to give myself to a man I could not love. But instead of any 
 such misery as that, we fall in love with each other, almost at 
 first sight, and feel that Providence meant us for each other, and 
 that we could be happy together in the deepest poverty ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said John, meditatively, ' it is odd that my cousin 
 Jasper should have been so sure we should suit each other.' 
 
 ' There is a Providence in these things,' murmured 
 Laura. 
 
 ' If I could but think so/ said her lover, rather to himself than 
 to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 AN ILL-OMENED WEDDING. 
 
 The last day of the year, nature's dullest, dreariest interval 
 between the richness of aut umn and the fresh young beauty of 
 spring. Not a flower in the prim old Manor-house garden, save a 
 melancholy tea-rose, that looked white and wan under the dull 
 grey sky, and a few pallid chrysanthemums, with ragged petals 
 and generally deplorable aspect. 
 
 ' What a miserable morning ! ' exclaimed Celia, shivering, as 
 she looked out of Laura's dressing-room window at the sodden lawn 
 and the glistening yew-tree hedge, beyond which stretched a dismal 
 perspective of leafles apple-trees, and the tall black poplars that 
 marked the boundary of the home pastures, where the pretty grey 
 Jersey cows had such a happy time in spring and summer. 
 
108 The, Cbven Foot. 
 
 Laura and her companion were taking an early breakfast — a 
 meal at which neither could eat — by the dressing-room fire. 
 Both young women were in a state of nervous agitation, but 
 while one was restless and full of talk, the other sat pale and silent, 
 too deeply moved for any show of emotion. 
 
 ' Drip, drip, drip,' cried Celia, pettishly, ' one of those odious 
 Scotch mists, that is as likely to last for a week as for an hour. 
 Nice draggle-tail creatures we shall look after we have walked up 
 that long churchyard path under such rain as this. Well, really, 
 Laura, don't think me unkind for saying so, but I do call this an 
 ill-omened wedding.' 
 
 ' Do you 1 ' said Laura, with a faint smile. ' Do you really 
 suppose that it will make any difference to my future life whether 
 I am married on a rainy day or on a fine one ? I rather like the 
 idea of going out of the dulness into the sunshine, for I know our 
 wedded life will be full of sunshine.' 
 
 ' How confident you are ! ' exclaimed Celia, wonderingly. 
 
 ' What have I to fear ? We love each other dearly. How 
 can we fail to be happy ? ' 
 
 ' That's all very well, but I should have been easier in my 
 mind if you had had a wedding gown. Think how awkward it will 
 be, by-and-by, when you are asked to dinner parties. As a 
 bride you will be expected to appear in ivory satin and orange 
 blossoms. People will hardly believe in you.' 
 
 ' How many dinner parties are likely to be given within ten 
 miles of Hazlehurst during the next six months 1 ' asked Laura. 
 
 ' Not many, I admit,' sighed Celia. ' One might as well live 
 on the Gold Coast, or at some remote station in Bengal. Of 
 course, papa and mamma will give a dinner in your honour, and 
 Miss Sampson will ask you totea. Oh, Miss Sampson's teas, with 
 the tea and coffee handed round on an electro-plated salver, and 
 Bosellen's Reverie in G on the cracked old piano, and vingt et iim 
 at the loo-table, and anchovy sandwiches, blanc-mange, and jelly 
 to wind up the wild dissipations of the evening. Then there are 
 the county families, bounded on the east by Sir Joshua Parker, 
 •and on the north by the Dowager Lady Barker. You will have 
 stately calls from them. Lady Barker will regret that she ha<* 
 left off giving dinner parties since her lamented husband's death. 
 Lady Parker will square accounts by sending you a card for a 
 garden party next July.' 
 
 This conversation took place at half -past eight. At ten the twe 
 girls were dressed and ready to drive to the church. Laura looked 
 lovely in her grey silk travelling dress, and grey Gainsborough 
 hat, with its drooping ostrich plume. 
 
 ' One thing I can honestly say, from the bottom of my heart,' 
 exclaimed Ceha, and Laura turned to her with a smile, expecting 
 tp hear something interesting ; ' you have out and away the 
 
All El-ome?ied Wedding. 109 
 
 handsomest ostrich feather I ever saw in my life. Ycr.i may 
 leave it to me in your will if you like. I'm sure I took trouble 
 enoiqgh. to get it ; and you ought to be grateful to me for getting 
 your hat to match your gown so exactly.' 
 
 And now they are driving along the muddy road, between 
 bare ranks of dark and dripping trees, and under as dull and 
 colourless a sky as ever roofed in Hazlehurst. The old church, 
 with its queer corners and darksome side-aisles, its curious gal- 
 lery pews in front of the organ, something like boxes at a theatre, 
 where the aristocracy sit in privileged retirement, its hatchments, 
 its old-fashioned pulpit, reading-desk, and clerk's desk, its faded 
 crimson cushions and draperies — a church which the restorers 
 hand ha3 never improved, for whose adornment no devout ladies 
 have toiled and striven, the dull old-world parish church of the 
 last century — looked its darkest and gloomiest to-day. Not even 
 the presence of youth and beauty could brighten and enliven it. 
 
 John Treverton, and Mr. Sampson, who was to give the bride 
 away, were the last to arrive. The bridegroom was deadly pale, and 
 the smile with which he met his bride, though full of fondest love, 
 was wanting in gladness. Celia performed her duty as brides- 
 maid in a business-like way, worthy of the highest praise. Mr. 
 Clare read the service deliberately and well, the pale bridegroom 
 spoke out manfully when his time came ; nor did Laura's low 
 voice falter when she pronounced the words that sealed her fate. 
 
 The wedding breakfast was quietly cheerful. That the bride- 
 groom should have very little to say, and that the bride should 
 be pale and thoughtful, surprised no one. The vicar and the 
 lawyer were in excellent spirits ; Celia's lively tongue chimed in 
 at every opportunity. Mrs. Clare was full of friendly anticipa- 
 tions about what the young couple would do when they settled 
 down. The dull, damp morning had sharpened people's appetites, 
 and there was a good deal said in praise of the game pie and the 
 truffled turkey ; while the old wines that had been brought forth, 
 mantled in cobwebs, from the dark recesses of Jasper Treverton's 
 cellar, were good enough to evolve faint flashes of wit from the 
 most sluggish brain. Thus the wedding breakfast, which had 
 the air of a small family gathering, went off pleasantly e./Ough. 
 
 The bride and bridegroom were not to start on their travels 
 till after dark. They were going northward by the mail, on 
 their way to Dover. 
 
 Very little had been said about the honeymoon. It was only 
 vaguely understood that John Treverton and his wife were going 
 to the South of France. The vicar had to hurry off soon after 
 breakfast, to read the funeral service over the coffin of a vener- 
 able parishioner, and the rest of the company took bis depar- 
 ture as a signal to disperpe. There was nothing to df tain them. 
 Tins marriage was not as other marriages. There we e to be bo 
 
110 The Cloven Foot. j 
 
 evening revels, there was no dazzling array of wedding gifts t<i 
 stare at and talk about. Laura had so few friends that her 
 wedding presents could have been reckoned on the fingers of the 
 little white hand that looked so strange and wonderful in her 
 eyes, glorified with a brand new ring, a broad and solid band of 
 gold, strong enough to wear till her golden wedding. The few 
 guests felt that there was nothing more for them to do but to 
 take their leave, with much reiteration of good wishes, and 
 cheery anticipations of the festivities which were to enliven the 
 old house, when the honeymoon should have waned. 
 
 And now all were gone ; the brief winter day was closing, the 
 new year was coming with hastening footsteps. Only the merest 
 rensaant of the old year remained. How silent the house was in 
 the winter gloaming, silent with an almost death-like stillness ! 
 Laura and Celia had spun out their parting to the last moment, 
 lingering together in the hall long after the rest had gone. Celia 
 had so much to say, so many injunctions about cuffs and collars, 
 and the time and seasons at which Laura was to wear her 
 various gowns. And then there were little gushes of affection, 
 hugs and squeezes. 
 
 ' You won't care one iota for me now you've a husband,' mur- 
 mured Celia. 
 
 ' You know better, you silly girl. My marriage will not make 
 the slightest difference in my feelings.' 
 
 ' Oh, but it always does,' said Celia, with an experienced air. 
 1 "When a man marries, the friends of his bachelor days go to the 
 wall ; everybody knows that ; and if s just the same thing with 
 a girl I expect to find myself nowhere.' 
 
 Laura declared she would always be true to friendship, and 
 thus they parted, Celia running home by herself, with all her 
 wedding finery smothered under a waterproof Ulster. The rain 
 had ceased by this time, and there was the red gleam of a wintry 
 sunset in the west. 
 
 The hall-door shut with a clang that echoed in the silence of 
 the house, and Laura went slowly back to the drawing-room, 
 wondering a little to* find herself alone in the gloom of twilight 
 on her wedding day. It was altogether so different from the 
 ordinary idea of a wedding — this delayed departure, this uncom- 
 fortable interval between the festivity of the wedding breakfast 
 and the excitement of the wedding journey. 
 
 She found the drawing-room empty. She had left John Tre- 
 verton there with Mr. Sampson half an hour ago, when she went 
 upstairs to assist in packing Celia in the waterproof, and now 
 both were gone. The spacious room, splendid with an old-fashioned 
 splendour, was lighted only by the fading wood fire. The white 
 panelled walls and antique mirrors had a ghostly look; the 
 shadowy corners were too awful t© contemplate. 
 
An El-omened Wedding. Ill 
 
 1 Perhaps I shall find him in the study/ Laura said to herself, 
 I It is kettledrum time.' 
 
 She laughed softly to herself. How new, how strange it 
 would be to sit down tete & tete at the oval tea-table, man and 
 wife, settled in domesticity for life, no further doubt of each 
 other or of their fate possible to either — the bargain made, the bond 
 sealed, the pledge given, that could be broken only by death. 
 
 She went slowly through the silence of the house to the 
 room at the end of the corridor, the little book-room opening 
 into the flower garden. She opened the door softly, meaning to 
 steal in and surprise her husband in some pleasant reverie, but 
 on the threshold she stopped appalled, struck dumb. 
 
 He was sitting in an attitude of deepest dejection, his forehead 
 resting on his folded arms, his face hidden. Sobs, such as but 
 seldom come from the agonized heart of a strong man, were 
 tearing the heart of John Treverton. He had given himself up, 
 body and soul, to the passion of an unconquerable despair. 
 
 Laura ran to him, bent over him, drew her arm gently round 
 his neck. 
 
 ' Dearest, what is amiss 1 ' she asked, tenderly, with trembling 
 lips. ' Such grief, and on such a day as this ! Something 
 dreadful must have happened. Oh, tell me, love, tell me ! ' 
 
 ' I can tell you nothing,' he answered, hoarsely, putting her 
 arm away as he spoke. ' Leave me, Laura. If you pity me, 
 leave me to fight my battle alone. It is the only kindness you 
 can show me.' 
 
 1 Leave you, and in such grief as this ! No, John, I have a 
 right to share your sorrow. I will not go till you have confided 
 in me. Trust me, love, trust me. Whom can you trust if not 
 your wife 1 ' 
 
 'You don't know,' he gasped, almost angrily. "There are 
 griefs you cannot share — a depth of torture you can never 
 fathom. God forbid that your pure young soul should ever 
 descend into that black gulf. Laura, if you love, if you pity 
 me — and indeed, dear love, I need all your pity — leave me now 
 for a little while ; leave me to finish my straggle alone. It is a 
 struggle, Laura, the fiercest this weak soul of mine has ever 
 passed through. Come back in an hour, dear, and then — you 
 will know — I can explain some part, at least, of this mystery. 
 In an hour, in an hour,' he repeated, with increasing agitation, 
 pointing with a wavering hand to the door. 
 
 Laura stood for a moment or so, irresolute, deeply moved, her 
 womanly dignity, her pride as a wife, hurt to the quick. Then, 
 with -a some, half sad, half bitter, she softly quoted the gentle 
 speech of Shakespeare's gentlest heroine : — 
 
 ' Shall I deny yon ? No : Farewell, my lord- 
 "Whate'er you be, I am obedient.' 
 
J 12 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 And with those words she left him, foil of painful wonder. 
 
 If she could have seen the agonized look he turned upon her 
 as she left him ; if she could have seen him start and shiver as 
 the door closed upon her, and rise and rush to the door, and 
 kneel down and press his lips upon the insensible panel her hand 
 had touched, and beat his forehead against the dull wood in a 
 paroxysm of despair, she might have better estimated the strength 
 of his love and the bitterness of his grief. 
 
 She went to her own room, and sat wondering helplessly 
 at this trouble and mystery that had come down like a sudden 
 storm-cloud upon the brightness of her new life. What did it 
 mean ? Had all his professions of love been false ? Had he 
 bound himself to her for the sake of his cousin's fortune, despite 
 all his protestations to the contrary ? Did he love some one 
 else 1 Was there some older, dearer tie that made this bond of 
 to-day intolerable to him 1 Whatever the cause of his repentance, 
 it was clear to Laura's mind that her husband of a few hours 
 bitterly repented his marriage. Never surely had such deep 
 humiliation fallen upon a woman. 
 
 She sat in the firelit dressing-room, looking straight befote 
 her, numbed and helpless in her grief and humiliation. Reflec- 
 tion could throw no new light upon her husband's conduct. What 
 reason could he have for grief or regret, if he loved her ? Never 
 had fortune smiled more kindly upon man and wife than upon 
 these two. 
 
 She looked back upon the days of their brief courtship, and 
 remembered many things which favoured the idea that he had 
 never really loved her, that he had been actuated by mercenary 
 considerations alone. She remembered how cold a lover he had 
 been, how seldom he had courted her confidence, how little he 
 had told of his own life, how glad he had always seemed of 
 Celia's company, frivolous and even fatiguing as that young lady's 
 conversation was apt to be. It was all too clear. She had been 
 duped and fooled by this man to whom she had so freely given 
 her heart, from whom she had asked nothing but candour and 
 plain dealing. She lived through that hour of waiting somehow. 
 It was the longest hour she had ever known. Her maid came to 
 attend to the fire, and light the candles on dressing-table and 
 mantelpiece, and lingered a little, pretending to be busied abooft 
 the trunks and travelling bags expecting her mistress to talk tC 
 her, and then departed softly, to go back to the revellers in the 
 housekeeper's room, where the atmosphere was heavily charged 
 with tea and buttered toast, and to tell them how dull the bride 
 looked, and how she had sat like a statue and said never a word. 
 
 ' Who was it went out at the front door just now ? ' asked the 
 eld butler, looking up from a cup of tea which he had been 
 gently fanning wi3i bis breath ' I heard it shut to.' 
 
An IU-omened Wedding. 113 
 
 • It must 'ave bin Mr. Treverton,' said Mary, Laura's maid 
 ' I met 'im in the 'all. I dessay he -were goin' out to smoke his 
 cigar. It was too dark for me to see his face, but he didn't walk 
 as, gay and light as a gentleman ought on his wedding day, to my 
 mind,' added Mary, with authority. 
 
 • Well, I dunno,' remarked Mr. Trimmer, the butler, solemnly. 
 1 Perhaps a wedding ain't altogether the comfortablest day in a 
 man's life. There's too many eyes upon him. He feels as he's 
 the objick of everybody's notice, and if he's a delicate-minded 
 man it kind of preys upon him. I can quite understand Mr. 
 Treverton's not feeling quite himself to-day. And then you see 
 he comes into the estate by a fluke, as you may say, and he 
 ain't got it yet, and he won't feel himself independent till the 
 year's out, and the property is 'anded over to him.' 
 
 Mr. Trimmer did not drop his aspirates habitually, like Mary; 
 he only let one slip now and then when he was impressive. 
 
 The hour was ended. For the last twenty minutes Laura had 
 been sitting with her watch in her hand. Now she rose with 
 her heart beating tumultuously, and went quickly down the wide 
 old staircase, hastening to hear her husband's explanation of his 
 extraordinary conduct. He had promised to explain. 
 
 Had she not been very foolish in torturing herself for this 
 last hour with vain endeavours to fathom the mystery ? 
 
 Had she not been still more foolish when she jumped at con- 
 clusions, and made up her mind that John Treverton did not 
 love her 1 There might be twenty other reasons for his grief, 
 she told herself, now that the hour of suspense was ended, and 
 that she was going to hear his explanation. 
 
 She trembled as she drew near the door, and felt as if in 
 another moment she might stumble and fall fainting on the 
 threshold. She was approaching the most critical moment of 
 her life, the very turning - point of her destiny. All must 
 depend upon what John Treverton had to say to her in the 
 next few minutes. She opened the door and went in, breathless, 
 incapable of speech. She felt that she could ask him no 
 questions, she could only stand there and listen to all he had 
 to tell. 
 
 The room was empty, Laura could just see as much as that in 
 fee fitful glow of the fire ; and then a jet of flame leaped sud- 
 denly out of the dimness like a living thing, and showed her a 
 letter lying on the table. He had written to her. That which 
 he had to tell was too terrible for speech, and he had, therefore, 
 written. Hope and comfort died within her at the sight of that 
 letter. She hurried back to her di easing-room, where she had 
 left the candles burning, locked herself in, and then, standing, 
 faint and still trembling, by the mantelpiece, she tor© open the 
 envelope and read her husband's letter. 
 
 H 
 
114 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'Dearest astd Ever Dearest, — 
 
 * When this letter is in your hands I shall have left yon, in 
 all probability for a long time, perhaps for ever. I love you as 
 dearly, as fondly, as passionately as ever man loved woman, and 
 the pain of leaving you is worse than the pain of death. Life is 
 not so sweet to me as you are. This world holds no other delight 
 for me but your sweet company, your heavenly love ; yet I, the 
 most miserable of men, must forego both. 
 
 1 Dearest, I have done a shameful and perhaps a foolish act. 
 I have committed a crime in order to bind your life with mine, 
 somehow,intherashhopethatsomedaythatbondmay be made legal 
 and complete. Two ends are served by this act of mine. I have won 
 you from all other men — John Treverton's wife will have no suitor 
 — and I have secured you the possession of your old home and 
 your adopted father's fortune. His desire is at least realized by 
 this sad and broken wedding of ours. 
 
 ' Dearest love, I must leave you, because there is an old tie 
 which forbids me as a man of honour to be more to you than I 
 now am. Your husband in name ; your defender and champion, 
 if need were, before all the world ; your adoring slave, in secret 
 and in absence, to the day of my death. If Fate prove kind, 
 this bond of which I speak will not last for ever. My fetters 
 will fall off some day, and I shall return to you a free man. Oh, 
 my love, pity and forgive me, keep a place in your heart for me 
 always, and believe that in acting as I have acted I have been 
 prompted by love alone. I shall not touch a sixpence of my 
 cousin's fortune till I can come back to you, a free man, and 
 receive wealth and happh-jss from you. Till then you will be 
 sole mistress of Hazlehurst Manor, and all that goes with it. Mr. 
 Sampson will tell you what settlement I have made — a settlement 
 that will be duly executed by me upon the day on which I 
 become the ostensible owner of my cousin Jasper's estate. 
 
 4 My beloved, I can say no more ; I dare reveal no more. If 
 you deign to think at all of one who has so deceived you, think of me 
 pityingly as the most deeply wretched of men. Forgive me if 
 you can ; and I dare even to hope for pardon from the infinite 
 
 Esdness of your nature. It is sweet to me in my misery to 
 ow that you bear my name — that there is a link between us 
 that can never be broken, even though Fate should be cruel 
 enough to part us for life. But I hope for better things from 
 destiny ; I hope for and look forward to a time when I shall sign 
 myself with pride and gladness more intense than the pain I feel 
 to-day, your loving husband, John Treverton.' 
 
 She stood for some minutes pale as marble, with the letter 
 in her hand, and then she lifted the senseless paper to her lips, 
 and kissed it passionately. 
 
 ' He loves me,' she cried involuntarily. ' Thank God for that. 
 I can bear anything now I am sure of that' 
 
An El-omenea Wedding. 115 
 
 She believed implicitly in the letter. A woman with wider 
 knowledge of the evil things of this world might have seen only 
 a tissue of lies in these wild lines of John Treverton's ; but to 
 Laura they meant truth and truth alone. He had acted very 
 wickedly ; but he loved her. He had done her almost the deepest 
 wrong a man could do to a woman ; but he loved her. He had 
 duped and fooled her, made her ridiculous in the sight of her 
 friends and acquaintance ; but he loved Ler. That one virtue in 
 him almost atoned for all hia crimes. 
 
 ' There's not the least use in my trying to hate him/ she told 
 herself, in piteous self-abasement, ' for I love him with all my 
 heart and souh I suppose I am a mean-spirited young woman, I 
 a poor creature, for I cannot leave off loving him, though he has 
 treated me very cruelly, and almost broken my heart.' 
 
 She locked the letter in the secret drawer of her dressing-case, 
 and then sat down on a low stool by the fire and wept very 
 quietly over this new, strange sorrow. 
 
 ' Celia was right,' she said to herself, by-and-by, with a bitter 
 smile. ' It was an ill-omened marriage. She need not have taken 
 so much trouble about my collars and cuffs.' 
 
 And then later she began to think of the difficulties, the 
 absurdity of her position. 
 
 ' Wife and widow,' she thought, ' with a husband who ran 
 away from me on my wedding-day. How am I to account to 
 the world for his conduct ? What a foolish, miserable creature I 
 shall appear.' 
 
 It came suddenly into her mind that she could not endure, 
 not yet awhile, at any rate, to have to explain her husband's con- 
 duct — to give some reason for his desertion of her. Anything 
 would be better than that. She must run away somewhere. 
 She must leave the revelation to time. It would be easier for 
 her to write to her old friend the vicar from a distance. 
 
 She could bear anything rather than to be cross-examined 
 by Celia, who had always distrusted John Treverton, and 
 who might be secretly elated at his having proved himself an 
 impostor. 
 
 ' I must go away at once,' she decided ; ' this very night. I 
 must go for my honeymoon alone.' 
 
 She rang, and Mary came quickly, flushed with tea, buttered 
 toast, and the hilarity below stairs. 
 
 ' What time is the carriage to come for us, Mary ? ' askad Mrs, 
 Treverton. 
 
 'At a quarter to eight, ma'am. The mail goes at twenty 
 minutes before nine.' 
 
 ' And it is just half-past six. Mary, do you think you could 
 get ready to go with me in an hour and a quarter 1 ' 
 
 It had been arranged that Laura was to travel without a maid, 
 
116 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 much to the disappointment of Mary, who had an ardent desira 
 to see foreign lands. 
 
 ■ Loi^, ma'am, I haven't a thing packed ; but I should dearly 
 like to go. Do you really mean it 1 ' . 
 
 ' I do mean it, and I shall be very much pleased with you if 
 you'll contrive to pack your trunk in time to go with me.' 
 
 ' I'll do it, ma'am,' cried Mary, clasping her hands in ecstasy, 
 and then she tore downstairs like a mad thing to announce to 
 the assembly in the housekeeper's room that she was going to 
 France with her mistress. 
 
 ' That's a sudden change,' said the butler. ' And where's Mr. 
 Treverton all this time ? He didn't ought to be out of doors in 
 the dark, smoking his cigar, instead of keeping his wife company.' 
 
 ' No more he didn't,' said Mary, with indignation ; ' he ain't 
 my notion of a 'usband, leaving her to mope alone on her 
 wedding day, poor dear ! It's my belief she'd been crying her 
 eyes out just now, tho' she was artful enough to keep her face 
 turned away from me while she spoke. I dessay she's made up 
 her mind to take me abroad with her for company, because she 
 feels she'll be dull and lonesome with 'im.' 
 
 ' You'd better go and pack up your box,' said the housekeeper, 
 ' and not stand gossiping there. "What do you know of the ways 
 of gentry, married or single, I should like to know 1 When 
 you've been in service as long as I have you may talk.' 
 
 ' "Well, I'm sure,' cried Mary, indignantly, and then she ex- 
 pressed a hope that her soul was her own, even at Hazlehurst 
 Manor. 
 
 Before half -past seven, Mary had packed her box, and had it 
 conveyed to the hall. Mrs. Treverton's trunks and bags had also 
 been brought down. At a quarter to eight the carriage drove up 
 to the door, an old-fashioned landau in which Jasper Treverton 
 used to take his daily airing, drawn by a pair of big horses that 
 had begun life at the plough. Since the lamps had been lighted 
 no one had seen the bridegroom. The tea-things had been taken 
 into the book-room, and the urn had hissed itself to silence, but 
 no one had come there to take tea. Laura only came downstairs 
 when the carriage was at the door. 
 
 ' Joe, run and look for Mr. Treverton,' cried the butler to hia 
 underling. 
 
 ' Mr. Treverton will meet us at the station,' Laura said, 
 hurriedly ; and then she got into the carriage, and called to 
 Mary to follow her. 
 
 ' Tell Berrows to drive quickly to the station,' she told the 
 butler, and at the first crack of the whip the overfed horses swung 
 the big carriage round, as if they meant to annihilate the good 
 old house, and went off along the avenue with tl e noise of a 
 Barclay and Perkins dray 
 
The Settlement. 117 
 
 ' Well, I never did ! ' exclaimed the housekeeper. ' Fancy his 
 meeting her at the station, instead of their going off together, 
 sitting side by side, like true lovers.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid there's not much true love about it, Martha,' said 
 her husband, sententiously, and then, waxing familiar, he said, 
 ' WheD you and me was married we didn't manage matters so 
 did we, my lass \ ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 
 
 Lattra had been married three weeks and a day, and the new 
 year was just three weeks old. It was a very ailing and ungenial 
 year in this infantine stage of its existence. There had been 
 hardly a day of pleasant weather since its birth, nothing but rain 
 and sleet, and damp raw cold, and morning mists and evening 
 fogs. It was not a good, honest, old-fashioned winter, such as we 
 'read of in story books, and enjoy about once in a decade. It was 
 simply obnoxious, ill-conditioned weather, characteristic of no 
 particular season. 
 
 It was just a day after the anniversary of Jasper Treverton's 
 death, and Tom Sampson was meditating in a lazy, comfortable 
 way, on his former client, as he sat by the office fire sipping his 
 tea, which he had desired to be brought to him in his den, as he 
 was so terribly busy. He had not dipped a pen in the ink yet, 
 and it was half-past nine o'clock ; but it was not for Eliza 
 Sampson to know this. She was always taught to believe that 
 when her brother spent his evenings in the office he was working 
 severely — ' double tides,' he called it. If she came in to look at 
 him she found him scratching away violently with a quill that 
 tore shrieking along the paper, Juke an express train rushing 
 through a village station ; and it was not for her to know that 
 Thomas snatched up his pen and put on this appearance of 
 industry when he heard her gentle footfall at his door. Domestic 
 life is made up of such small secrets. 
 
 To -night Tom Sampson was in a particularly lazy humour. 
 He was getting a rich man, not by large earnings, but by small 
 expenditure, and fife, which is an insoluble problem for many, 
 was as easy for him as one of those nine elementary axioms in 
 Euclid that seem too foolishly obvious to engage the reasoning 
 power of the smallest schoolboy, such as — ' if equals be taken 
 from equals, the remainders are equal,' and so on. Tom was 
 thinking that he ought to be thinking about marrying. He waa 
 
118 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 not in love, and never had been since he exchanged his schoolboy 
 jacket for a tail-coat ; but he told himself that the time had 
 come when he might prudently allow himself to fall in love. 
 He would love not too well, but wisely. I 
 
 'Lizzie is a good girl, and she knows my ways,' he said 
 to himself, ' but she's getting old maidish, and that's a fault 
 which will grow upon her. Yes, decidedly, it is time I thought 
 of a wife. A man's choice is confoundedly limited in such a 
 hole as this. I don't want to marry a farmer's daughter, though 
 I might get a fine healthy young woman, and a tidy little bit of 
 money, if I could please myself among the agricultural class ; but 
 Tom Sampson has his failings, and pride is one of 'em. I should 
 like my wife to be a cut above me. There's Celia Clare, now. 
 She's more the kind of thing I should fancy ; plump and pretty, 
 with nice, lively ways. I've had a little too much of the senti- 
 mental from poor Lizzie. Yes, I might do worse than marry 
 Celia. And I think she likes me.' 
 
 Mr. Sampson's meditations were interrupted at this point by 
 the sound of a footstep on the sloshy gravel walk outside his 
 office door. There was a half -glass door opening into the garden, 
 as well as the door opening from the passage, which was the 
 formal approach for Mr. Sampson's clients. Only his intimates 
 entered by the garden door, and he was unable to imagine who 
 his late visitor could be. , 
 
 ' Ten o'clock,' he said to himself. ' It must be something par- 
 ticular. Old Pulsby has got another attack of gout in the 
 stomach, perhaps, and wants to alter his will. Ee always alters 
 his will when he gets a sharp attack. The pain makes him so 
 savage that it's a relief to him to disinherit somabody.' 
 
 Mr. Sampson speculated thus as he undrew the bolt and 
 opened the glass door. The man who stood before him was no 
 messenger from old Pulsby, but John Treverton, clad in a white 
 mackintosh, from which the water ran in little rills. 
 
 1 Is it yourself or your ghost 1 ' asked Sampson, falling back to 
 let his client enter. 
 
 The question was not without reason. John Treverton's face 
 was as white as his raiment, and the combined effect of the pale, 
 haggard face and the long white coat was altogether spectral. 
 
 ' Flesh and blood, my dear Sampson, I assure you,' replied the 
 other coolly, as he divested himself of his mackintosh, and took 
 up his stand in front of the comfortable fire, ' flesh and blood i 
 frozen to the bone.' I 
 
 ' I thought you were in the South of France.' k 
 
 * It doesn't matter what you thought, you see I am here. 
 Yesterday put me in legal possession of my cousin's estate. I have 
 come to execute the deed of settlement.. It's all ready of course 1 
 
 1 It's ready, yes ; but I didn't think you'd be in such a hurry. 
 
The Settlement. 119 
 
 1 should hare thought you would have stopped to finish your 
 honeymoon.' 
 
 ' My honeymoon i3 of very little importance compared with 
 my wife's future welfare. Come, Sampson, look sharp. Who's 
 to witness my signature ? ' 
 
 ' My sister and one of the serrants can do that.' 
 
 1 Call them in, then. I'm ready to sign.' 
 
 ' Hadn't you better read the deed first ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes, perhaps. One can't be too careful. 1 want my 
 wife's position to be unassailable as the summit of Mount Everest. 
 You have taken counsel's opinion, and the deed will hold 
 water ? ' 
 
 ' It would hold the Atlantic. Your gift is so entirely simple, 
 that there could be no difficulty in wording the deed. You give 
 your wife everything. I think you a fool, so did the advising 
 counsel ; but that makes no difference.' 
 
 'Not a whit.' 
 
 John Treverton sat down at the office table and read the 
 deed of settlement from the first word to the last. He gave to 
 his dear wife, Laura Treverton, all the property, real and per- 
 sonal, of which he stood possessed, for her sole and separate use. 
 There was a good deal of legal jargon, but the drift of the deed 
 was clear enough. 
 
 ' I am ready,' said John. 
 
 Mr. Sampson rang the bell for the servant, and shouted into 
 the passage for his sister. Eliza came running in, and at sight of 
 John Treverton's pale face screamed, and made as if she would 
 have fainted. 
 
 ' Gracious, Mr. Treverton !' she gasped, ' I thought there were 
 oceans between us. What in mercy's name has happened ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing alarming. I have only come to execute my mar- 
 riage settlement, which I was not in a position to make till 
 yesterday.' 
 
 ' How dreadful for poor Mrs. Treverton to be left alone in a 
 foreign land ! ' 
 
 John Treverton did not notice this speech. He dipped his 
 pen in the ink and signed the paper, while Miss Sampson and 
 Sophia, the housemaid, looked on wonderingly. 
 
 ' Sophia, run and get a pair of sheets aired, and get the spare 
 room ready,' cried Eliza, when she had affixed her signature as 
 witness. ' Of course you are going to stop with us, Mr. Trever- 
 ton?' 
 
 ' You are very kind. No, I must get away immediately. I 
 have a trap waiting to take me back to the station. Oh, by-the- 
 way, Sampson, about that money you kindly advanced to me. 
 It must come out of the estate somehow j I suppose you ca» 
 manage that?' 
 
120 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Yes, I think I can manage that,' answered Sampson moa«tfuy. 
 ' Do you want any further advance 1 ' 
 
 ' No, the estate belongs to my wife now. I must not tamper 
 with it.' 
 
 1 And what's hers is yours of course. "Well, I congratulate 
 you with all my heart. You are the luckiest fellow I ever knew, 
 bar none. A handsome wife, and a handsome fortune. What 
 more can a man ask from Fate ? ' 
 
 '„Not much, certainly,' said John Treverton, ' bnt I must catch 
 the last up-train. Good-night.' 
 
 ' Going back to the South of France ? ' 
 
 John Treverton did not wait to answer the question. He 
 shook hands hastily with Eliza, and dashed out into the garden. 
 A minute afterwards Mr. Sampson and his sister heard the crack 
 of a whip, and the sound of wheels upon the high road. 
 
 ' Did you ever see such a volcanic individual ? ' exclaimed the 
 solicitor, folding up the deed of settlement. 
 
 ' I am afraid he is not happy,' sighed Eliza. 
 
 ' I am afraid he is mad,' said Tom. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ' YOU HAVE BUT TO SAY THE WORD.' 
 
 Mr. Smolendo was in his glory. In the words of his friends 
 and followers he was coining money. He was a man to be culti* 
 vated and revered. A man for whom champagne suppers or 
 dinners at Richmond were as nothing ; a man for whom it was 
 easier to lend a five-pound note than it is for the common ruck 
 of humanity to advance half-a-crown. Flatterers fawned upon 
 him, intimate acquaintances hung fondly upon him, reminding 
 him pathetically that they knew him twenty years ago, when he 
 hadn't a sixpence, as if that knowledge of bygone adversity were 
 a merit and a claim. A man of smaller mind migh* have had 
 his mental equilibrium shaken by all this adulation. Mr. 
 Smolendo was a man of granite, and took it for what it was worth. 
 When people were particularly civil, he knew they wanted some- 
 thing from him. 
 
 * The lessee of a London theatre is not a man to be easily had,' 
 he said ; ' he sees human nature on the ugliest side.' 
 
 Christmas had come and gone, the New Year was six weeks 
 old, and Mr. Smolendo's prosperity continued without abatement. 
 The theatre was nightly crowded to suffocation. There were 
 morning performances every Saturday. Stalls and boxes wera 
 booked a month ii\ advance. 
 
• You have but to say the Word.' 121 
 
 'La Chicot is a little gold mine,' said Mr. Smolendo's 
 followers. 
 
 Yes, La Chicot had the credit of it all. Mr. Smolendo had 
 produced a grand fairy spectacle, in which La Chicot was the 
 central figure. She appeared in half-a-dozen costumes, all 
 equally original, expensive, and audacious. She was a fountain 
 of golden water, draped exclusively in dazzling golden fringe, a 
 robe of light, through which her finely-sculptured form flashed 
 now and then, as the glittering fringe parted for an instant, like 
 a revelation of the beautiful. She was a fishwoman in a scanty 
 satin kirtle, scarlet stockings, and a high cap of finest Brussels 
 lace. She was a bayadere, a debardeur, a wood nymph, an 
 odalisque. She did not dance as she danced before her accident, 
 but she was as beautiful as ever, and a trifle more impudent. 
 She had leamt enough English to speak the lines of her part, and 
 her accent gave a charm and a quaintness to the performance. 
 She sang a comic song with more chic than melody, and was ap- 
 plauded to the echo. The critics told her she had ascended to a 
 higher grade in the drama. La Chicot told herself that she was 
 the greatest woman in London, as well as the handsomest. She 
 lived in a circle of which she herself was the centre. The 
 circumference was a ring of admirers. There was no world beyond. 
 
 Something to this effect she told her fellow lodger, Mr. 
 Desrolles, one grey afternoon in February, when he dropped in to 
 beg a glass of brandy, in order to stave off one of those attacks he 
 so often talked about. She was always particularly friendly with 
 the ' Second Moor,' as it was the fashion of the house to call this 
 gentleman. He flattered and amused her, fetched and carried 
 for her, and sometimes kept her company when she was in too low 
 spirits to drink alone. 
 
 ' My good creature, you oughtn't to live in such a hole as this. 
 Upon my soul, you ought not,' said Desrolles with an air that 
 was half -protection, half -patronage. 
 
 1 1 know I ought not,' replied La Chicot. ' There is not an 
 aotress in Paris who would not call me stupid as an oWl for my pains. 
 Que diable, I sacrifice myself for the honour of a husband who 
 mocks himself of me, who amuses himself elsewhere, and leaves 
 me to fret and pine alone. It is too much. See then, Desrolles, 
 it may be that you think I boast myself when I tell you that one 
 of the richest men in London is over head and ears in love with 
 me. See, here are his letters. Bead them, and see how much I 
 have refused.' 
 
 She opened a work-basket on the table, and from a chaos of reels 
 of cotton, tapes and buttons, and shreds and patches, extracted half- 
 a-dozen letters, which she tossed across the table to Desrolles. 
 
 ' Do you leave your love-letters where your husband might tx» 
 easily find them 1 ' asked Desrolles, wonderfully. 
 
122 The Cbven Footi 
 
 * Do you suppose he •would give himself the trouble co iook at 
 
 them 1 ' she cried scornfully. ' If ot he. He has so long left 
 off caring for me himself, that he never supposes that anybody 
 else can fall in love with me. Help yourself to that cognac, 
 Monsieur Desrolles. It is the only safe drink in this miserable 
 climate of yours ; and put some coals on the fire, mon bonhomme. 
 I am frozen to the marrow of my bones.' 
 
 La Chicot filled her glass by way of setting a good example, 
 and emptied it as placidly ag if the brandy had been sugar and 
 water. 
 
 Desrolles looked over the letters she had handed him. They 
 all went to the same tune. They told La Chicot that she was 
 beautiful, and that the writer was madly in love with her. They 
 offered her a carriage, a house in Mayfair, a settlement. The 
 offers rose in value with the lapse of time. 
 
 ' How have you answered him 1 ' asked Desrolles, curious and 
 interested. 
 
 ' Not at all. I knew better how to make myself valued. 
 Let him wait for his answer.' 
 
 f A man must be very hard hit to write like that,' suggested 
 the gentleman. 
 
 La Chicot shrugged her statuesque shoulders. She was 
 lovely even in her more than careless attire. She wore a long 
 loose dressing-gown of scarlet cashmere, girdled with a cord and 
 tassels, which she tied and untied, and twisted and untwisted in 
 sheer idleness. Her massy hair was rolled in a great rough knob 
 at the back of her head, ready to escape from the comb and slide 
 down her back at the slightest provocation. The dead white of 
 her complexion showed like marble against the scarlet robe, the 
 dense hair showed raven black above the pale brow and large 
 luminous eyes. 
 
 ' Is he as rich as he pretends to be ? ' asked La Chicot, thought- 
 fully swinging the heavy scarlet tassel, and lazily contemplating 
 the fire. 
 
 ' To my certain knowledge,' said Mr. Desrolles, with an 
 oracular air, ' Joseph Lemuel is one of the wealthiest men in 
 London.' 
 
 ' I don't see that it much matters,' said La Chicot, medita- 
 tively. ' I like money, but so long as I have enough to buy what 
 I want, it's all that I care about, and I don't like that grim- 
 looking Jew.' 
 
 ' Compare a house in Mayfair with this den,' urged Desrolles. 
 
 ' Where is Mayfair 1 ' 
 
 Desrolles described the neighbourhood. 
 
 ' A wilderness of dull streets,' said La Chicot, with a con- 
 temptuous shrug. ' What is one street better than another ? I 
 ahould like a house in the Champs Elysdes — a house in a garden, 
 
1 You have but to say the Word.' 123 
 
 dazzling white, all over flowers, with big, shining windows, and 
 a Swiss stable.' 
 
 ' A house like a toy,' said Desrolles. ' "Well, Lemuel could 
 buy you ooe as easily as I could buy you a handful of sugar 
 plums. You have but to say the word.' 
 
 1 It is a *v/ord that I shall never say,' exclaimed La Chicot, 
 decisively. ' I am an honest woman. And then, I am too proud.' 
 Desrolles wondered whether it was pride, virtue, or rank 
 obstinacy which made La Chicot reject such brilliant offers. It 
 was not easy for him to believe in virtue, masculine or feminine. 
 He had not travelled by those paths in which the virtues grow 
 and flourish, but he had made intimate acquaintance with the 
 vices. Since a certain interview with La Chicot's husband, in 
 which he had promised to keep a paternal eye upon the lady, Mr. 
 Desrolles had wound himself completely into the wife's confidence. 
 He had made himself alike useful and agreeable. Though she 
 kept her wealthy adorer at arm's length, she liked to talk of him. 
 The hothouse flowers he sent her adorned her table, and looked 
 strangely out of place in the tawdry, littered room, where 
 yesterday's dust was generally left to be swept away to-morrow. 
 One thing La Chicot did not know, and that was that Mr. 
 I ^Jj^' had made the acquaintance of her admirer, and was 
 being paid by Mr. Lemuel to plead his cause. 
 
 'You seem to be better off than you used to be, my friend,' 
 Bhe said to him one day. ' Unless I deceive myself, that is a 
 new coat.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the man of the world, without blushing. ' I 
 have been dabbling a little on the Stock Exchange, and have 
 had better luck than usual' 
 
 Desrolles stirred the heaped-up coals into a blaze, and filled 
 himself a third glass of cognac. 
 
 ' It's as fine as a liqueur,' he said, smacking his lips. ' It would 
 be a sin to dilute such stuff. By the way, when do you expect 
 your husband 1 ' 
 
 ' I never expect him,' answered La Chicot. ' He goes and 
 comes as he chooses. He is like the wandering Jew.' 
 ' He is gone to Paris on business, I suppose ! ' 
 1 On business or pleasure. I neither know nor cars which. 
 He earns his living. Those ridiculous pictures of his please 
 both in London and Paris. See here ! ' 
 
 She tossed him over a crumpled heap of comic papers, English 
 and French. Her husband's name figured in all, affixed to the 
 wildest caricatures — scenes theatrical and Bohemian, sketches full 
 of life and humour. 
 
 ' To judge from those you would suppose he was rather a 
 cheerful companion,' said La Chicot, ' and yet he is more dismal 
 than a funeral' 
 
124 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 He vents all his cheerfulness on his wood blocks,' suggested 
 Desrolles. 
 
 Of late Jack Chicot had been a restless wanderer, spending 
 very little of his life in the Gibber Street lodging. There waa 
 not even the pretence of union between his wife and him, and 
 there never had been since La Chicot's recovery. They were 
 civil to each other, for the most part ; but there were times when 
 the wife's tongue grew bitter, and her evil temper flashed out like 
 a thin thread of forked lightning^ cleaving a dark su mm er sky. 
 The husband was always civiL La Chicot could not exasperate 
 him into retaliation. 
 
 ' You hate me too much to lose your temper with me,' she 
 said to him one day in the presence c« the landady ; ' you are 
 afraid to trust yourself. If you gave way for a moment you 
 might kill me. The temptation would be too strong for you.' 
 
 Jack Chicot said never a word, but stood with his arms folded, 
 smiling at her, heaven knows how bitterly. 
 
 One day she stung him into speech. 
 
 ' You are in love with some other woman,' she cried. ' I 
 know it.' 
 
 ' I have seen a woman who is not like you,' he answered with 
 a sigh. 
 
 And you are in love with her.' 
 
 ' For her unlikeness to you 1 That would be a charm, cer- 
 tainly.' 
 
 1 Go to her. Go to your ' 
 
 The sentence ended in a foul epithet — one of the poison-flowers 
 of Parisian argot. 
 
 ' The journey is too long,' he said. ' It is not easy to travel 
 from hell to heaven.' 
 
 Jack Chicot had been once to the Prince Frederick Theatre 
 eince his wife's return to the stage. He went on the first night 
 of the grand spectacular burlesque which had brought Mr. 
 Smolendo so much money. He sat looking on with a grave, un- 
 changing face, while the audience around him grinned in ecstasy ; 
 and when La Chicot asked his opinion of the performance, he 
 openly expressed his disgust. 
 
 ' Are not my costumes beautiful ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Very. But I should prefer a little less beauty and a little 
 more decency.' 
 
 The rest of the audience were easier to please. They saw no 
 indecency in the dresses. No doubt they saw what they had 
 paid to see, and that contented them. 
 
 Never had woman more of her own way than La Chieot after 
 that wonderful recovery of hers. She went where she liked, 
 drank as much as she liked, spent every sixpence of her liberal 
 salary on her own pleasure, and was held accountable by no one. 
 
' You Jiave but to say the Word* 125 
 
 Her husband was a husband only in name. She saw more of 
 Desrolles than of Jack Chicot. 
 
 There was only one person who ever ventured to reprove or 
 expostulate with her, and that was the man who had saved her 
 life, at so large a sacrifice of time and care. George Gerard 
 called upon her now and then, and spoke to her plainly. 
 
 ' You have bee* drinking again,' he would say, while they 
 were shaking hands. 
 
 ' I have had nothing since last night, when I took a glass of 
 champagne with my supper.' 
 
 « You mean a bottle ; and you have had half a bottle of 
 brandy this morning to correct the champagne.' 
 
 She no longer attempted to deny the impeachment. 
 
 4 Well, why should I not drink ? ' she exclaimed, defiantly. 
 ' Who cares what becomes of me 1 ' 
 
 1 1 care : I have saved your life once, against long odds. 
 You owe me something for that. But I cannot save you if you 
 make up your mind to drink yourself to death. Brandy is a 
 slow suicide, but for a woman of your temperament it's as certain 
 as prussic acid.' 
 
 Upon this La Chicot would dissolve in maudlin tears. It was 
 a pitiful sight, and wrung the student's heart. He could have 
 loved her so well, would have tried so hard to save her, had it 
 been possible. He did not know how heartless a pieo« of 
 beautiful clay she was. He put down her errors to her husband's 
 neglect. 
 
 1 If she had been my wife, she might have been a very 
 different woman,' he said to himself, not believing the innate 
 depravity of anything so absolutely beautiful as La Chicot. 
 
 He forgot how fair some poisonous weeds are, how beautiful 
 the scarlet berries of the nightshade look when they star the 
 brown autumn hedges. 
 
 So La Chicot went her way triumphantly. There was no 
 danger to life or limb for her in the new piece — no perilous 
 ascent to the sky borders. She drank as much brandy as she 
 liked, and, so long as she contrived to appear sober before the 
 audience, Mr. Smolendo said nothing. 
 
 1 I'm afraid she'll drink herself into a dropsy, poor thing,' he 
 said compassionately one day to a friend at the Garrick Club. 
 ' But I hope she'll last my time. A woman of her type could 
 nardly be expected to draw for more than three seasons, and La 
 Chicot ought to hold out for another year or so.' 
 
 I After that, the hospital,' said his friend. 
 Mr. Smolendo shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 I I never trouble myself about the after-career of my artists/ 
 he answered pleasantly. 
 
126 The Cloven Foot. ,' w 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 EDWARD CLARK DISCOVERS A LIKENESS. 
 
 ' Hazlehurst Eectory, February 22nd. — Dear Ned,— Do jaa 
 remember my saying, when Laura refused to have a proper wed- 
 ding-gown, that her marriage was altogether an ill-omened busi- 
 ness ? I told her so, I told you so ; in fact, I think I told every- 
 body so ; if it be not an unpardonable exaggeration to call the 
 handful of wretched dowdies and frumps in such a place as 
 Hazlehurst everybody. Well, I was right. The marriage has 
 been a complete fiasco. What do you think of our poor Laura's 
 coming home from her honeymoon alone? Without even so 
 much as her husband^ portmanteau ! She has shut herself up 
 in the Manor-house, where she lives the life of a female anchorite, 
 and is so reserved in her manner towards me, her oldest friend, 
 her all but sister, that even I do not know the cause of this 
 extraordinary state of affairs. 
 
 ' " My dear Celia, don't ask me anything about it," she said, 
 when we had kissed each other, and cried a little, and I had 
 looked at her collar and cuffs to see if she had brought a new 
 style from Paris. 
 
 1 " My dearest, I must ask you," I replied ; " I don't pretend 
 to be more than human, and I am burning with curiosity and 
 suppressed indignation. What does it all mean 1 Why have 
 you challenged public opinion by co min g home alone l Have 
 you and Mr. Treverton quarrelled 1 " 
 
 ' " No," she said, decisively ; " and that is the last question 
 about my married life that I shall ever answer, Celia, so you 
 need not ask me any more." 
 
 ' " Where did you part with him 1 " I asked, determined not 
 to give way. My unhappy friend was obstinately silent. 
 
 ' " Come and see me as often as you like, so long as you do 
 not talk to me of my husband," she said a little later. " But if 
 you insist upon talking about him, I shall shut my door upon 
 you." 
 
 ' " I hear he has acted most generously with regard to the 
 settlements, so he cannot be altogether bad," I said — for you know 
 I am not easily put down — but Laura was adamant. I could not 
 extort another word from her. 
 
 ' Perhaps I ought not to tell you this, Ned, knowing what I 
 do about your former affection for Laura ; but I felt that I must 
 open my heart to somebody. Parents are so stupid that it's 
 impossible to tell them things. 
 
 1 1 can't conceive what this poor girl is going to do with her 
 
Edward Clare discovers a Likeness. 127 
 
 life. He has settled the whole estate upon her, papa says, and 
 she is awfully rich. But she is living like a hermit, and not 
 spending more than her own small income. She even talks of 
 selling the carriage horses, Tommy and Harry, or sending them 
 back to the plough, though I know she dotes upon them. If this 
 is meanness, it is too awful. If she has conscientious scruples 
 about spending John Treverton's money, it is simply idiotic. Of 
 the two, I could rather think my friend a miser than an idiot. 
 
 ' And now, my dear Ned, as there is nothing else to tell you 
 about the dismalest place in the universe, I may as well say 
 good-bye. — Your loving sister, ' Celia.' 
 
 ' P.S. — I hope you are writing a book of poems that will make 
 the Laureate burst with envy. I have no personal animosity 
 to him ; but you are my brother, and, of course, your interest 
 must be paramount.' 
 
 This letter reached Edward Clare in his dingy lodgings, in a 
 narrow side street near the British Museum, lodgings so dingy that 
 it would have grieved the heart of his country-born and country- 
 bred mother to see her boy in such a den. But the apartments 
 were quite dear enough for his slender means. The world had 
 not yet awakened to the stupendous fact that a new poet had been 
 born into it. Stupid reviewers went on prosing about Tennyson, 
 Browning, and Swinburne, and the name of Clare was still 
 unknown, even though it had appeared pretty often at the foot 
 of a neat triplet of verses filling an odd page in a magazine. 
 
 ' I shall never win a name in the magazines,' the young man 
 told himself. ' It is worse than not writing at all. I shall rot 
 unknown in my garret, or die of hunger and opium, like 
 that poor boy who perished within a quarter of a mile of this 
 dismal hole, unless I can get some rich publisher to launch me 
 properly.' 
 
 But in the meantime a man must live, and Edward was very 
 glad to get an occasional guinea or two from a magazine. The 
 supplies from home fell considerably below his requirements, 
 though to send them strained the father's resources. The 
 embryo Laureate liked to take life pleasantly. He liked to dine 
 at a popular restaurant, and to wash down his dinner with good 
 Rhine wine, or sound claret. He liked good cigars. He could 
 not wear cheap boots. He could do without gloves at a pinch, 
 but those he wore must be the best. When he was in funds he 
 preferred a hansom to pedestrianism. This, he told hims elf, was 
 the poetical temperament. Alfred de Musset was, doubtless, 
 just such a man. He could fancy Heine leading the same kind 
 of life in Paris, before disease had chained bim to his bed. 
 
 That letter from Celia was like vitriol dropped into an open 
 wound. Edward had not forgiven Laura for accepting John 
 Travel ton, or the estate that went with him. He hated John 
 
12b The Clov&n Foot. 
 
 Treverton with a vigorous hatred that would stand a great deal 
 of wear and tear. He pondered long over Celia's letter, trying 
 to discover the clue to the mystery. It seemed to him tolerably 
 clear. Mr. and Mrs. Treverton had married with a deliberate 
 understanding. Love between them there was none, and they 
 had been too honest to pretend an affection which neither felt. 
 They had agreed to marry and live apart, sharing the dead man's 
 wealth, fulfilling the letter of the law, but not the spirit. 
 
 ' I call it sheer dishonesty,' said Edward. ' I wonder thai 
 Laura can lend herself to such an underhand course.' 
 
 It was all very well to talk about John Treverton's liberality 
 fn settling the entire estate upon his wife. No doubt they had 
 their private understanding duly set forth in black and white. 
 The husband was to have his share of the fortune, and squander 
 it how he pleased in London or Paris, or any part of the globe 
 that seemed best to him. 
 
 ' There never was such confounded luck,' exclaimed Edward, 
 angry with Fate for having given this man so much and himself 
 so little ; ' a fellow who three months ago was a beggar.' 
 
 In his idle reverie he found himself thinking what he would 
 have done in John Treverton's place, with, say, seven thousand a 
 year at his disposal. 
 
 ' I would have chambers in the Albany,' he thought, ' fur- 
 nished on the purest aesthetic principles. I'd keep a yacht at 
 Cowes, and three or four hunters at Melton Mowbray. I'd 
 spend February and March in the South, and April and May in 
 Paris, where I should have a pied a terre in the Champs Elysdes. 
 Yes, one could lead a very pleasant life, as a bachelor, on seven 
 thousand a year.' 
 
 Thus it will be seen that, although Mr. Clare had been 
 seriously in love with Miss Malcolm, it was the loss of Jasper 
 Treverton's money which he felt most keenly, and it was 
 the possession of that fortune for which he envied John 
 Treverton. 
 
 One afternoon in February, one of those rare afternoons on 
 which the winter sun glorifies the gloomy London streets, Mr. 
 Clare called at the office of a comic periodical, the editor of which 
 had accepted some of his lighter verses — society poems in the 
 Praed and Locker manner. Two or three of his contributions 
 had been published within the last month, and he came to the 
 office with the pleasant consciousness that there was a cheque 
 due to him. 
 
 * I shall treat myself to a careful little dinner at the 
 Restaurant du Pavilion,' he told himself, 'and a stall at the 
 Prince of Wales's to wind up the evening.' 
 
 He was not a man of vicious tastes. It was not the aqua 
 fortU of vice, but the champagne of pleasure that he relished. 
 
Edward Clare discovers a Likeness. 129 
 
 He was too fond of himself, too careful of his own well-being, 
 to fling away youth, health, and vigour in the sloughs and 
 sewers of evil living. He had a refined selfishness that was cal- 
 culated to keep him pure of low iniquities. He had no aspiration 
 to scale mountain peaks, but he had sufficient regard for himself 
 to eschew gutters. 
 
 The cheque was ready for him, but when he had signed the 
 formal receipt the clerk told him the editor wanted to speak to 
 him presently, if he would be kind enough to wait a few 
 minutes. 
 
 ' There's a gentleman with him, but I don't suppose he'D be 
 long,' said the clerk, ' if you don't mind waiting.' 
 
 Air. Clare did not mind, particularly. He sat down on an 
 office stool, and made himself a cigarette, while he thoughtfully 
 planned his dinner. 
 
 He was not going to be extravagant. A plate of bisque soup, 
 a slice of salmon en papilotte, a wing of chicken with mushrooms, 
 an omelette, half a bottle of St. Julien, and a glass of vermuth. 
 
 "While he was musing pleasantly thus, the swinging inn er door 
 of the office was dashed open, and a gentleman walked quickly 
 through to the open doorway that led into the street, with only a 
 passing nod to the clerk. Edward Clare just caught a glimpse of 
 his face as he turned to give that brief salutation. 
 
 'Who's that?' he asked, starting up from his stool, and 
 dropping the half -made cigarette. 
 
 ' Mr. Chicot, the artist.' 
 
 'Are you sure V 
 
 The clerk grinned. 
 
 'Pretty positive,' he said. 'He comes here every week, 
 sometimes twice a week. I ought to know him.' 
 
 Edward knew the name well The slap-dash caricatures, more 
 Parisian in style than English, which adorned the middle page of 
 the weekly paper called ' Folly as it Flies,' were all signed 
 ' Chicot.' The dancer's admirers, for the most part, gave her the. 
 credit of those productions, an idea which Mr. Smolendo had 
 taken care to encourage. It was an advantage that his dancer 
 should be thought a woman of many accomplishments — a Sarah 
 Bernhardt in a small way. 
 
 Edward Clare was mystified. The face which he had seen 
 turned towards the clerk had presented a wondrous likeness of 
 John Treverton. If this man who called himself Chicot had been 
 John Treverton's twin brother, the two could not have been more 
 alike. Edward was so impressed with this idea that, instead of 
 waiting to eee his editor, he hurried out into the street, bent upon 
 following Mr. Chicot the artist. The office was in one of the 
 narrow streets northward of the Strand. If Chicot had turned 
 to the left, he must be by this time following the strong current 
 
 l 
 
130 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 of the Strand, -which flows westward at this hour, with its tide of 
 human life, as regularly as the river flows to the sea. If he had 
 turned to the right, he was most likely lost in the labyrinth 
 between Drury Lane and Holborn. In either case — three minutes 
 having been wasted in surprise and interrogation — there seemed 
 little chance of catching him. 
 
 Edward turned to the right, and went towards Holborn. 
 Accident favoured him. At the corner of Long Acre he saw 
 Chicot, the artist, button-holed by an older man, of somewhat 
 raffish aspect. That Chicot was anxious to get away from the 
 button-holer vras obvious, and before Edward could reach the 
 corner he had done so, and was off at a rapid pace westward. 
 There would be no chance of overtaking him, except by running ; 
 and to run in Long Acre would be to make oneself unpleasantly 
 conspicuous. There was no empty hansom within sight. Edward 
 looked round despairingly. There stood the raffish man watching 
 him, and looking as if he knew exactly what Mr. Clare wanted. 
 
 Edward crossed the street, looked at the raffish man, and 
 lingered, half inclined to speak. The raffish man anticipated his 
 desire. 
 
 ' I think you wanted my friend Chicot/ he said, in a most 
 insinuating tone. 
 
 He had the accent of a gentleman, and in some wise the look 
 of a gentleman, though his degradation from that high estate was 
 patent to eveiy eye. His tall hat, sponged and coaxed to a fac- 
 titious polish, was of an exploded shape ; his coat was the coat of 
 to-day ; his stock was twenty years old in style, and so frayed 
 and greasy that it might have been worn ever since it first came 
 into fashion. The hawk's eye, the iron lines about the mouth 
 and chin, were warnings to the man's fellow-creatures. Here 
 was a man capable of anything — a being so obviously at 
 war with society as to be bound by no law, daunted by no 
 penalty. 
 
 Edward Clare dimly divined that the creature belonged to the 
 dangerous classes, but in his excellent opinion of his own clever- 
 ness deemed himself strong enough to cope with half a dozen 
 such seedy sinners. 
 
 ' Well, yes, I did rather want to speak to him — er — about a 
 litsrary matter. Does he live far from here ? ' 
 
 'Eive minutes' walk. Gibber Street, Leicester Square. I'll 
 take you there if you like. I live in the same house.' 
 
 ' Ah, then you can tell me all about hi*n. But it isn't the 
 pleasantest thing to stand and talk in an east wind. Come ru 
 and take a glass of something,' suggested Edward, comprehending 
 that this shabby-genteel stranger must be plied with drink. 
 
 'Ah,' thought Mr. Desrolles, 'he wants something of me- 
 This liberality fe not motiveless.' 
 
Edward Clare discovers a Likeness. 131 
 
 Tavern doors opened for them close at hand. They entered 
 the refined seclusion of a jug and bottle department, and each 
 chose the liquor he preferred — Edward sherry and soda water, 
 the stranger a glass of brandy, ' short.' 
 
 ' Ha /e you known Mr. Chicot long ? ' asked Edward. ' Don't 
 suppose I'm actuated by impertinent curiosity. It's a matter of 
 business.' 
 
 ' Sir, I know when I am talking to a gentleman,' replied 
 Desrolles, with a stately air. ' I was a gentleman myself once 
 but it's so long ago that the world and I have forgotten it.' 
 
 He had emptied his glass by this time, and was gazing 
 thoughtfully, almost tearfully, at the bottom of it. 
 
 ' Take another,' said Edward. 
 
 ' I think I will. These east winds are trying to a man of my 
 age. Have I known Jack Chicot long 1 Well, about a year and 
 a half — a little less, perhaps — but the time is of no moment, I 
 know him well.' 
 
 And then Mr. Desrolles proceeded to give his new acquaint- 
 ance considerable information as to the outer life of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Chicot. He did not enter into the secrets of their domes- 
 ticity, save to admit that Madame was fonder of the brandy 
 bottle — a lamentable propensity in so fair a being: — than she 
 ought to be, and that Sir. Chicot was not so fond of Madame as 
 he might be. 
 
 ' Tired of her, I suppose ? ' said Edward. 
 
 'Precisely. A woman who drinks like a fish and r^ears like 
 a trooper is apt to pall upon a man, after some years of married 
 life.' 
 
 ' Has this Chicot no other income than what he earns by hia 
 pencil 1 ' asked Edward. 
 
 ' Not a sou.' 
 
 ' He has not been flush of money lately — since the new year, 
 for inst ance 1 ' 
 
 1 No.' 
 
 ' There has been no change in his way of life sine? then ? ' 
 
 ' Not the slightest — except, perhaps, that he has worked 
 harder than ever. The man is a prodigious worker. When first 
 he came to London he had an idea of succeeding as a painter. 
 He used to be at his easel as soon as it was fight. But since the 
 comic journals have taken him up he has done nothing but draw 
 on the wood. He is really a very good creature. I haven't a 
 word to say against him.' 
 
 ' He is remarkably lik# a man I know,' said Mr. Clare, 
 musingly ; ' but of course it can't be the same. The husband of 
 a French dancer. No, that isn't possible. I wish it were,' he 
 muttered to himself, with clenched teeth. 
 
 1 Is he like some one you know ? ' interrogated Desrolles. 
 
132 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Wonderfully like, so far as I could make out in the glimpse 
 I got of his face.' 
 
 ' Ah, those glimpses are sometimes deceptive. Is your friend 
 residing in London 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know where he is just at present When last I saw 
 him he was in the west of England.' 
 
 ' Ah, nice country that,' said Desrolles, kindling with sudden 
 eagerness. ' Somersetshire or Devonshire way, you mean, J 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I mean Devonshire.' 
 
 ' Charming county — delighful scenery ! ' 
 
 ' Very, for your Londoner, who runs down by express train to 
 spend a fortnight there. Not quite so lively for your son of the 
 soil, who sees himself doomed to rot in a God-forsaken hole like 
 Hazlehurst, the village I came from. What ! you know the 
 place ! ' exclaimed Edward, for the man had given a start that 
 betokened surprised recognition of the name. 
 
 ' I do know a village called Hazlehurst, but it's in Wilts,' the 
 other answered, coolly. 'So the gentleman who resembles my 
 friend Chicot is a native of Devonshire, and a neighbour of 
 yours ? ' 
 
 ' I didn't say he was either,' returned Edward, who did not 
 want to be catechised by a disreputable-looking stranger. 'I 
 Raid I had last seen him at Hazlehurst. That's all. And now, 
 as I've an appointment at five o'clock, I must wish you good 
 afternoon.' 
 
 They both left the bar together, and went out into Long 
 Acre, whence the wintry sunshine had departed, giving place to 
 that dull, thick greyness which envelopes London at eventide, 
 like a curtain. 
 
 To those who love the city, as Charles Lamb loved it, for 
 instance, there is something comfortable even in this all-en- 
 shrouding grey, through which the lamps shine cheerfully, like 
 friendly eyes. 
 
 ' I'm sorry I haven't got my card case with me, 5 said Desrolles, 
 feeling in his breast pocket. 
 
 ' It doesn't matter,' the other answered, curtly. 'Good-day to 
 yo*J 
 
 And so they parted, Edward Clare walking swiftly away 
 towards the little French restaurant hard by St. Ann's Church, 
 where he meant to solace himself with a comfortable dinner. 
 
 ' A cad ! ' mused Desrolles, looking after him. ' Provincial, 
 and a cad ! Strange that he shoulcHfcome from Hazlehurst.' 
 
 Mr. Clare dined entirely to his own satisfaction, and with 
 what he considered a severe economy ; for he contented himself 
 with half a bottle of claret, and took only one glass of green 
 chartreuse after his small cup of black coffee. The coffee made 
 
Edward Clare discovers a Liteeness. 133 
 
 him bright and wakeful, and he left the purlieus of St. Ann in 
 excellent spirits. He had changed his mind about the Prince of 
 Wales's. Instead of indulging himself with a stall at that 
 luxurious theatre, he would rough it and go to the pit at the 
 Prince Frederick, to see Madamoiselle Chicot. He had been 
 haunted by her name on the walls of London, but he had never 
 yet had the desire to see her. Now all at once his curiosity was 
 aroused. He went, and a dmir ed the dancer, as all the world 
 admired her. He was early enough to get a seat in the front 
 row of the pit, and from this position could survey the stalls, 
 which were filled with men, all declared worshippers of La Chicot. 
 There was one squat figure — a stout dark man, with sleek black 
 hair, and colourless Jewish face — which attracted Edward's 
 particular attention. This man watched the dancer, from his 
 seat at the end of a row, with an expression that differed 
 markedly from the vacuous admiration of other countenances. 
 In this man's face, dull and weary as it was, there was a look that 
 told of passion held in reserve, of a purpose to be pursued to the 
 very end. A dangerous admirer for any woman, most of all 
 perilous for such a woman as La Chicot. 
 
 She saw him, and recognised him, as a familiar presence in 
 an unknown crowd. One brilliant flash of her dark eyes told as 
 much as this, and perhaps was a sufficient reward for Joseph 
 Lemuel's devotion. A slow smile curled his thick lips, and lost 
 itself in the folds of his fat chin. He flung no bouquet to the 
 dancer. He had no desire to advertise his admiration. When 
 the curtain fell upon the brilliant tableau which ended the bur- 
 lesque — a picture made up of handsome women in dazzling 
 dresses and eccentric attitudes, lighted by the broad glare of a 
 magnesium lamp — Edward left the pit and went round to the 
 narrow side street on which the stage-door opened. He had an 
 idea that the dancer's husband would be waiting to escort her 
 home. 
 
 He waited himself in the dark chilly street for about a 
 quarter of an hour, and then, instead of Mr. Chicot, the artist, he 
 saw his acquaintance of the tavern stroll slowly to the stage-door, 
 wrapped in an ancient poncho, made of shaggy stuff, like the skin 
 of a wild beast, and smoking a gigantic cigar. This gentleman 
 took up his stand outside the stage-door, and waited patiently 
 for about ten minutes, while Edward Clars walked slowly up 
 and down on the opposite pavement, which w&«3 in profound 
 shadow. 
 
 At last La Chicot came out, a tall, commanding figure in a 
 black silk gown, which swept the pavement, a sealskin jacket, 
 and a little round hat set jauntily on her dark hair. 
 
 She took Desrolles' arm as if it were an accustomed thing for 
 him to escort her ; and they went away together, she talking 
 
134 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 with considerable animation, and as loud as a lady of the highest 
 rank. 
 
 ' Curious,' thought Edward. ' Where is the husband all this 
 time?' 
 
 The husband was spending his evening at a literary club, of 
 somewhat Bohemian character, where there was wit to cheer the 
 saddened soul, and where the nightly talk was of the wildest, 
 breathing ridicule that spared nothing between heaven and earth, 
 and a deep scorn of fools, and an honest contempt for formalism 
 and veneer of all kinds — for the art that follows the fashion of a 
 day, for the literature that is made to pattern. In such a circle 
 Jack Chicot found temporary oblivion. These riotous assem- 
 blies, this strong rush of talk, were to him as the waters of 
 Lethe. ■ 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SHALL IT BE 'YES' OR ' NO ' ? 
 
 'This looks as if he were serious, doesn't it?' asked La 
 Chicot. 
 
 The question was addressed to Mr. Desrolles. The two were 
 standing side by side in the wintry dusk, in front of one of the 
 windows that looked into Cibber Street, contemplating the con- 
 tents of a jewel-case, which La Chicot held open. 
 
 Embedded in the white velvet lining there lay a collet neck- 
 lace of diamonds, each stone as big as a prize pea ; such a necklace 
 as Desrolles could not remember to have seen, even in the 
 jewellers' windows, before which he had sometimes paused out of 
 sheer idleness, to contemplate such finery. 
 
 ' Serious ! ' he echoed. ' I told you from the first that Joseph 
 Lemuel was a prince.' 
 
 ' You don't suppose I am going to keep it ? ' said La Chicot. 
 
 ' I don't suppose you, or any other woman, would send it back, 
 if it were a free gift,' answered Desrolles. 
 
 ' It is not a free gift. It is to be mine if I consent to run 
 away from my husband and live in Paris as Mr. Lemuel's 
 mistress. I am to have a villa at Passy, and fifteen hundred a 
 year.' 
 
 'Princely!' exclaimed Desrolles. 
 
 'And I am to leave Jack free to* live his own life. Don't you 
 think he would be glad 1 ' 
 
 There was something almost tigerish in the look which em- 
 phasised this question. 
 
 'I think that it would not matter one jot to you whether he 
 
Shall it be 'Yes' or 'No'? 135 
 
 were glad or sorry. He would make a row, I suppose, but you 
 would be safe on the other side of the Channel. 5 
 
 'He would get a divorce/ said La Chicot. 'Your English 
 law breaks a marriage as easily as it makes one. And then he 
 would marry that other woman.' 
 
 ' "What other woman 1 ' 
 
 ' I doa't know — but there is another. He C?me<i as much the 
 last time we quarrelled.' 
 
 ' A divorce would make you a great lady. Joseph Lemuel 
 would marry you. The man is your slave ; you could twist hir\ 
 round your little finger. And then, instead of your little box 
 at Passy, you might have a mansion in the Chai^ps Elysees, 
 among the ambassadors. You would go to the races in a 
 f our-i a-hand. You might be the most fashionable woman in 
 Paris.' 
 
 ' And I began life washing dirty linen in the river at Auray, 
 among a lot of termagants who hated me because I was young 
 and handsome. I had not much pleasure in those days, my 
 friend.' 
 
 ' Your Parisian life would be a change. You must be very 
 tired of London.' 
 
 ' Tired ! But I detest it prettily, your city of narrow streets 
 and dismal Sundays.' 
 
 ' And you must have had enough dancing.' 
 
 ' I begin to be tired of it. Since my accident I have not the 
 old spirit.' 
 
 She had the jewel-case in her hand still, and was turning it 
 about, admiring the brightness of the stones, which sparkled in 
 the dim light. Presently she went back to her low chair by the 
 fire, and let the case he open in her lap, with the fire-glow 
 shining on the gems, until the pure white stones took all the 
 colours of the rainbow. 
 
 ' I can fancy myself in a box at the opera, in a tight-fitting 
 ruby velvet dress, with no ornaments but this necklace and 
 single diamonds for eardrops,' mused La Chicot. ' I do not think 
 there are many women in Paris who would surpass me.' 
 
 ' Not one.' 
 
 'And I should look on while other women danced for my 
 amusement,' she pursued. ' After all, the life of a stage dancer 
 is a poor thing at best. There are only so many rungs of the 
 ladder between me and a dancing girl at a fair. I am getting 
 tired of it.' 
 
 'You will be a good deal more tired when jt>u are a lew 
 years older,' said Desrolles. 
 
 ' At six-and-twenty one need not think of age.' 
 
 ' No ; but at six-and-thirty age will think of you.' 
 
 1 1 have asked for a week to consider his offer,' said La Chicot 
 
136 .»■' The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' This flay week I am to give him an answer, yes or no. If I 
 keep the diamonds, it will mean yes. If I send them back to 
 him, it will mean no.' 
 
 ' I can't imagine any woman saying no to such a necklace as 
 that,' said Desrolles. 
 
 ' What is it worth, after all 1 Fifteen years ago a string of 
 glass beads bought in the market at Auray would have made me 
 happier than those diamonds can make me now.' 
 
 ' If you are going to moralise, I can't follow you. I should 
 say, at a rough guess, those diamonds must be worth three 
 thousand pounds.' 
 
 'They are to be taken or left,' said La Chicot, in French, 
 with her careless shrug. 
 
 ' Where do you mean to keep them ! ' inquired Desrolles. ' If 
 your husband were to see them, there would be a row. You 
 must not leave them in his way.' 
 
 ' Pas si bete,' replied La Chicot. ' See here.' 
 
 She flung back the loose collar of her cashmere morning 
 gown, and clasped the necklace round her throat. Then she 
 drew the collar together again, and the diamonds were hidden. 
 
 ' I shall wear the necklace night and day till I make up my 
 mind whether to keep it or not,' she said. 'Where I go the 
 diamonds will go — nobody will see them — nobody will rob me 
 of them while I am alive. What is the matter 1 ' she asked 
 suddenly, startled by a passing distortion of Desrolles' face. 
 
 ' Nothing. Only a spasm.' 
 
 ' I thought you were going to have a fit.' 
 
 ' I did feel queer for the moment. My old complaint.' 
 
 * Ah, I thought as much. Have some brandy.' 
 
 Though La Chicot made light of Mr. Lemuel's offering in her 
 talk with Desrolles, she was not the less impressed by it. After 
 she had come from the theatre that night she sat on the floor in 
 her dingy bedroom with a looking-glass in her hand, gloating 
 over her reflection with that string of jewels round her neck, 
 turning her swan-like throat every way to catch the rays of the 
 candle, thinking how glorious she would look with those shining 
 stars upon her ivory neck, thinking what a new and delightful 
 life Joseph Lemuel's wealth could give her ; a life of riot and 
 dissipation, fine clothes, epicurean dinners, late hours, and perfect 
 idleness. She even thought of all the famous restaurants in 
 Paris where she would like to dine ; fairy palaces on the Boule- 
 vard, all lights, and gilding, and crimson velvet, which she knew 
 only from the outside ; houses where vice was more at home than 
 virtue, and where a single cutlet in its paper frill cost more than 
 a poor man's family dinner. She looked round the shabby room> 
 with its blackened ceiling and discoloured paper, on which the 
 damp had made ugly blotches j the tawdry curtains, the rickety 
 
Shall it be ' Yes ' or 'No'? 137 
 
 deal dressing-table disguised in dirty muslin and ragged Notting- 
 ham lace — and the threadbare carpet. How miserable it all was ! ■ 
 She and her husband had once gone with the crowd to see the 
 house of a Parisian courtesan, who had died in the zenith of her 
 days. She remembered with what almost reverential feeling the 
 mob had gazed at the delicate satin draperies of boudoir and 
 salon, the porcelain, the tapestries, the antique lace, the tiny 
 cabinet pictures which shone like jewels on the satin walls. Vice , 
 so exalted was almost virtue. 
 
 In the dining-room, paramount over all other objects, was 
 enshrined the portrait of the departed goddess, a medallion in a 
 frame of velvet and gold. La Chicot well remembered wondering 
 to see so little beauty in that celebrated face — a small oval face, 
 grey eyes, a nondescript nose, a wide mouth. Intelligence and a 
 winning smile were the only charms of that renowned beauty. 
 Cosmetiques and Worth had done all the rest. But then the 
 dead and gone courtesan had been one of the cleverest women in 
 France. La Chicot made no allowance for that. 
 
 ' I am ten times handsomer,' she told herself, ' and yet I shall 
 never keep my own carriage.' 
 
 She had often brooded over the difference between her fate 
 and that of the woman whose house, and horses, and carriages, 
 and lap dogs, and jewels she had seen, the sale of which had 
 made a nine days' wonder in Paris. She thought of that dead 
 woman to-night as she sat with the mirror in her hand admiring 
 the diamonds and her beauty, while Jack Chicot was doing his 
 best to forget her in his Bohemian club near the Strand. She 
 remembered all the stories she had heard of that extinguished 
 luminary — her arrogance, her extravagance, the abject slavery 
 of her adorers, her triumphal progress through life, scornful and 
 admired. 
 
 It was not the virtuous who despised her, but she who 
 despised the virtuous. Honest women were the chosen mark for 
 her ridicule. People in Paris knew all the details of her brazen, 
 infamous life. Very few knew the history of her deathbed. 
 But the priest who shrived her and the nursing sister who 
 watched her last hours could have told a story to make even 
 Frivolity's hair stand on end. 
 
 ' It was a short life, but a merry one,' thought La Chicot. 
 ' How well I remember her the winter the lake in the Bois was 
 frozen, and there was skating by torchlight ! She used to drive 
 a sledge covered all over with silver bells, and she used to skate 
 dressed in dark red velvet and sable. The crowd stood oil one 
 side to let her pass, as if she had been an empress.' 
 
 Then her thoughts took another turn. 
 
 'If I left him, he would divorce me and marry that other 
 woman/ she said to herself. ' "Who is she, I wonder 1 Where 
 
138 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 did he see her ? Not at the theatre. He cares for no one ther& 
 I have watched him too closely to be deceived in that.' 
 
 Then she half -filled a tumbler with brandy, and flavoured it 
 with water, in order to delude herself with the idea that she was 
 drinking brandy and water ; and then, lapsing into a state of 
 semi-intoxication — a dreamy, half -consciousness, in which life, 
 seen hazily, took a brighter hue — she flung aside her mirror, 
 and threw herself half-dressed upon the bed. 
 
 Jack Chicot, who had taken to coming home long after mid- 
 night, slept on the sofa in a little third room, where he worked. 
 There was Dot much chance of his seeing the jewels. He and his 
 wife were a&' nearly parted as two people could be, living in the 
 same house. 
 
 La Chicot contemplated the diamonds, and abandoned herself 
 to much the same train of thought, for several nights ; and now 
 came the last night of the week which Mr. Lemuel had allowed 
 for reflection. To-morrow she was to give him his answer. 
 
 He was waiting for her at the stage-door when she came out. 
 Desrolles, her usual escort, was not in attendance. 
 
 ' Zaire, I have been thinking of you every hour since last we 
 spoke together,' Joseph Lemuel began, delighted at finding her 
 alone. 'You are as difficult to approach as a princess of the 
 blood royal.' 
 
 ' Why should I hold myself cheaper than a princess 1 ' she 
 asked, insolently. ' I am an honest woman.' 
 
 ' You are. handsomer than any princess in Europe,' he said. 
 ' But you ought to compassionate an adorer who has waited so 
 long and so patiently. When am I to have your answer 1 Is it 
 to be yes 1 You cannot be so cruel as to say no. My lawyer has 
 drawn up the deed of settlement. I only wait your word to 
 execute it.' 
 
 ' You are veiy generous,' said La Chicot, scornfully, ' or very 
 obstinate. If I run away with you and my husband gets a 
 divorpe, will you marry me ? ' 
 
 ' Be faithful to me, and I will refuse you nothing.' He went 
 with her to the door of her lodgings for the first time, pleading 
 his cause all the way, with such eloquence as he could command, 
 which was not much. He was a man who had found money all 
 powerful to obtain everything he wanted, and had seldom felt 
 the need of words. 
 
 ' Send me a messenger you can trust at twelve o'clock to- 
 morrow, and if I do not send you back your diamonds ' 
 
 ' I shall know that your answer is yes. In that case you 
 will find ro y brougham waiting at a quarter-past seven o'clock 
 to-morrow evening, at the corner of this street, and I shall be in 
 , the brougham. We will drive straight to Charing Cross, and start 
 for Paris by the mail. It will be too dark for any one to notice the 
 ' carriage. What time do you generally go to the theatre ? ' 
 
Shall it be 'Yes' or 'No'? 139 
 
 'At half -past seven.' 
 
 * Then you will not be missed till you are well out of the way. 
 There will be no fuss, no scandal.' 
 
 ' There will be a tremendous fuss at the theatre,' said La 
 Chicot. ' Who is to take my place in the burlesque 1 ' 
 
 ' Any one. What need you care 1 You will have done wfth 
 burlesque and the stage for ever.' , 
 
 ' True,' said La Chicot. '■> 
 
 And then she remembered the Student's Theatre in Park 
 and how he: popularity had waned there. The same thing might 
 happen here in London, perhaps, after a year or two. Her 
 audience would grow tired of her. Already people in the theatre 
 had begun to make disagreeable remarks about the empty cham- 
 pagne bottles which came out of her dressing-room. By-and-by t 
 perhaps, thej would be impudent enough to call her a drunkard. 
 She would be glad to have done with them,. 
 
 Yet, degraded as she was, there were depths of vice from 
 which her better instincts plucked her back ; as if it were her 
 good angel clutching her garments to drag her from the edge of 
 an abyss. She had once loved her husband ; nay, after her own 
 manner, she loved him still, and could not calmly contemplate 
 leaving him. Her brain, muddled by champagne and brandy, 
 shaped all thoughts confusedly ; yet at her worst the idea of 
 selling herself to this Jewish profligate shocked and disgusted 
 her. Her soul was swayed to and fro, to this side and to that. 
 She had no inclination to vice, but she would have liked the 
 wages of sin ; for in this lower world the wages of sin meant a 
 villa at Passy, and a couple of carriages. 
 
 ' Good night,' she said abruptly to her lover. ' I must not 
 be seen talking to j<y\, My husband may come home at any 
 nrinute.' 
 
 ' I hear that he generally comes home in the middle of the 
 night,' said Mr. Lemuel. 
 
 ' What business is it of yours if he does ? ' asked La Chicot, 
 angrily. 
 
 ' Everything that concerns you is my business. When I, who 
 love the ground you walk upon, hear how you are neglected by 
 your husband, do you suppose the knowledge does not make me 
 so much the more determined to win you 1 ' 
 
 ' Send your messenger for my answer to-Llorrow/ said La 
 Chicot, and then she shut the door in his face. 
 
 ' I hate him,' she muttered, when she was alor s in the 
 passage, stamping her foot as if she had trodden upon a veno- 
 mous insect. 
 
 She went upstairs, and again sat down, half undressed, upon 
 the floor, to look at the diamond necklace. She had a childish 
 love of the gems — a delight in looking at them — which differed 
 
140 & The Cloven Foot. 
 
 very little from her feelings when she was fifteen years youngei, 
 and longed for a blue bead necklace exposed for sale in the quaint 
 old market-place at Auray. 
 
 ' I shall send them back to him to-morrow,' she said to her- 
 self. ' The diamonds are beautiful — and I am getting tired of my 
 life here, and I know that Jack hates me — but that man is too 
 horrible — and — I am an honest woman.' 
 
 She flung herself on her knees beside the bed, in the attitude 
 of prayer, but not to pray. She had lost the habit of prayer soon 
 after she left her native province. She was sobbing passionately 
 for the loss of her husband's love, with a dim consciousness that 
 it was by her own degradation she had forfeited his regard. 
 
 ' I've been a good wife to him,' she murmured in broken 
 syllables, 'better than ever I was ' 
 
 And then speech lost itself in convulsive sobs, and she cried 
 herself to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MURDER. 
 
 Murder! an awful word under the most ordinary circumstances 
 of every-day life — an awful word even when spoken of an event 
 that happened long ago, or afar off. But what a word shouted in 
 the dead of night, through the close darkness of a sleeping house, 
 thrilling the ear of slumber, freezing the blood in the half- 
 awakened sleepers' veins. 
 
 Such a shout — repeated with passionate clamour — scared the 
 inhabitants of the Cibber Street lodging-house at three o'clock in 
 the winter morning, still dark as deepest night. Mrs. Eawber 
 heard it in her back bedroom on the ground floor. It penetrated 
 confusedly — not as a word, but as a sound of fear and dread — to 
 the front kitchen, where Mrs. Evitt, the landlady, slept on an 
 ancient press bedstead, which by day made believe to be a book- 
 case. Lastly, Desrolles, who seemed to have slept more heavily 
 than the other two on that particular night, came rushing out of 
 his room to ask the meaning of that hideous summons. 
 
 They all met on the first-floor landing, where Jack Chicot 
 stood on the threshold of his wife's bedroom, with a candle in his 
 hand, the flickering flame making a patch of sickly yellow light 
 amidst surrounding gloom — a faint light in which Jack Chicot's 
 pallid countenance looked like the face of a ghost. 
 
 'What is the matter?' Desrolles asked the twn women, 
 eimultaneously. 
 
Murder. 141 
 
 ' My wife has been murdered. My God, it i3 too awful I 
 See — see ' 
 
 Chicot pointed with a trembling hand to a thin thread of crimson 
 that had crept along the dull grey carpet to the very threshold. 
 Shudderingly the others looked inside, as he held the candle 
 towards the bed, with white, averted face. There were hideous 
 stains on the counterpane, an awfid figure lying in a heap among 
 the bed-clothes, a long loose coil of raven hair, curved like a 
 snake round the rigid form — a spectacle which not one of those 
 who gazed upon it, spell-bound, fascinated by the horror of the 
 sight, could ever hope to forget. 
 
 ' Murdered, and in my house ! ' shrieked Mrs. Evitt, uncon- 
 sciously echoing the words of Lady Macbeth, on a similar occasion. 
 ' I shall never let my first floor again. I'm a ruined woman. Seize 
 him, 'old ' im tight,' she cried, with sudden intensity. ' It must 
 fove been her ' usband done it. You was often a-quarrelling, 
 you know you was.' 
 
 This fierce attack startled Jack Chicot. He turned upon the 
 woman with his ghastly face, a new horror in his eyes. 
 
 ' I kill her ! ' he cried. ' I never raised my hand against her 
 in my life, though she has tempted me many a time. I came 
 into the house three minutes ago. I should not have 
 known anything, for when I come in late I sleep in the little 
 
 room, but I saw that ' (he pointed to the thin red streak which 
 
 had crept across the threshold, and under the door, to the carpet- 
 less landing outside), ' and then I came in and found her lying 
 here, as you see her.' 
 
 ' Somebody ought to go for a policeman/ suggested Desrolles. 
 
 1 I will, said Chicot. 
 
 He was the only person present in a condition to leave the 
 house and before any one could question his right? to leave it he 
 was gone. 
 
 They waited outside that awful chamber for a quarter of an 
 hour, but no policeman came, nor did Jack Chicot return. 
 
 'I begin to think he has made a bolt of it,' said Desrolles. 
 ' That looks rather bad.' 
 
 ' Didn't I tell you he'd done it 1 ' screamed the landlady. ' I 
 now he'd got to hate her. I've seen it in his looks — and she has 
 told me as much, and cried over it, poor thing, when she'd taken 
 a glass oi two more than was good for her. And you let him go, 
 like a coward as you was.' 
 
 ' My good Mrs. Evitt, you are getting abusive. I was not sent 
 into the world to arrest possible cr iminals . I am not a 
 detective.' 
 
 ' But I'm a ruined woman ! ' cried the outraged householder. 
 ' Whose to occupy my lodgings in future, I should like to know \ 
 The house '11 get the name of being haunted. Here's Mrs, 
 
142 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Kawber even, that has been with me close upon five year, will be 
 wanting to go.' 
 
 ' I've had a turn/ assented the tragic lady, ' and I don't feel 
 that I can lie down in my bed again downstairs. I'm afraid I 
 may have to look for other apartments.' 
 
 ' There,' whimpered Mrs. Evitt, ' didn't I tell you I was a 
 ruined woman ? ' 
 
 Desrolles had gone into the front room, and was standing 
 at an open window watching for a policeman. 
 
 One of those guardians of the public peace came strolling along 
 the pavement presently, with as placid an air as if he had been 
 an inhabitant of Arcadia, to whom Desrolles sheuted, ' Come up 
 here, there's been murder.' 
 
 The public guardian wheeled himself stiffly round and ap- 
 proached the street door. He did not take the word murder in 
 its positive sense, but in its local significance, which meant a row, 
 culminating in a few bruises and a black eye or two. That actual 
 murder had been done, and that a dead woman was lying in the 
 house, never entered his mind. He opened the door and came 
 upstairs with slow, creaking footsteps, as if he had been making 
 a ceremonious visit. 
 
 ' What's the row ? ' he asked curtly, when he came to the 
 first floor landing, and saw the two women standing there, Mrs. 
 Evitt wrapped in a waterproof, Mrs. Eawber in a yellow cotton 
 dressing-gown of antiquated fashion, both with scared faces and 
 sparse, dishevelled hair. 
 
 Mr. Desrolles was the coolest of the trio, but even his counte- 
 nance had a ghastly look in the light of the guttering candle 
 which Jack Chicot had set down on the little table outside the 
 bedroom door. 
 
 They told him breathlessly what had happened. 
 
 ' Is she dead ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Go in and look,' said Mrs. Evitt. ' I dared not go a-nigh 
 her.' 
 
 The policeman went in, lantern in hand, a monument of stolid 
 calm, amidst thf, terror of the scene. Little need to ask if she 
 were dead. That awful face upon the pillow, those glazed eyes 
 with their wide stare of horror, that gaping wound in the full 
 white throat, from which the life-blood had poured in a crimson 
 stream across the white counterpane, until it made a darK pool 
 beside the bed, all told their own tale. • 
 
 ' She must have been dead for an hour or more,' said the 
 policeman, touching the marble hand. 
 
 La Chicot's hand and awn were flung above her head, as if 
 she had known what was coming, and had tried to clutch the 
 bell-pull behind her. The other hand was tightly clenched as in 
 the last eonvuMon. 
 
Murder. 143 
 
 ' There '11 have to be an inquest,' said the policeman, after 
 he had examined the window, and looked out to see If the room 
 was easily accessible from without. ' Somebody had better go 
 for a doctor. I'll go myself. There's a surgeon at the corner of 
 the next street, "who is she, and how did it happen V 
 
 Mrs. Evitt, in a torrent of words, told him all she knew, and 
 all she suspected. It was La Chicot's husband that had done it, 
 she was sure. 
 
 ' Why V asked the policeman. 
 
 ' "Who else should it be 1 It couldn't be burglars. You saw 
 yourself that the window was fastened inside. She'd no valu- 
 ables to tempt any one. Light come light go was her motto, poor 
 tiling. Her money went as fast as it came, and if it wasn't him 
 as did it, why haven't he come back V 
 
 The policeman asked what she meant by this, whereupon 
 Desrolles told him of Mr. Chicot's disappearance. 
 
 ' I must say that it looks fishy,' concluded the second floor 
 lodger. ' I don't want to breathe a word against a man I like, 
 but it looks fishy. He went out twenty minutes ago to fetch a 
 policeman, and he hasn't come back yet.' 
 
 ' No, nor never will,' said Mrs. Eawber, who was sitting on 
 the stairs shivering, afraid to go back to her bedroom. 
 
 That ground floor bedroom of hers was a dismal place at the 
 best of times, overshadowed by the wall of the yard, and made 
 dark and damp by a protruding cistern, but how would it seem 
 to her now when the house was made horrible by murder ? 
 
 ' Do you know what time it was when the husband gav e the 
 alarm V asked the policeman. 
 
 ' Not more than twenty minutes ago.' 
 
 ' Any of you got a watch V 
 
 Desrolles shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Evitt murmured 
 something about her poor husband's watch which had been a 
 good one in its time, till one of the hands broke short off and the 
 works went wronA. Mrs. Eawber had a clock on her bedroom 
 mantelpiece, and had noticed the time when that awful cry 
 awoke her, scared as she was. It was ten minutes after three. 
 
 ' And now it wants twenty to four,' said the sergeant, looking 
 at his watch. ' If the husband did it, he must have done it a 
 good hour before he gave the alarm ; at least that's my opinion. 
 We shall hear -vrhat the doctor says. I'll go and fetch him. 
 Now, look here, my good people : if you value your own 
 characters, you'll none of you attempt to leave this house to- 
 night. Your evidence will be wanted at the inquest to-morrow, 
 and the quieter and closer you keep yourselves meanwhile the 
 safer for you.' 
 
 ' I shall go back to bed,' said Desrollos, ' as I don't see my 
 way to being of any use,' 
 
144 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 That's tile best thing you can do,' said the sergeant, approv- 
 ingly ; 'and you, ma'am, 5 he added, turning to Mrs. Eawber, 
 ' had better follow the gentleman's example.' 
 
 Mrs. Eawber felt as if her bedroom would be peopled with 
 ghosts, but did not like to give utterance to her fears. 
 
 ' I'll go down and set a light to my parlour fire, and mix 
 myself a wine-glassful of something warm,' she said. ' I feel 
 chilled to the marrow of my bones.' 
 
 ' You, ma'am, had better wait up here till I come back with the 
 doctor,' said the policeman. 
 
 Desrolles had returned to his room by this time. Mrs. 
 Eawber went downstairs with the policeman, glad of his company 
 so far. He waited politely while she struck a lucifer and 
 lighted her candle, and then he hurried off to find the doctor. 
 
 'There's company in a fire,' mused Mrs. Eawber, as sha 
 groped for wood and paper in the bottom of a cupboard not 
 wholly innocent of black beetles. 
 
 There was company in a glass of hot gin-and-water, too, 
 by-and-by, when the tiny kettle had been coaxed into a boiL 
 Mrs. Eawber was a temperate woman, but she liked what she 
 called her ' little comforts,' and an occasional tumbler of gin-and- 
 water was one of them. 
 
 ' It's very hard upon me,' she said to herself, thinking of the 
 dreadful deed that had been done upstairs ; ' the rooms suit me, 
 and I'm used to them ; and yet I believe I shall have to go. I 
 shall fancy the place is haunted.' 
 
 She glanced round over her shoulder, fearful lest she should 
 see La Chicot in her awful beauty — a marble face, a blood-stained 
 throat, and glassy eyes regarding her with sightless stare. 
 
 ' I shall have to leave,' thought Mrs. Eawber. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Evitt was alone upstairs. She was a ghoul- 
 like woman, for whom horrors were not without a ghastly 
 relish. She liked to visit in the house of death, to sit beside the 
 winter fire with a batch of gossips, consuming tea and toast, 
 dwelling on the details of a last illness, or discussing the order of 
 a funeral. She had a dreadful courage that came of familiarity 
 with death. She took up the candle, and went in alone and 
 unappalled to look at La Chicot. 
 
 ' How tight 5 that hand is clenched !.' she said to herself ; ' I 
 wonder whether there's anything in !t 1 ' 
 
 She forced back the stiffening fingers, and with the candle 
 held close, bent down to peer into the marble palm. In the 
 hollow of that dead hand she found a little tuft of non-grey hair, 
 which looked as if it had been torn from a man's head. 
 
 Mrs. Evitt drew the hairs from the dead hand, and with a 
 careful precision laid them in an old letter which she took from 
 her pocket, and folded up the letter into a neat little packet, 
 
Murder. 145 
 
 which she returned to the same calico receptacle for heterogeneous 
 articles. 
 
 ' What a turn it has given me ! ' she said to herself, stealing 
 back to the landing, her petticoats lifted, lest the hem of her 
 garments should touch that dreadful pool beside the bed. 
 
 The expression of her face had altered since she entered the 
 room. There was a new intelligence in her dull gray eyes. Her 
 countenance and bearing were as of one whose mind is charged 
 with the weight of an awful secret. 
 
 The surgeon came, an elderly man, who lived close at hand ( 
 and was experienced in the ways of that doubtful section of 
 society which inhabited the neighbourhood of Cibber Street. In 
 his opinion La Chicot had been dead three hours. It was now 
 on the stroke of four. One o'clock must, therefore, have been 
 the time of the murder. 
 
 The police-sergeant came back in company with a man in 
 plain clothes, and these two made a careful examination of the 
 premises together, the result of which saspection went to show 
 that it would have been extremely difficult for any one to enter 
 the house from the back. The front door was left on the latch 
 all night, and had been for the last eleven years, and no harm 
 had ever come of it, Mrs. Evitt declared, plaintively. It was a 
 Chubb lock, and she didn't believe there was another like it in 
 all London. 
 
 The two men went into every room in the house, disturbed 
 Mr. Desrolles in a comfortable slumber, and surveyed his bed- 
 chamber with eyes which took in every detail. There was very 
 little for them to see : a tent bedstead draped with flabby faded 
 chintz, a rickety washstand, a small chest of drawers with a 
 looking-glass on the top, and three odd chairs, picked up at 
 humble auctions. 
 
 After inspecting Mr. Desrolles' rooms and overhauling his 
 limited wardrobe, they looked in upon Mrs. Eawber, and roused 
 that talented woman's ire by opening all her drawers and cupboards, 
 and peering curiously into the same, whereby they beheld more 
 mysteries of theatrical attire than ought to be seenbythe public eye. 
 
 'You don't suppose I did it, I hope 1 ?' protested Mrs. Eawber, 
 in her grandest tragedy voice. 
 
 ' No, ma'am, but we're obliged to do our duty,' answered the 
 police-officer. ' It's only a form.' 
 
 ' It's a very disagreeable form,' said Mrs. Eawber, ' and if 
 you tallow-grease my Lady Macbeth dresses, I shall expect you 
 to make them good.' 
 
 The man in plain clothes committed himself to no opinion, 
 nor did he enter upon any discussion as to the motive of a crime 
 apparently so motiveless. He made his notes of the plain facts of 
 the case, and went away with the sergeant. 
 
 K 
 
146 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 What am I to do about laying her out? ' asked Mrs. Evitt of 
 the doctor. 'I wouldn't lay a finger upon her for a hundred 
 pounds.' 
 
 ' I'll send round a nurse from the workhouse,' said the doctor, 
 after a moment's thought. ' They're not easily scared.' 
 
 Half an hour later the workhouse nurse came, a tall, bony 
 woman, who executed her horrible task in a business-like manner, 
 which testified to the strength of her nerve and the variety of 
 her experience. 
 
 By five o'clock in the morning all was done, and La Chicot 
 lay with meekly folded hands under clean white linen — the heavy 
 lids closed for ever on the once lovely eyes, the raven hair parted 
 on the classic brow. 
 
 ' She's the handsomest corpse I've laid out for the last ten 
 years ' said the nurse, ' and I think she does me credit. If you've 
 got a kettle on the bile, mum, and can give me a cup of tea, I shall 
 be thankful for it ; and I think a teaspoonful of sperrits in it 
 would do me good. I've been up all night with a fractious pauper 
 in the smallpox ward.' 
 
 ' Oh, lor ! ' cried Mrs. Evitt, with an alarmed countenance. 
 
 ' You've been vaccinated, of course, mum,' said the nurse cheer- 
 fully. ' You don't belong to none of them radical anti-vaccina- 
 tionists, I'm sure. And as to catching complaints of that kind, 
 mum, it's only your pore-spirited, nervous people as does it. I 
 never have no pity for such weak mortals. I look down on 'em 
 too much.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHAT THE DIAMONDS WERE WORTH. 
 
 The inquest was held at noon next day. The news of the 
 murder had spread far and wide already, and there was a crowd 
 gathered round the house in Cibber Street all the morning, much 
 to Mrs. Evitt's aggravation. The newspaper reporters forced 
 their way into her house in defiance of her protests, and finding 
 her slow to answer their questions, got hold of Mr. Desrolles, who 
 was very ready to talk and to drink with every comer 
 
 George Gerard called at the house in Cibber Street between 
 nine and ten o'clock. He had heard of the murder on his way 
 from the Blackfriars Road, where he was now living as assistant 
 to a general practitioner, to the hospital where he was still 
 attending the clinical lectures. He had heard an exaggerated 
 version of the event, and came expecting to find a case of mur- 
 der and suicide, the husband stretched Lifeless beside the wife he 
 had sacrificed to his jealous fury. 
 
Wliat the Diamonds were Worth. 147 
 
 It was not without some difficulty that he got permission to 
 enter the room where the dead woman lay. The hospital nurse 
 had been put in charge of that chamber by the police, and Gerard 
 was obliged to enforce his arguments with a half-crown, which 
 he could ill afford, before the lady's conscientious scruples were > 
 quieted, and she gave him the key of the room. 
 
 He went in with the nurse, and stayed for about a quarter of 
 an hour, engaged in a careful and thoughtful examination of the 
 wound. It was a curious wound. La Chicot's throat had not 
 been cut, in the common acceptation of the phrase. The blow 
 that had slain her was a deep stab ; a violent thrust with some 
 sharp, thin, and narrow instrument, which had pierced the 
 hollow of her neck, and penetrated in a slanting direction to the 
 lungs. 
 
 What had been the instrument ? "Was it a dagger 1 and, if so, 
 what kind of dagger '? George Gerard had never seen a dagger 
 thin enough to inflict that fine, narrow slit through which 
 the blood had oozed so slowly. The crimson stream that stained 
 coverlet and floor had flowed from the livid lips of the corpse, 
 betokening hgemorrhage of the lungs. 
 
 There had been a struggle before that fatal wound was given. 
 On the round, white wrist of the dead a purple bruise showed 
 where a savage hand had gripped that lovely arm ; on the - right 
 shoulder, from which the loose night-dress had fallen, appeared 
 the marks of strong fingers that had fastened their clutch there. 
 The nurse showed Gerard these bruises. 
 
 ' They tell a tale, don't they 1 ' she said. 
 
 1 If we could only read it aright,' sighed Gerard. 
 
 'It looks as if she had fought for her life, poor soul,' suggested 
 the nurse. 
 
 Gerard made no further remark, but stood beside the bed, 
 looking round him with thoughtful, scrutinizing gaze, as if he 
 would have asked the very walls to tell him the secret of the 
 crime they had looked upon a few hours before. 
 
 ' The police have been here and have discovered nothing 1 ' he 
 said, interrogatively. 
 
 ' "Whatever they've discovered they've kept to themselves,' 
 answered the nurse, ' but I don't believe it's much.' 
 
 ' Did they go in there 1 ' asked Gerard, pointing to the open 
 door of that small inner room, a mere den, where Jack Chicot had 
 painted in the days when he cherished the hope of earning his 
 living as a painter. Here of late he had drawn his wood-blocks, 
 and here, on a wretched narrow couch, he had slept. 
 
 ' Yes, they went in,' replied the nurse, ' but I'm .sure they 
 didn't find anything particular there.' 
 
 Gerard passed into the dusty little den. There was an old 
 easel with an unfinished picture, half-covered with a ragged 
 
148 The Cloven Foot. ' " 
 
 chintz curtain. Gerard plucked the curtain aside, and looted at 
 the picture. It was crude, but full of a certain melodramatic 
 power. The subject was from a poem of De Musset's, a Venetian 
 noble, crouching in the shadow of a doorway, at dead of night, 
 dagger in hand, waiting to slay his enemy. There was a deal 
 table, ink-stained, decrepid, scattered with papers, pens, pencils, a 
 battered pewter inkstand, an empty cigar-box, a fife of ' Folly as 
 it Flies,' and odd numbers of other comic journals. On the old- 
 fashioned window-seat — for these houses in Cibber Street were 
 two hundred years old — there was a large wooden paint-box, full 
 of empty tubes, brushes, a couple of palettes, an old palette-knife, 
 rags, sponges. At the bottom of the box, hidden under rags and 
 rubbish, there lay a long thin dagger, of Italian workmanship, 
 the handle of finely -wrought silver, oxidized with age — just such 
 a dagger as an artist would fancy for his armoury. One glance 
 at the canvas yonder told Gerard that this was the dagger in 
 the picture. 
 
 George Gerard took up the dagger and looked at it curiously 
 — a long thin blade, flexible, sharp, a deadly weapon in a strong 
 hand, a weapon to inflict just such a wound as that deep stab 
 which had slain La Chicot. 
 
 He examined the blade, the handle — looking at both through 
 his pocket microscope. Both were darkly tarnished, possibly 
 with the recant stain of blood ; but the weapon had been care- 
 fully cleansed, and there was no actual speck of blood upon 
 either handle or blade. 
 
 ' Strange that the detectives should have overlooked this,' he 
 said to himself, replacing the dagger in the box. 
 
 Mrs. Evitt had told him of Jack Chicot's unaccountable dis- 
 appearance, how he had gone out to call the police, and had 
 never come back. "What could this mean, except guilt ? And 
 here in the husband's colour box was just such a weapon as that 
 with which the wife had been stabbed. 
 
 'And I know that he was weary of her, I know that he 
 wanted her to die,' mused Gerard. ' I read that secret in his 
 face six months ago.' 
 
 He left the room presently, without any expression of opinion 
 to the hospital nurse, who was eager to discuss the deed that had 
 been done, and had theories of her own about it. He left the 
 house and walked the neighbouring streets for an hour, waiting 
 for the inquest. 
 
 ' Shall I volunteer my opinion before the Coroner ? ' he asked 
 himself. ' To what end 1 It is but a theory, after all. And a 
 Coroner is rarely a man inclined to give his ear to speculations of 
 that kind. I'd better write to one of the newspapers. Would it do 
 any good if I were to bring the crime home to the husband ? 
 Not much, perhaps. Wherever the wretch goes he carries with 
 
What the Diamonds were Worth. 14& 
 
 him a conscience that must be a worse punishment than the con- 
 demned cell. And to hang him would not bring her back to 
 life. Poor foolish, lost creature, the only woman I ever loved.' 
 
 The Prince of Wales's Feathers — more popularly known as 
 the Feathers — a public-house at the corner of Cibber Street and 
 "Woodpecker Coiu't, was the scene of the inquiry. The witnesses 
 were the doctor, the police-sergeant, the detective who had 
 assisted in the examination of the premises, Desrolles, Mrs. Evitt, 
 and Mrs. Eawber. Jack Chicot, the most important witness of 
 all, had not been seen since he left the house under the pretence 
 of summoning the police. This disappearance of the husband, 
 after giving an alarm which roused the sleeping household — an 
 altogether unnecessary and foolish act, supposing him to be the 
 murderer — was the most remarkable feature in the case, and 
 puzzled the Coroner. 
 
 He questioned Mrs. Evitt closely as to the habits of the 
 dancer and her husband. 
 
 ' You say they quarrelled frequently,' he said. ' Were their 
 disputes of a violent character ] ' 
 
 ' I have heard her violent, but never him. She was very 
 fond of him, poor thing ; though she wasn't a woman to give way 
 or to be guided by a husband. She was fonder of drink than 
 she ought to be, and he tried to keep her from it — leastways, 
 when they first came to my house. Later he seemed to have 
 give her up, as you may say, and let her go her own way.' 
 
 ' Did he seem attached to her 1 ' 
 
 * Not to my fancy. I thought the love was all on her side.' 
 
 * Was he a man of violent temper 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; he was one that took things verv quiet. I used to 
 think there was something underhand in his character. I can 
 call to mind her saying to me once, after they had been quarrel- 
 ling, "Mrs. Evitt, that man hates me too much to strike me. If he 
 was once to give way to his temper he'd be the death of me." 
 Those words of hers made an impression upon me at the time ' 
 
 ' Come, come, 5 interrupted the Coroner, ' we can't hear any- 
 thing about your impressions. This isn't evidence ! ' but Mrs. 
 Evitt's slow speech flowed onward Like a tranquil stream 
 meandering through a valley. 
 
 * " I'd rather have a low brute that beat me black and blue," 
 she said to me another time, poor dear thing, " if he was sorry 
 for it afterwards, than a cold-hearted gentleman that can sting 
 me to death with a word." ' 
 
 ' I want to hear facts, not assertions,' said the Coroner, 
 impatiently. ' Did you ever know the husband of the deceased 
 to be guilty of any act of violence, either towards his wife or 
 any one else ? ' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
150 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'Do you know if Madame Chicot had money" or any other 
 valuables in her possession 1 ' 
 
 ' I should say she had neither. She was a woman of 
 extravagant habits. It wasn't in her to save money.' 
 
 Mrs. Rawber's evidence merely confirmed Mrs. Evitt as to 
 the hour at which they had been aroused, and the conduct of 
 Jack Chicot. The two women agreed as to the ghastly look of 
 his face, and the sudden eagerness with which he had caught at 
 the idea of going to fetch a policeman, an idea suggested by 
 Desrolles. 
 
 Desrolles was the last witness examined. As he stood up to 
 answer the Coroner, he caught sight of a familiar face in the 
 crowd near the doorway. It was the countenance of Joseph 
 Lemuel, the stock-broker, sorely changed since Desrolles had seen 
 it last. Close by Mr. Lemuel's side appeared a well-known criminal 
 lawyer. Desrolles' bister complexion grew a shade grayer at 
 sight of these two faces, both intently watchful. 
 
 The evidence of Desrolles threw no new light upon the 
 mystery. He had known Mr. Chicot aad his wife intimately — 
 rarely had passer) a day without seeing them. They were both 
 excellent creatures, but not suited to each other. They did not 
 live happily together. He had never seen Jack Chicot guilty of 
 any act of absolute violence towards his wife, but he believed 
 that there was a good deal of bitterness in his mind; in short 
 that they could not have gone on living together peaceably much 
 longer. Mr. Chicot had absented himself from home very much 
 of late. He had kept late hours, and avoided his wife's company. 
 In a word, it was an ill-assorted marriage, and they were 
 a very unhappy couple — much to be pitied, both. 
 
 This was all. The coroner adjourned the inquiry for a week, 
 in the hope that further evidence would be forthcoming. There 
 was a feelmg in the court that a very strong suspicion attached 
 to the dead woman's husband, and that if he did not turn up 
 speedily he would have to be looked for. 
 
 George Gerard watched the inquest from a crowded corner of 
 the room, but he held his peace as to that discovery of the dagger 
 in Jack Chicot's colour-box. 
 
 La Chicot was buried two days afterwards, and there was a 
 tremendous crowd at Kensal Green to see the foreign dancing 
 woman laid in her untimely grave. Mr. Smolendo, with his own 
 hands, placed a wreath of white camellias on the coffin. Desrolles 
 stood beside the grave, decently attired in a suit of black, hired 
 for the occasion from a dealer in cast-off clothes, and 'looking 
 quite the gentleman,' Mrs. Evitt said to her gossips afterwards. 
 Mrs. Evitt and Mrs Eawber were both at the funeral ; indeed, it 
 may be said that the whole of Cibber Street turned out for the 
 occasion. There had not been such a crowd since the burial of 
 
Wliat the Diamonds were Worth. 151 
 
 Cardinal Wiseman. All the company from the Prince Frederick 
 •was there, besides much more of dramatic and equestrian. 
 London. 
 
 Poor Mr. Smolendo was in the depth of despair. He had 
 found an all-accomplished lady to take La Chicot's place in the 
 burlesque ; but the public did not believe in the all-accomplished 
 lady — who was old enough to have been La Chicot's mother, — and 
 Mr. Smolendo saw his theatre a desert of empty benches. No 
 matter that his scenery, his ballet, his orchestra, his lime-lights 
 were the best and most costly in London. The public had run 
 after La Chicot, and her unhappy fate cast a gloom orer the 
 house, not easily to be dispersed. The tide of fashion rolled 
 away to other theatres ; and the bark that carried Mr. Smolendo's 
 fortunes was left stranded on the shore. 
 
 The press was very vehement upon the case of La Chicot. 
 The more popular of the penny dailies went into convulsions of 
 indignation against everybody concerned. They reviled the 
 coroner ; they denounced the surgeon as a simpleton ; they insinu- 
 ated dark things about the landlady ; they banded the witnesses 
 as perjurers ; but they reserved their most scathing denunciations 
 for the police. 
 
 Here was an atrocious murder committed in the very heart of 
 civilized London ; in the midst of a calmly slumbering household ; 
 in a house in which almost every room was occupied ; and yet 
 the murderer is suffered to escape, and yet no ray of light from 
 the combined intelligence of Scotland Yard pierces the gloom of 
 the mystery. 
 
 The husband of the victim, against whom there is the 
 strongest presumptive evidence, whose own conduct is all-suffi- 
 cient to condemn him, this wretch is suffered to roam at large 
 over the earth, a modern Cain, without the brand upon his brow 
 by which his fellow-men may know him. Perhaps at this very 
 hour he is haunting our taverns, dining at our restaurants, 
 polluting the innocent atmosphere of our theatres, a guilty 
 creature sitting at a play — nay, even, with the hypocrite's visage, 
 crossing the hallowed threshold of a church ! Where are the 
 police 1 What are they doing that this scoundrel has not been 
 found ? They should be able to recognise him at a glance, even 
 without the brand of Cain. Are there no photographs of the 
 monster, who has been described as good-looking, and who was 
 doubtless vain ! Letters pour in to the Morning Shrieker by 
 the bushel, every correspondent suggesting his own particular 
 and original method for catching a murderer. 
 
 Strange to say, Jack Chicot, although a fair subject for the 
 camera, has had no passion for seeing what kind of picture the 
 eun can make of him. At any rate, there is no portrait of him, 
 lw£> or small, good, bad, or indifferent, to be found in Cibber 
 
£52 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Street, where the police naturally came to look for one. Mr. 
 Desrolles, who, throughout the case, shows himself accommodating 
 without being officious, gives a graphic description of his late 
 fellow-lodger ; but no verbal picture ever yet conjured up the 
 image of a man, and the detectives leave Cibber Street possessed 
 of the idea of a personage no more like Jack Chicot than Jack 
 Chicot was like the Emperor of China. This imaginary Chicot 
 they hunt assiduously in all the worst parts of London, and 
 often seem on the brink of catching him. They watch him 
 diniiig at low eating-houses, they see him playing billiards in 
 dubious taverns, they follow him on to penny steamers, and 
 accompany him on railroad journeys, always to find that, although 
 sufficiently disreputable, he is not Jack Chicot. 
 
 Working thus conscientiously, it was hard to be girded at b) 
 the Morning Shrieker and an army of letter-writers. 
 
 Assuredly the evidence against the missing husband was 
 strong enough to weave the rope that should hang him. 
 
 A letter to the Times from George Gerard describing the 
 dagger found in the colour-box had attracted the attention of the 
 famous surgeon who set La Chicot's broken leg, and that gentle- 
 man had hurried at once to Cibber Street to examine the wound. 
 He afterwards saw the dagger which, with the rest of the missing 
 man's effects, was in the custody of the police. He wrote to the 
 Times next day, confirming Gerard's statement. Such a wound 
 could have been inflicted by just such a dagger, and hardly by 
 any other form of knife or dagger known to civilization. The 
 thin flexible blade was unlike the blade of any other dagger the 
 surgeon had ever seen — the wound corresponded to the form of 
 the blade. 
 
 The leader-writers on the popular journals took up the idea. 
 They depicted the whole scene as vividly as if it had been shown 
 to them in a charmed sleep. They gushed as they described the 
 beauty of the wife ; they wept as they told of her intemperate 
 habits. The husband they painted in the darkest dyes of 
 iniquity. A man who had battened on his wife's earnings — a 
 poor creature — a led captain — idle, luxurious, intemperate, since 
 it was doubtless his example which had taught that glorious 
 creature to drink. They painted, in a blaze of lurid light, the 
 scene of the murder. The husband's midnight return from 
 haunts of vice — the wife's recriminations — her natural outbreak 
 of jealousy — hot words on both sides. The husband brutalized 
 by drink, stung to fury by the wife's well-merited reproaches, 
 snatches the dagger from the table where he had lately flung it 
 after a desultory half -hour of labour, and plunges the blade into 
 his wife's bosom. The leader-writer saw the whole thing, as in 
 a picture. The -public read, and at street corners and on the 
 roofs ot omnibuses the public talk for the next three weeks was 
 
WJiat the Diamonds were Worth, 153 
 
 of Jack Chicot's crime, and the miserable stupidity of the poling 
 in not being able to find him. 
 
 # # * * # 
 
 Between eight and nine o'clock on the night after La Chicot's 
 funeral an elderly man called upon Mr. Mosheh, a diamond mer- 
 chant in a small way, who lived in one of the streets near Bruns- 
 wick Square. The gentleman was respectably clad in a long 
 )vercoat, and wore a grey beard which had been allowed to grow 
 J«dth a luxuriance that entirely concealed the lower part of his 
 face. Under his soft felt hat he wore a black velvet skull-cap, 
 below which their appeared no vestige of hair ; whereby it might 
 be inferred that the velvet cap was intended to hide the baldness 
 of the skull it covered. Under the rim of the cap, which was 
 drawn low upon the brow, appeared a pair of shaggy grey eye- 
 brows, shadowing prominent eyes. Mr. Mosheh came out of his 
 dining-room, whence the savoury odour of fish fried in purest 
 olive oil followed him like a kind of incense, and found the 
 stranger waiting for him in the front room, which was half 
 parlour, half office. 
 
 The diamond merchant had a sharp eye for character, and he 
 saw at a glance that his visitor belonged to the hawk rather than 
 to the pigeon family. 
 
 1 Wants to do me if he can,' he said to himself. 
 
 ' What can I do for you 1 ' he asked, with oily affability. 
 
 1 You buy diamonds, I want to sell some ; and as I sell them 
 under the pressure of peculiar circumstances I am prepared to let 
 you have them a bargain,' said the stranger, with a tone at once 
 friendly and business-hke. 
 
 ' I don't bebeve in bargains. I'll give you a fair price for a 
 good article, if you came by the things honestly,' replied 
 Mr. Mosheh, with a suspicious look. 'I am not a receiver of 
 stolen goods. You have come to the wrong shop for that.' 
 
 'If I'd thought you were I shouldn't have come here,' said 
 the grey-beas'ded old man. ' I want to deal with a gentleman. 
 I am a gentleman myself, though a decayed one. I have not 
 come on my own business, but on that of a friend, a man you 
 know by name and repute as well as you know the Prince of 
 Wales — a man carrying on one of the most successful businesses 
 in London. I'm not going to tell you his name. I only give 
 you the facts. My friend has bills coming due to-morrow. If 
 they are dishonoured he must be in the Gazette nest week. In 
 his difficulty he went to bis wife, and made a clean breast of it. 
 She behaved as a good woman ought, put her arms round his 
 neck and told him not to be down-hearted, and then ran for her 
 jewel-case, and gave him her diamonds.' 
 
 ' Let us have a look at these said diamonds,' replied Mr. Mosheh, 
 without vouchsafing any praise of the wife's devotion. 
 
154 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 The man took out a small parcel, and unfolded it. There, on 
 a sheet of cotton wool, reposed the gems, five-and-thirty large 
 white stones, tbp smallest of them as big as a pea. 
 
 ' Why, they're unset ! ' exclaimed the diamond merchant. 
 'Hows that?' 
 
 'My friend is a proud man. He didn't want his wife's 
 jewels to be recognised.' 
 
 ' So he broke up the setting ? Your friend was a fool, sir. 
 What do these stones belong to T' speculated Mr. Mosheh, touch- 
 ing the gems lightly with the tip of his fleshy forefiner, and 
 arranging them in a circle. ' A collet necklace, evidently, and a 
 very fine collet necklace it must have been. Your friend was an 
 .\diot to destroy it.' 
 
 'I believe it was a necklace,' assented the visitor. 'My 
 friend celebrated his silver wedding last year, and the diamonds 
 were a gift to his wife on that occasion.' 
 
 The room was dimly lighted with a single candle, which the 
 servant had set down upon the centre table when she admitted 
 the stranger. 
 
 Mr. Mosheh drew down a moveable gutta-percha gas tube, 
 and lighted an office lamp which stood beside his desk. By this 
 light he examined the jewels. Not content with the closest 
 inspection, he took a little file from his waistcoat pocket, and 
 drew it across the face of one of the stones. 
 
 ' Your friend is doubly a fool, if he isn't a knave,' said Mr. 
 Mosheh. ' These stones are sham.' 
 
 There came a look so ghastly over the face of the grey- 
 bearded man that the aspect of death itself could hardly have 
 been more awful. 
 
 ' It's a lie ! ' he gasped. 
 
 ' You are an impudent rascal, sir, to bring me such trumpery, 
 and a blatant ass for thinking you could palm your paste upon 
 Benjamin Mosheh, a man who has dealt in diamonds, off and on, 
 for nearly thirty years. The stones are imitation, very clever in 
 their way, and a very good colour. Look here, sir ; do you see 
 the mark my file leaves on the surface ? Father Abraham, how the 
 man trembles ! Do you mean to tell me that you've been fooled 
 by these stones — that you've given money for them? I don't 
 believe a word of your cock-and-a-bull story about your London 
 tradesman and his silver wedding. But do you mean to say you 
 didn't know these stones were duffers, and that I shouldn't be 
 justified in giving you in charge for trying to obtain money upon 
 false pretences 1 ' 
 
 'As I am a living man, I thought them real,' gasped the grey- 
 bearded man, who had been seized with a convulsive trembling 
 awful to see. 
 
 ' And you advanced money upon them ? 
 
What the Diamonds were Worth. 156 
 
 •Yes.' 
 
 'Much?' 
 
 ' All I have in the world. All ! all ! ' he repeated, passion- 
 ately. ' I am a ruined man. For God's sake give me half a 
 tumbler of brandy, if you don't want me to drop down dead in 
 your house.' 
 
 The man's condition was so dejected that Mr. Mosheh, 
 though inclined to believe him a swindler, took compassion upon 
 him. He opened the door leading into his dining-room, and 
 called to his wife. 
 
 ' Each el, bring me the brandy and a tumbler.' 
 
 Mrs. Mosheh obeyed. She was a large woman, magnificently 
 attired in black satin and gold ornaments, like an ebony cabinet 
 mounted in ormolu. Nobody could have believed that she had 
 fried a large consignment of fish that very day before putting on 
 her splendid raiment. 
 
 ' Is the gentleman ill ? ' she asked, kindly. 
 
 1 He feels a little faint. There, my dear, that will do. You 
 can go back to the children.' 
 
 ' They're uncommonly clever,' said Mr. Mosheh, fingering the 
 stones, and testing them one by one, sometimes with his file, 
 sometimes by the simpler process of wetting them with the tip 
 of his tongue, and looking to see if they retained then- fire and 
 light while wet. ' But there's not a real diamond among them. 
 If you've advanced money on 'em, you've been had. They're of 
 French manufacture, I've no doubt. I'll tell you what I'll do for 
 you. If you'll leave 'em with me, I'll try and find out where 
 they were made, and all about them.' 
 
 ' No, no,' answered the other, breathlessly, drawing the parcel 
 out of Mr. Mosheh's reach, and rolling up the cotton wool, 
 hurriedly. 'It's not worth while, it's no matter. I've been 
 cheated, that's alL It can't help me to know who manufactured 
 the stones, or where they were bought. They're false, you say, 
 and if you are right I'm a ruined man. Good night.' 
 
 He had drunk half a tumbler of raw brandy, and the brandy 
 had stopped that convulsive trembling which affected him a few 
 minutes before. He put his parcel in his breast pocket, pulled 
 h im self together, and walked slowly and stiffly out of the room 
 and out of the house, Mr. Mosheh accompanying him to the door. 
 
 ' You can show those stones to as many dealers as you like, 
 said the Jew ; ' you'll find I'm right about 'em. Good night.' 
 
 ' Good night,' the other answered, faintly, and so disappeared 
 in the wintry fog that wrapped the street round like a veil. 
 
 ' Is the fellow a knave or a fool, I wonder 1 ' questioned Mr. 
 Mosheh. 
 
* 56 The Cloven Foot, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 'to a deep lawny dell they came.' 
 
 It was summer-time again, the beginning of June, the time 
 when summer is fairest and freshest, the young leaves in the 
 woods tender and transparent enough to let the sunlight through, 
 the ferns just unfurling their broad feathers, the roses just open- 
 ing, the patches of common land and furzy corners of meadows 
 ablaze with gold, the sky an Italian blue, the day so long that 
 one almost forgets there is such a thing as night in the world. 
 
 It was a season that Laura had always loved ; and even now, 
 gloomy as was the outlook of her young life, she felt her spirits 
 lightened with the brightness of the land. Her cheerfulness 
 astonished Celia, who was in a state of chronic indignation 
 against Jolin Treverton, which was all the more intense because 
 she was forbidden to talk of him. 
 
 ' I never knew any one take things so lightly as you do, Laura,' 
 she exclaimed one afternoon when she found Mrs. Treverton just 
 returned from a long ramble in the little wood that adjoined the 
 Manor House grounds. 
 
 ' Why should I make the most of my troubles ? Earth seems 
 so full of gladness and hope at this season that one cannot help 
 hoping.' 
 
 ' You cannot, perhaps. Don't say one cannot,' Celia retorted, 
 snappishly, ' if you mean to include me. I left off hoping before 
 I was eighteen. What is there to hope for in a parish where 
 there are only two eligible bachelors, one of the two as ugly as 
 sin, and the other an incorrigible flirt, a man who seems always 
 on the brink of proposing, yet never proposes ? ' 
 
 ' You have not counted your devoted admirer, Mr. Sampson. 
 He makes a third.' 
 
 'Sandy-haired, and village-solicitor. Thank you, Laura. I 
 have not sunk so low as that. If I married him I should have 
 to marry his sister Eliza, and that would be quite too dreadful. 
 No, dear, I can manage to exist as I am, " in maiden meditation, 
 fancy free." When I change my situation I shall expect to 
 better myself. As for you, Laura, you are a perfect wonder. I 
 never saw you looking so welL Yet in your position I am sure 
 I should have cried my eyes out.' 
 
 ' That wouldn't have made the position better. I have not 
 left off hoping, Celia, and when I feel low-spirited I set myself 
 
'To a Deep Lawny Dell they Came.' 157 
 
 to work to forget my own troubles. There is so much to be 
 looked after on an estate like this — the house, the grounds, the 
 poor people, — I can always find something to do.' 
 
 ' You are a paragon of industry. I never saw the garden as 
 pretty as it is this year.' 
 
 'I like everything to look its best,' said Law a, blushing at 
 her own thoughts. 
 
 The one solace of her life of late had been to preserve and 
 beautify the good old house and its surroundings. The secret 
 hope that John Treverton would come back some day, and that 
 life woidd be fair and sweet for her again, was the hidden spring 
 of all her actions. Every morning she said to herself, ' He may 
 come to-day ; ' every night she consoled herself with the fancy 
 that he might come to-morrow. 
 
 ' I may have to wait for years,' she said in her graver moments, 
 ' but let him come when he will, he shall find that I have been a 
 faithful steward.' 
 
 She had never left the Manor House since she came back 
 from her lonely honeymoon. She had received various hospitable 
 invitations from the county families, who were anxious to be civil 
 to her now that she was firmly established among them as a land- 
 owner ; but she refused all such invitations, excusing herself 
 because of her husband's enforced absence. When he returned 
 to England she would be delighted to visit with him, and so on ; 
 whereby the county people were given to understand that there 
 was nothing extraordinary or unwarrantable in Mr. Treverton's 
 non-appearance at the Manor House. 
 
 'His wife seems to approve of his conduct, so one can only 
 suppose that it's all right,' said people ; notwithstanding which 
 the majority clung affectionately to the supposition that it was all 
 wrong. 
 
 Despite Laura's hopefulness, and that sweetness of temper 
 and gaiety of mind which preserved the youthful beauty of her 
 face, there were hours — one hour, perhaps, in every day — when 
 her spirits drooped, and hope seemed to sicken. She had pored 
 over John Treverton's last letter until the paper upon which it was 
 written had grown thin and worn with frequent handling ; but at 
 the best, dear as the letter was to her, she could not extz-act much 
 hope from it. The tone of the writer was not utterly hopeless. 
 Yet he spoke of a parting that might be for life ; of a tie that 
 might last for ever, a tie that bound him in honour, if not in fact, 
 to some other woman. 
 
 He had wronged her deeply by that broken marriage — 
 wronged her by supposing that the possession of Jasper Trever- 
 ton's estate could in any wise compensate her for the false position 
 in which that marriage had placed her ; and yet she could not 
 find it in her heart to be angry with hint She loved him too 
 
158 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 well. And this letter, whatever guilt it vaguely confessed, 
 overflowed with love for her. She forgave him aU things for 
 the sake of that love. 
 
 When had she begun to love him ? she asked herself sometimes 
 in a sad reverie. She had questioned him closely as to the 
 growth of his love, but had been slow to make her own con- 
 fession. 
 
 How well she remembered his pale, tired face that winter 
 night, just a year and a half ago, when he came into the lamplit 
 room and took his seat on the opposite side of the hearth, a 
 stranger and half an enemy. 
 
 She had liked and admired him from the very first, knowing 
 that he was prejudiced against her. The pale, clear-cut face, the 
 grey eyes with their black lashes, which made them look black in 
 some lights, hazel in others ; the thoughtful mouth, and that 
 all-pervading expression of melancholy which had at once enlisted 
 her sympathy, — all these had pleased her. 
 
 'I must have been dreadfully weak-minded,' she said to 
 herself, ' for I really think I fell in love with him at first sight.' 
 
 That little wood behind the Manor House grounds was 
 Laura's favourite resort in this early summer-time. It was the 
 most picturesque of woods, for the ground sloped steeply to a 
 narrow river, on the further side of which there was a rugged 
 bank, topped by a grove of fir trees. The stream ran brawling 
 over a rocky bed ; and the bold masses of rock, here shining 
 purple or changeful grey, there green with moss ; the fringe of 
 ferns upon the river brink, the old half-ruined wooden bridge 
 that spanned the torrent ; the background of beech and oak, 
 mingled with the darker foliage of old Scotch firs ; and towering 
 darkly above all, the lofty ridge of moorland, made a picture that 
 Laura fondly loved. Here she came when the prim gardens of 
 the Manor House seemed too small to hold her thoughts and 
 cares. Here she seemed to breathe a freer air. 
 
 She came to this spot one evening in June, after a day of 
 sunny weather which had seemed longer and wearier and 
 altogether harder to bear than the generality of her days. Celia 
 had been with her all day, and Celia's small-talk had been 
 drearier than solitude. Laura was thankful to be alone in this 
 quiet shelter, where the indefatigable labours of the woodpecker 
 and the babble of the stream were the only sounds that stirred 
 the summer silence. 
 
 All day long the heat had been hardly endurable ; now there 
 was a breath of coolness in the air, and nothing left of that 
 fierce sun but a soft yellow light in the western sky. 
 
 Laura had a volume of Shelley in her pocket, taken up from 
 among the books on the table in her favourite room. It was ono 
 of the books she loved best, and had been the companion of maaj 
 
' To a Deep Lawny Dell they Came.' 159 
 
 a ramble. She seated herself on a fallen trunk of oak beside the 
 river, and opened the volume haphazard at ' Rosalind and Helen,' 
 and she read, on till she came to those lovely lines which picture 
 such a spot as that where she was sitting. 
 
 ' To a deep lawny dell they came, 
 To a stone seat beside a spring 1 , 
 O'er which the columne'd wood did frame 
 A roofless temple, like the fane 
 Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, 
 Man's early race once knelt beneath 
 The overhanging Deity.' 
 
 She read on. The scene suited the poem, and its deep melan- 
 choly harmonized but too well with her own feelings. A story 
 of love, the fondest, truest, most unworldly, ending in hopeless 
 sorrow. Never had the gloom of that poem sunk so heavily 
 upon her spirit. 
 
 She closed the book suddenly, with a half-stifled sob. The 
 moon was rising, silver pale, above the dark ridge of moorland. 
 The last streak of golden light had faded behind the red trunks 
 of the firs. The low, melancholy cry of an owl sounded far off in 
 the dark heart of the wood. It was indeed as if — 
 
 ' The owls had all fled far away, 
 In a merrier glen to hoot and play.' 
 
 In such a spot a mind attuned to melancholy might easily 
 shape spectral forms out of the evening shadows, and call up the 
 ghosts of the loved and lost. Laura looked up from her book 
 with a strange uncanny feeling, as if, indeed, some ghostly 
 presence were near. Her eyes wandered slowly across the rocky 
 bed of the river, and there, on the opposite bank, half in shadow, 
 half in the tender light of the big round moon, she saw a tall 
 figure and a pale face looking at her. She rose with a half -stifled 
 cry of fear. That face looked so spectral in the mystical light. 
 And then she clasped her hands joyously and cried, ' I knew you 
 would come back ! ' 
 
 This was the deserter's welcome. No frowns, no upbraidings 
 — a sweet face beaming with delight, a happy voice full of 
 fondest welcome. 
 
 1 Humph ! ' cries the woman-hater, ( what fools these women 
 are !' 
 
 John Treverton came stepping lightly across the rocks, at 
 some risk of measuring his length in the stony bed of the river, 
 and in less than a minute was by his wife's side. 
 
 Not a word did he say fur the first moment or so. His 
 greeting was dumb. He took her to his heart, and kissed her as 
 he had never kissed her yet. 
 
160 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * My own one, my wife ! ' he cried. ' You are all mine now. 
 Love, I have been patient. Don't be hard with me.' 
 
 This last remonstrance was because she had drawn herself 
 away from his arms, and was looking at him with a smile which 
 was no longer tender, but ironical. 
 
 ' Have you come back to Hazlehurst to spend an evening ? ' 
 she asked, ' or can you prolong your visit for a week 1 ' 
 
 ' I have come back to spend my life with you — I have come 
 back to stay for ever ! They may begin to build me a vault 
 to-morrow in Hazlehurst churchyard. I shall be here to occupy 
 it when my time comes — if you will have me. That is the 
 question, Laura. It all depends on you. Oh, love, love, answer 
 me quickly. If you but knew how I have longed for this 
 moment ! Tell me, sweet, have I quite worn out your love 1 
 Has my conduct forfeited your esteem for ever 1 ' 
 
 'You have behaved very unkindly to me,' she answered, 
 slowly, gravely, her voice trembling a little. 'You have used 
 me in a manner which I think a woman with proper womanly 
 pride could hardly forgive.' 
 
 ' Laura ! ' he cried, piteously. 
 
 ' But I fear I am not possessed of proper womanly pride ; for 
 I have forgiven you,' she said, innocently. 
 
 ' My treasure ! my delight ! ' 
 
 'But it would have been so much easier to forgive if you 
 had trusted me, if you had told me all the truth. Oh, 
 John, husband and yet no husband, you have treated me very 
 cruelly.' 
 
 Here she forgot her unreasoning joy at seeing him again, and 
 suddenly remembered herself and her wrongs. 
 
 ' I know, love,' he said, on his knees beside her, ' I seem to 
 have acted vilely, and yet, believe me, dearest, my sole motive 
 was the desire to protect your interests.' 
 
 'Your conduct has put me to shame before all mankind,' 
 urged Laura, meaning the village of Hazlehurst. ' You have no 
 right to approach me, no right to look me in the face. Have you 
 not confessed in that cruel letter that you were not free to marry 
 me, that you belong in some way to another woman 1 ' 
 
 ' That other woman is dead. I am free as the air.' 
 
 ' What was she 1 your wife 1 ' 
 
 There was a look of infinite pain in John Treverton's face. 
 His lips moved as if about to speak, but he was silent. There 
 are some truths difficult of utterance ; and it is not easy to all 
 men to lie. 
 
 ' It is too painful a story,' he began at last, speaking hurriedly, 
 as if he wanted to make a speedy end of a hateful subject. ' A 
 good many years ago, when I was very young, and a most con- 
 summate fool, I got myself entrapped into a Scotch marriage. 
 
' To a Deep Lawny Dell they Came* 161 
 
 Yon hare heard of the peculiarities of the marriage law in 
 Scotland.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have heard and read about them.' 
 
 ' Of course. AVell, it -was a marriage and no marriage — a 
 reckless, half -jesting promise, tortured, by false witnesses, into a 
 legal undertaking. I found myself, unawares, a married man — 
 a millstone tied round my neck. I will tell you no more,,of that 
 wretched entanglement, dearest. It would not be good for you 
 to hear. I will only say that I bore my burthen more patiently 
 than most men would have borne it, and now I thank God with 
 all my heart and soul for my freedom. And I come to you, dear 
 love, to implore your forgiveness, and to ask you to join me, 
 three weeks hence, in some quiet place thirty or forty miles from 
 here, where no one will know us, and where we may be married 
 again some fine summer morning ; so that, if that Scotch 
 marriage of mine were really binding, and cur former marriage 
 illegal, we may tie the knot securely, and for ever.' 
 
 ' You should have trusted me at first, John,' Laura said 
 reproachfully. 
 
 ' I ought to have done so, love, but I so feared to lose you. 
 Oh, my darling, grant all I ask, and you shall never have cause 
 to regret your goodness. Forgive me, and forget all that I have 
 told you to-night. Let it be as if it had never been. The second 
 marriage which I ask for is a precautionary act — needless, perhaps 
 •—but it will make me feel more secure in my happiness. My 
 beloved, will you do what I ask 1 ' 
 
 She had dried her tears. Her heart was welling over with 
 gladness and love for this sinner, still kneeling by her side as she 
 sat on the ferny river bank in the brightening moonlight, 
 holding both her hands in his, looking up pleadingly as he made 
 his prayer. There was no thought of denying him in her mind. 
 She only wanted to yield with good grace, not to humiliate 
 herself too deeply. 
 
 ' It must be as you wish,' she said. ' When you have arranged 
 this second marriage you can write to me and tell me where and 
 when it is to be. I will come to the place you appoint with my 
 maid. She is a good girl, and I can trust her. She can be one 
 of the witnesses of our wedding.' 
 
 4 Are you sure she will not talk about it afterwards ? ' 
 
 ' I have proved her already, and I know she is trustworthy.' 
 
 ' Be it so, love. See here.' He took a Cornish guide-book 
 from his pocket, and opened it at the map of the county. ' I 
 have been thinking that we might go farther west, to some 
 remote parish. Here is Camelot, for instance. I never heard of 
 any one living at Camelot, or going to Camelot, since the time of 
 King Arthur. Surely there we should be safe from observation. 
 The guide-book acknowledges that there is nothing particular to 
 
162 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 be seen at Camelot. It has not even a good word for the inns. 
 The place is miles away from everything. It is an anomaly in 
 towns, for though it has a town hall and a market-place, it has 
 no church that it can call its own, but hooks itself on to a brace 
 of outlying churches, each a mile and a half away. Let us be 
 married at one of those out-of-the-way churches, Laura, and I 
 shall love Camelot all the days of my life, as one loves the plain 
 face of a friend who has done one a great service.' 
 
 Laura had nothing to say against Camelot ; so it was finally 
 resolved that John Treverton should get there as quickly as rail 
 and coach would carry him, and that he should have the banns 
 put up at one of the ehurches, and that he should meet Laura 
 at Didford Junction three weeks from that day, and escort 
 her by coach across the wild moors and under the shadow of 
 giant brown tors, to the little town of Camelot, where a modest 
 population of six or seven hundred souls seemed to have lost 
 themselves among th~ iills, and got somehow left behind in the 
 march of time and progress. 
 
 John Treverton a?id his wife Lingered for a long time beside 
 the brawling river, wafking arm in arm along the narrow wood- 
 land path, half in moonshine, half in shadow, talking of the 
 future ; both supremely happy, and one of them, at least, tasting 
 pure and perfect happiness for the first time in his life. 
 
 1 Shall we go to Penzance after our wedding, love, and then 
 cross to the Scilly Isles for our honeymoon 1 It will be so sweet 
 to inhabit a little rock-bound world of our own, circled by the 
 Atlantic.' 
 
 Laura assented that it would be sweet. Her world was 
 henceforth to be small, John Treverton its sun and centre, and 
 all things outside him and beyond him a mere elementary 
 ■universe. 
 
 lie looked at his watch presently when they came out of the 
 pinewood into the broad moonlight. 
 
 ' By Jove, dearest, I shall have no more than time to see you 
 as far as the orchard gate, and then run off to catch the last train 
 for Didford. I shall sleep at the hotel there to-night. I don't 
 want to be seen within twenty miles of Hazlehurst till you and 
 I come back from the Scilly Isles, sunburnt and happy, to take 
 up our abode at the dear old Manor House. Oh, Laura, how I 
 shall love that good, honest, respectable old home ! how earnestly 
 I shall thank God night and morning for my blissful life ! Ah, 
 love, you can never fully understand what a kicked-about waif 
 I have been for the last seven years of my worthless existence. 
 You can never fully know how thrice blessed is a tranquil haven 
 after stormy seas.' 
 
 They had opened their hearts and minds fully to each other 
 in that long talk beside the river ; she withholding nothing, he 
 
'To a Deep Lawny Dell they Came.' 163 
 
 entering into no details of his life-history, but frankly admitting 
 his unworthiness. She told him how she had borne her life at 
 Hazlehurst after her solitary return from a supposed honeymoon ; 
 how she had hidden the truth from all her little world. It would 
 seem the most natural thing for her to go away to meet her 
 husband on his return from abroad, and then for them both to 
 come home together. 
 
 They parted at the orchard gate hurriedly, for John had three 
 miles to walk to the station, and only three-quarters of an hour 
 for the walk. There was but one hasty kiss at parting, but oh, 
 the blissfulness of such a kiss on the threshold of so fair a future 1 
 Laura threaded her way slowly through the moonlit orchard, 
 where the old apple trees cast their crooked shadows on the soft 
 deep turf, and happy tears poured down her flushed cheeks as 
 she went. 
 
 ' God is good to us, God is very good,' she kept repeating in- 
 wardly. ' Oh, how can we ever be grateful enough, how can we 
 ever be earnest enough in doing our duty ? ' 
 
 In all her talk with John Treverton she had not said a word 
 about the settlement. She had not praised him or thanked him 
 for his generosity. All thought of Jasper Treverton's fortune 
 was as remote from her mind as if the old man had died a pauper, 
 and there had been not a shilling of loss or gain contingent upon 
 her marriage with his kinsman. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE CHURCH NEAR CAMELOT. 
 
 Celia opened her eyes to their widest extent a fortnight later, 
 when Mrs. Treverton informed her that she was going to meet 
 her husband, and that, after a few weeks' holiday, they were 
 coming home together for good. 
 
 ' For good,' repeated Celia, drily, after which her eyes slowly 
 resumed their normal state, and her lips drew themselves tightly 
 together. ' I am glad to hear that your existence as a married 
 woman is about to assume a reasonable shape. Up to this time 
 you have been as insoluble a mystery as that horrid creature, the 
 Man in the Iron Mask ; and, pray, may I be permitted to ask, 
 without being considered offensive, where you are to meet the 
 returning wanderer ? ' 
 
 ' At Plymouth,' said Laura, who had received minute tesfcrue- 
 tions from JohD as to what she was to say. 
 
164 The Chun Foot. 
 
 'Why blush, at the mention of Plymouth?' asked Celia. 
 • There is nothing improper in the name of Plymouth ; nothing 
 unfit for publication. I presume that, as Mr. Treverton arrives 
 at Plymouth, he comes from some distant portion of the globe 1 ' 
 
 'He is coming from Buenos Ayres, where he had business 
 that absolutely required his personal attention.' 
 
 ' What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura 1 ' ejaculated Celia, 
 her eyes again widening. 
 
 ' Why extraordinary ? ' 
 
 ' Because you must have been perfectly aware that I, and I 
 think I may go so far as to say all the inhabitants of Hazlehurst, 
 have been bursting with curiosity about your husband for the 
 last six months, and yet you could not have the good grace to 
 enlighten us. If you had said he had gone to Buenos Ayres on 
 business, we should have been satisfied.' 
 
 ' I told you he had affairs that detained him abroad.' 
 
 ' But why not have given his affairs a local habitation and 
 a name 1 ' 
 
 ' My husband did not wish me to talk about him.' 
 
 ' Well, you are altogether the oddest couple. However, I am 
 very glad things are going to be different. Would it be too much 
 to ask if Mr. Treverton will remain at the Manor House, or if 
 he is going to reappear only in his usual meteoric fashion ? ' 
 
 ' I hope he will stay at Hazlehurst all his life.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! ' sighed Celia, ' H he does I'm sure I shall 
 pity him.' 
 
 ' You need not be so absurdly literal. Of course we shall go 
 far afield sometimes and see the world, and all that is interesting 
 and beautiful in it.' 
 
 ' How glibly you talk about what " we " are going to do. A 
 week ago you could not be induced to mention your husband's 
 uame. And how happy you look ; I never saw such a change.' 
 
 ' It is all because I am going to see him again. I hope you 
 do not begrudge me my happiness ? ' 
 
 6 No, but I rather envy you. I only wish some benevolent 
 old party would leave me a splendid estate on condition I married 
 a handsome young man. You would see how willingly I would 
 obey him. There should be no mystery about my conduct, I 
 assure you. I should not make an iron mask of myself.' 
 
 Celia wrote next day to her brother to tell him how that 
 most incomprehensible of husbands, John Treverton, was 
 expected home from Buenos Ayres, and how his wife was going 
 to Plymouth to meet him. ' And I never saw any human 
 creature look so happy in my life,' wrote Celia. ' I have seen 
 dog!- look like it when one has given them biscuits, and cats when 
 they sit blinking at the fire, and young pigs lying on a bank in 
 the sunshine. Yes, I have sesn those dumb things appear the 
 
The Church near Camelot. 165 
 
 image of perfect, unreasoning, unquestioning happiness, which. 
 looks neither behind nor before ; but such an expression is rarely 
 to be seen in humanity.' 
 
 A nice letter for Edward Clare to get — disappointed, more or 
 less out at elbows, with a growing sense of failure upon him, sick 
 to death of his London lodging, sick of the few literary men 
 whose acquaintance he had contrived to make, and with whom 
 he did not amalgamate as well as he had anticipated. He tore 
 his sister's lively epistle into morsels and sent them flying over 
 Waterloo Bridge, upon the light summer wind, and felt as if he 
 would like to have gone over with them. 
 
 ' Yet once I thought she loved me,' he said to himself, ' and 
 so she did, before that plausible scoundrel came in her way. 
 But I ought to remember how much she gains by loving him. 
 If the old man had happened to leave me his estate, perhaps she 
 might have looked unutterably happy at the idea of my return 
 after a long absence. Only God, who made women, knows what 
 hypocrites they are ;' and then Mr. Clare went home to his shabby 
 lodging, and sat down in bitterest mood, and dipped his pen in 
 the ink, and wrung out of himself a passionate page of verse for 
 one of the magazines — not without labour and the sweat of his 
 brow — and then took his poem and sold it, and dined luxuriously 
 on the proceeds, hugging his wrongs and nursing his wrath to 
 keep it warm, as he sat in a corner of the bright little French 
 restaurant he liked best, slowly sipping his modest half -bottle of 
 Pomard. 
 
 That which Celia had told him was perfectly true. There 
 never was a happier woman than Laura, after that interview by 
 the river. During the last week before her departure she was 
 full of business, preparing for her husband's return. 
 
 ' Your master will be here in a few weeks,' she said to the old 
 housekeeper, with infinite pride, ' and we must have everything 
 ready for him.' 
 
 ' So we will, ma'am, spick and span,' answered Mi's. Trimmer. 
 ' It will be happiness to have him settle down among us. It must 
 have been a sore trial to you both, to be parted so, just at the 
 beginning of your married life, too. It would have come more 
 nat'ral afterwards.' 
 
 ' It was a sore trial, Trimmer,' Mrs. Treverton answered, full 
 of confidential friendliness. ' But it's all over now. I could hardly 
 have borne to speak about it before.' 
 
 ' No, ma'am, I noticed as you was close and silent like, and 
 I knew my place too well to say anything. Troubles take hold 
 of people different. If there's anything on my mind I must out 
 with it, if it was but to Ginger, the tortoiseshell cat ; but some 
 folks can keep their worrits screwed up inside 'em. It hurts 'em 
 to speak.' 
 
166 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' That was my case, Trimmer. It hurt me to speak my 
 husband's name, or to hear it spoken, while he was forced to be 
 far away from me. But now it's all different. You cannot talk 
 of him too much to please me. I hope you will be as fond of 
 Mm as you were of the dear old man who is gone.' . . . 
 
 Mr. Treverton must have a sitting room of his own, of course; 
 a den where he might write his letters, and see 'is bailiff, where 
 he could smoke and meditate at his leisure, study if he ever cared 
 to study, read novels even, were he disposed to be lazy ; and 
 where his happy wife could only come on sufferance, deeming 
 it a vast indulgence to be allowed to sit at his feet sometimes, or 
 even to fill his pipe for him, or, in rough winter weather, to 
 kneel down before the blazing fire and warm his slippers, when 
 he had come in from a cold ride round his land, doing good 
 wherever he went, like a benevolent fairy in the modern form of 
 an enlightened landlord. 
 
 After much debate and perplexity, Laura decided upon giving 
 her husband, for his own particular sanctum, that very room in 
 which they two had met for the first time, on the snowy winter 
 night when John Treverton came to see his dying kinsman. It 
 was a good old room, not large, but pleasant, oak-panelled, with 
 a fireplace in the corner, which gave a quaintness to the room ; 
 an oak mantelpiece with half-a-dozen narrow shelves running in 
 a pyramid above it, and on these shelves an arrangement of old 
 blue Nankin cups and saucers, crowned at the apex with the 
 most delightful thing in teapots. There was an old cabinet in 
 the room, so full of secret drawers, and mysterious boxes and 
 recesses at the back of the drawers, that it was in itself the study 
 of a lifetime. 
 
 ' Never hide anything in it, my dear,' Jasper Treverton had 
 said to his adopted daughter, ' for be sure if you do you won't be 
 able to find it.' 
 
 To this room Laura brought other treasure" 1 . ; the most com- 
 fortable easy chairs in the house, the best Oi the small Dutch 
 pictures, the softest of the Turkey carpets, the richest tapestry cur- 
 tains, two or three fine bronzes, a lovely little Chippendale book 
 i case. This last she filled with all her own favourite books, 
 robbing the book -room below ruthlessly, in the delight of enrich- 
 ing her husband's study, as this room was henceforth to be 
 called. 
 
 ' He shall know and feel that he is welcome,' she said to her- 
 self, softly, as she lingered in the room, touching everything, re- 
 arranging, polishing, whisking away invisible grains of dust with 
 a dainty feather brush, caressing the things that were so soon to 
 belong to the man she loved. 
 
 The adjoining room - f ho room in which Jasper Treverton had 
 died — was to be her owu Dedchamber. It was a spacious room 
 
The Church near Camelot. 167 
 
 with three long windows and deep window seats, a fireplace au 
 which an ox, or at all events a baron of beef, might have been 
 roasted — a tall four-post bed, with twisted col umn s richly carved ; 
 curtains of Utrecht velvet, crimson and amber, lined with white 
 silk, all somewhat faded, but splendid in decay — a noble room 
 altogether, yet Laura had rather a horror of it, dearly as she had 
 loved him whose generous spirit seemed to haunt the chamber. 
 
 But Mrs. Trimmer told her that, as the mistress of Hazlehurst 
 Manor, she ought to occupy this room. It always had been the 
 Squire's bedchamber, and it ought to be so still. 
 
 ' Nothing like old ways,' said Mrs. Trimmer, decisively. 
 
 The room opened iuto John Treverton's study. That was a 
 reason why Laura should like it. 
 
 If he were to sit up late at night reading or writing, she 
 would be near him. She might see the face she loved, through 
 the open door, bending over his papers in the lamplight. 
 
 'We are going to be a regular Darby and Joan, Mrs. 
 Trimmer,' she said to the housekeeper, as she made all her small 
 domestic arrangements. 
 
 In such trivial work she contrived to get rid of the third 
 week, and then came the lovely su mm er noontide when she 
 started on her journey, with the faithful Mary in attendance. 
 
 ' Mary,' she had said, the night before, ' I am going to trust 
 you with a great secret, because I believe you are staunch and 
 true.' 
 
 ' If you could find another young woman in my capacity, mum, 
 that would be stauncherer or truerer, I'll undertake to eat her 
 without a grain of salt,' protested Mary, sacrificing grammar to 
 intensity. 
 
 The train from Beechampton took them across a stretch of 
 wild moorland, where the granite cropped up in scattered 
 boulders, as if Titans had been pelting one another, to Didford 
 Junction. At Didford they found John Treverton waiting f 01 
 feheni, and here they got on to another line of railway, and into 
 a more pastoral landscape, and so on to Lyonstown — pronounced 
 Linson — where they mounted the stage-coach which was to take 
 them across the moor to Camelot. It was about four o'clock in 
 the afternoon by this time, and it would be evening before they 
 reached the little town among the Cornish hills. Oh, what a 
 happy drive it was across the free open moorland, in the mild 
 afternoon light, a thousand feet above the sea-level, above the 
 smoke and turmoil of cities, far away from all mankind, in a 
 lonely world of heather and granite. The dark brown hills, twin 
 brothers, rose between them and the western sun, now blending 
 into one dark mass of mountain, now standing far apart, as some 
 new turn of the narrow moorland road seemed to alter their posi- 
 tion in the landscape. It was like a new world even to Laura, 
 
168 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 though she June from the sister county, and had lived the best 
 part of her life under the edge of Dartmoor. 
 
 ' I really think I sheuld like to spend my life on these hills,' 
 said Laura, as she and John Treverton sat side by side behind 
 the sturdy little coachman, whose quaintly comical face might 
 have made the fortune of a low comedian. ' It seems such a 
 beautiful world, even in its wildness and solitude, so pure and 
 fair, and free from the taint of sin.' 
 
 The sunlight behind the big brown, tors was fading, and the 
 air growing crisp and cool, keenly biting even, at odd times, 
 though it was midsummer. John drew a soft woollen shawl 
 round his companion's shoulders, and even in this little action his 
 heart thrilled at the thought that henceforward it was his duty 
 to protect her from all the ills of life. And so through the 
 deepening gloom they came to Camelot, a narrow street on the 
 slant of a hill, folded in gray twilight as in a mantle. 
 
 The inn where Laura and her maid were to put up for the 
 night was commonplace and commercial — a house that had 
 evidently seen better days, but which had plucked up its spirits 
 and furbished up its rickety old furniture since the establishment 
 of the North Cornwall coach, a blessed institution, linking a wild 
 and solitary district with railways and civilization. 
 
 Here Laura rested comfortably enough through the short 
 sumraer night, while John Treverton endured the discomforts of 
 a second-rate tavern over against the market-place. At eight 
 o'clock next morning he presented himself at the hotel where 
 Laura and her maid were waiting for him, and then the three 
 went on foot to the outlying church where John Treverton was 
 to take this woman, Laura, for his wife for the second time 
 within six months. 
 
 ' I could not have been happier in my choice of a locality than 
 T was in fixing upon Camelot,' said John, as they walked side by 
 <ride along the country lane, between tall banks of brier and fern, 
 in the sweet morning air, with the faithful Mary strolling dis* 
 creetly in the rear. ' I found the most accommodating old parson, 
 i who quite entered into my views when I told him that for cer- 
 tain reasons which I need not explain, I wished my marriage to 
 be kept altogether quiet. " I shall not speak of it to a creature," 
 replied the good old souk " No man would come to Camelot to 
 be married who did not wish to hide himself from the eye of the 
 world. I shall respect your secret, and I'll take care that my 
 clerk does the same." ' 
 
 The- old church smelt rather like a vault when they went in 
 out of the breezy summer day, but it was a cleanly whitewashed 
 vault, and the sun wa3 shining full upon the faded crimson 
 velvet of the communion table, above which appeared the ten 
 commandments and the royal arms in the good old style. Steeped 
 
Halcyon Days. 169 
 
 In that sunshine stood the bride and bridegroom, gravely, earnestly 
 repeating the solemn words of the service ; no witnesses of the 
 act save the gray -headed clerk and the girl Mary, who seemed to 
 think it incumbent upon somebody to be moved to tears, and 
 who therefore gently sniffed and faintly sobbed in the background. 
 Never had Laura looked lovelier than when she stood beside her 
 husband in the little closet of a vestry, signing her name in the 
 mouldy old register ; never had she felt happier than when they 
 walked away from the lonely old church, after a friendly leave- 
 taking of the good vicar, who blessed them and gave them God 
 speed as heartily as if they had been born and bred in his parish. 
 The coach was to pick them up at the cross-roads about half a 
 mile from the church, having previously picked up their luggage 
 in Camelot, and they were to go back across the moor to Lyons- 
 town, and from Lyonstown by rail to the extreme west, and 
 thence to the Scilly Isles. 
 
 ' Can nothing happen now to part us, John 1 ' Laura asked, 
 while they were sitting on a ferny bank waiting for the coach. 
 4 Are our lives secure from all evil in the future 1 ' 
 
 ' Who can be armed against all misfortune, love 1 ' he asked. 
 4 Of one thing I am certain. You are my wife. Against the 
 validity of our marriage of to-day no living creature can say a 
 word.' 
 
 4 And the legality of our previous marriage might have been 
 questioned V 
 
 4 Yes, dearest, there would have always been that hazard.' 
 
 CHAPTEE YYT, 
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 
 
 There were no bonfires or floral arches, no rejoicings of 
 tenantry or farm labourers, when John Treverton and his wife 
 came home to Hazlehurst Manor. They came unannounced one 
 fine July afternoon, arriving in a fly hired at Beechampton, 
 much to the distress of Mrs. Trimmer, who declared that there 
 was absolutely nothing in the house. Yet many an anxious city 
 housekeeper would have considered the noble array of hams, 
 pendant from the massive beams of the kitchen ceiling, the 
 flitch of bacon, the basket of new-laid eggs, the homely saffron- 
 hued plum cakes, the dainty sweet biscuits, the ox tongues and 
 silver side of beef in pickle, the chickens waiting to be plucked 
 — worthy to count as something. 
 
 4 You might have sent me a telegram, mum, and then I might 
 have done myself credit,' said Mrs. Tr imm er, dolefully. 4 1 don't 
 
170 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 believe there's a bit of fish, to be had in Hazlehurst. I was in 
 the village at twelve o'clock this blessed day, and there was one 
 sole frizzling on the slates at Trimpson's, and I'll warrant he's 
 been sold by this time.' 
 
 ' If he isn't sold he must be pretty well baked, so we won't 
 have anything to say to him,' said John Treverton, laughing. 
 ' Don't worry yourself about dinner, my good creature ; we are 
 too hapi ?y to care what we eat.' 
 
 And then he put his arm round his wife's waist and led her 
 along the corridor that ended in the book-room, where she had 
 left him in his despair seven little months ago. They went into 
 this room together, and he shut the door behind them. 
 
 ' Dear love, to think that I should enter this room the happiest 
 of men. I, who sat by that table in such anguish as few men 
 are ever called upon to suffer. Oh, Laura, that was the darkest 
 day in my life.' 
 
 ' Forget it,' she said earnestly ; ' never let the past be named 
 between us. There is so much of it that is still a mystery to me. 
 jYou have told me so little of your early life, John, that if I 
 were to think of the past I might begin to doubt you. Oh, love, 
 I have trusted you blindly. Even when all things looked dark 
 I went on trusting you ; I clung to my belief in your goodness. 
 I don't know whether it was my weakness or my strength which 
 made me so confident.' 
 
 ' It was your strength, dearest, the strength of innocence, the 
 strength of that divine charity which " thinketh no evil." Dear 
 love, it shall be the business of my life to prove you right, to 
 show myself worthy of your trust.' 
 
 They roamed about the house together, looking at everything, 
 as if each object were new to both, happy as children. They 
 recalled their first meeting — their second — and confessed all they 
 hai felt on each occasion. It was delightful to them to travel 
 backward through the history of their love, now that life was 
 bright and the future seemed all secure. 
 
 So their life went on for many days, Laura initiating her 
 husband in his position as Squire of Hazlehurst. She took him 
 round to all the cottages and introduced him to their inmates, and 
 together they planned improvements which were to make Hazle- 
 hurst Manor one of the most perfect estates in the country. 
 Abeve all things was there to be happiness for every one. 
 Drainage and sanitation were to be so improved that fever and 
 infection would be almost an impossibility. Every farm labourer 
 was to have a clean and comfortable shelter, and a patch of 
 ground where he might grow his cabbages, and, if blessed with 
 a love of the beautiful, rear roses and carnations that might vie 
 with the flowers in a ducal garden. Here in this mild western 
 world, where frost and snow were almost strangers, the labouring 
 
Halcyon Days. 171 
 
 man might clothe his cottage wall with myrtle, and grow fuchsias 
 as big as apple-trees. 
 
 To John. Treverton, sick to the heart of cities, the novelty of 
 this country life was full of delight. He was interested in the 
 stables, the home farm, the gardens, even the poultry yard. He 
 had a kindly word for the lowest hind upon his land. It seemed 
 as if , in r he great happiness of his married lite, he had opened 
 ; his heart to all mankind. 
 
 ' And are you really happy, Laura 1 ' he asked one day, when 
 he and his wife were dawdling through the August afternoon 
 beside the river where they had met in the June moonlight. 
 ' Do you honestly believe that your adopted father made the 
 best possible provision for your f uture when he gave you to me 1 ' 
 
 He asked this question in a moment of delicious idleness, lying 
 at his wife's feet, she sitting in a natural easy chair formed by two 
 blocks of granite, moss-grown, ferny, luxurious, books and work 
 half -forgotten by her side, and by his an idle fishing-rod. He 
 had little doubt as to the answer to his question, or he would 
 hardly have asked it. 
 
 ' I think dear papa must have had a prophetic power to choose 
 what was best for me,' she said, smiling down at her husband. 
 
 And then they went on in a strain which was very sweet to 
 them both, travelling step by step over those early days when 
 they were almost strangers, recalling with a studious minuteness 
 what he had felt and thought, what she had dreamed and hoped. 
 How he had begun with a fixed deter min ation to detest her ; and 
 how that gloomy resolve had slipped out of his mind at their 
 first interview, despite his endeavour to hold it fast. 
 
 ' There is one question that I have wanted to ask you, Laura,' 
 he said, presently, growing suddenly grave, with a look in which 
 there was a shadow of trouble, ' but I lave shrunk from asking 
 it, somehow, and put it off indefinitely. And yet it is a very 
 natural curiosity on my part, and can hardly offend you.' 
 
 Her face was even more serious than his by this time, and 
 wore ?* look of fear. She answered not a word, but sat, with 
 lips shghtly parted, waiting for him to go on. 
 
 ' You remember your interview with a gentleman whom you 
 admitted to the garden after dark, and whom you described to 
 me afterwards as a relation. How is it, love, that in all our con- 
 fidential talk you have never told me anything about that man ? ' 
 
 ' The answer is simple enough,' she said quietly, yet he could 
 but wonder to see how pale she had grown. ' In all our talk 
 together we have spoken of things that belong to our happiness. 
 You have never touched upon the dark passages in your life, nor 
 I on those in mine. You remember what Longfellow says : — 
 " Into each life some rain must fall. 
 Some days must be dark and dreary." 
 
172 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 The relation of whom you speak is one who has not done well in 
 this world. My dear adopted father was prejudiced against him, 
 or at any rate he thought so. From time to time he has appealed 
 to me secretly for aid, and I have helped him secretly. I am 
 sorry for him, deeply sorry, and I am glad to help him, at a 
 distance ; but there are reasons why I have never sought, why 
 I never should seek, to bring him nearer to me.' 
 
 ' I feel sure that whatever you have done has been wise and 
 right, dearest. There must be a black sheep in every family. I 
 have played the part myself, and ought to sympathize with 
 all such delinquents.' 
 
 Delicacy prevented his pursuing the subject further. Could 
 he do less than trust her fully, who had shown such noble con- 
 fidence in him ] 
 
 A life so happy would have been bounded within a very 
 narrow circle had John Treverton and his wife consulted only 
 their own inclination ; but society expects something from a 
 well-born country gentleman with fourteen thousand a year. 
 The Lady Parkers and Lady Barkers, of whom Celia had spoken 
 somewhat disparagingly, came in state, swinging lightly on C 
 springs in their old family carriages, to call upon the young 
 couple. 
 
 Invitations to ceremonious dinners followed in due course, 
 and were reluctantly accepted, since it would have seemed, 
 ungracious to refuse them : and by-and-by Mrs. Trimmer, the 
 housekeeper, suggested that the Manor House ought to give a 
 series of dinners, such as she remembered when she was a giddy- 
 pated young kitchen-maid in the service of Jasper Trever ton's 
 father and mother. 
 
 ' They used to send out invitations for two or three dinner 
 parties when the pheasant shooting began, and get it over,' said 
 Mrs. Trimmer, ' for they were homely people, and didn't care 
 much for company. The old gentleman was wrapped up in his 
 books, and the old lady was wrapped up in her garden ; but 
 when they gave a dinner there was no mistake about it.' 
 
 Laura submitted to inexorable custom. 
 
 ' "We have eaten people's dinners, and I suppose we must 
 invite them here,' she said, with an air of serio-comic vexation, 
 ' or they will consider us dishonest. Shall I make a list of the 
 people to be asked, Jack, and shall we give Trimmer carte blanche 
 about the dinner V 
 
 ' I suppose that will be best,' assented John, whose Christian 
 name affection had corrupted to Jack. ' Trimmer is a capital 
 cook of the substantial English school. Her menu may be 
 wanting in originality, but it will be safe.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad you are awaking to the necessity of living 
 like civilized Christians, instead of spooning all day in the 
 
Halcyon Days. 173 
 
 seclusion of a house, compared -with which Robinson Crusoe's 
 island must have been a vortex of dissipation,' exclaimed Celia 
 Clare, who was present at this discussion. 'I am glad that at 
 last, if it were only for my sake, you are going to conform to the 
 laws of society. How am I to get a husband, I should like to 
 kncrw, unless I meet people here ? There is no other houst; worth 
 visiting in the neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' "We'll take your necessities into consideration, my dear girl,' 
 answered J( hn, gaily, ' and if you can suggest any eligible 
 bachelors, wt '11 ask them to dinner.' 
 
 'That's exactly what I cannot do,' said Celia, with a despair- 
 ing shrug. ' There are no eligible bachelors indigenous tn the 
 solL The orly plan would be to put a nota bene to your cards of 
 invitation, " If you have any nice young men about you, pray 
 bring them.' - ' 
 
 I Laura might give a dance at Christmas, and then we might 
 beat up for young men,' answered John. ' I'm afraid as long as 
 we confine ourselves to dinner parties, we shall not be able to do 
 much for you, my poor Celia.' 
 
 ' But are you not going to have people to stay in the house 
 when th e pheasant shooting begins 1 ' inquired Celia, with up- 
 lifted ej ebrows. ' Are not your old friends going to rally round 
 you? I thought they always did when a man came into a 
 fortune ' 
 
 ' I believe that is one of the characteristics of friendship,' said 
 John. ' But I lost sight of my old friends — the friends of my 
 soldiering days, that is to say — nearly seven years ago, and I don't 
 care about digging them out.' 
 
 I I wonder they don't come to the surface of their own accord,' 
 said Celia. ' And how about the friends you have made since 
 you eold out ? You can't have existed seven years without 
 society.' 
 
 1 1 have existed quite as long as that without what you would 
 call society.' 
 
 ' Ah, I see,' assented Celia ; ' the people you have known are 
 not people you would care to bring here, or to introduce to your 
 wife.' 
 
 ' Precisely.' 
 _ ' Poor Laura ! ' thought Celia, and then there followed a pause, 
 brief but uncomfortable. 
 
 | Shall I write the list of invitations 7 ' asked Laura, who was 
 sitting at her davenport. They were in the book-room, the 
 fresh autumnal air blowing in across beds and borders rilled 
 with September's gaudy flowers. 
 
 ' Yes, dear, beginning, of course, with Sir Joshua and Lady 
 Parker, and descending gradually in the social scale to ' 
 
 ' My father and mother,' interrupted Celia, ' if ycu mean to 
 
174 .■ Ihe Cloven Foot. 
 
 ask them. I'm sure you can't go lower than the parson of the 
 parish ; for he's generally the poorest man in it.' 
 
 ' And often the most beloved,' said John Treverton. 
 
 ' Do you think I should give my first dinner party without 
 inviting your father and mother, Celia ? ' asked Laura, reproach- 
 fully. ' They will be my most honoured guests.' 
 
 'Heaven knows how the mater is to get a new gown,' 
 ejaculated Celia; 'but I'm sure she can't come in the old one. 
 That gray satin of hers has been to so many dinner parties that 
 I should think it could go by itself, and would know how to be- 
 have, without having poor mother inside it. How well all the 
 servants hereabouts must know the back of that dress, and the 
 dark patch on the shoulder, where Lady Barker's butler spilt 
 some lobster sauce. It is like the blood-stain on Lady Macbeth's 
 hand. All the benzine in the world won't take it out. Oh, by- 
 the-bye,' pursued Celia, rattling on breathlessly, ' if you really 
 don't mind being overrun with the Clare family, would you 
 write a card for Ted 1 ' 
 
 ' With pleasure,' said Laura ; ' but is he not in London 1 ' 
 
 ' At this present moment he is ; but we are expecting him 
 daily at the Vicarage. The fact is he has not made his mark, 
 poor fellow, and he is rather tired of London. I suppose there 
 are too many young men there, all wanting to make their 
 mark.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A VILLAGE IAGO. 
 
 Edward Clare came back to his native village a few days 
 later, looking somewhat dilapidated by his campaign in the greats- 
 metropolis. He had found the gates of literature so beset with 
 aspirants, many of them as richly endowed as himself, that the idea 
 of pushing his way across the threshold seemed almost hopeless, 
 indeed quite hopeless, for a young man who wanted to succeed 
 in life without working very hard, or with at most a little 
 spasmodic industry. His verses, when he was lucky, had earned 
 him something like five pounds a month ; when luck was against 
 him he had earned nothing A newspaperman, whose acquaint- 
 ance he made at the Cheshire Cheese, had advised him to learn 
 shorthand, and try his fortune as a reporter, working upwards 
 from that platform to the editorial chair. This was an honest 
 drudgery which might do very well for your dull plodders, but 
 ?g&inst which the fiery soul of Edward Clare revolted. 
 
A Village, logo. 175 
 
 'lama poet, or I am nothing/ he told his friend. ' Aut Ccesar 
 aut millus.' 
 
 1 That was a first-rate motto for Cassar,' said the journalist, 
 
 ' but I think it's rather misleading for fellows of average talent. 
 The result is so often nullus.' 
 
 Mr. Clare was on the point of asking his friend to take an- 
 other brandy and soda, but at this remark he coiled up, as the 
 Yankees say ! Average talent, indeed. Imagine one of Mr. 
 Swinburne's most facile plagiarists hearing himself called a fellow 
 of average talent ! 
 
 Edward Clare would not yoke his noble mind to the news- 
 paper plough, nor would he stoop even so low as to write prose. 
 A wretched publisher had told him that if he would write 
 children's books there was a field open for him ; but Edward 
 left that publisher's office bursting with offended pride. 
 
 ' Children's books, forsooth ! ' he muttered. ' I suppose if Cat- 
 nach had been alive he would have asked me to write halfpenny 
 ballads.' 
 
 So having failed to .carve his way to fame, or to make a 
 regular income, and having wasted the money he had earned on 
 kid gloves and stalls at fashionable theatres, Mr. Clare conceived 
 an intense disgust for the metropolis, which had treated him so 
 scurvily, and turned his thoughts homewards to woodland and 
 moor, to trout stream and meadow. He found that the poetic tem- 
 perament required rural scenery, blue skies, and pure air. Heine 
 had contrived to live and write in Paris, and so had De Musset : 
 but Paris is not London. Edward made up his mind that the 
 streets and squares of Bloomsbury were antagonistic to poetry. 
 No bird could sing in such a cage. True that Milton had com- 
 posed 'Paradise Lost' within close City lanes, under the Clamorous 
 bells of St. Bride's, but then Milton was blind, and Edward Clare 
 was like a popular lady novelist of the present day, who begged 
 that she might not be compared with Dickens. He would have 
 
 ?rotested against being put on a level with such a passionless 
 ard as Milton. 
 
 ' I shall never achieve any great work in London,' he told 
 hi mself. ' For my magnum opus I must have the tranquillity of 
 wood and moor.' 
 
 He had quite made up his mind that he was to write a great 
 poem, though he had settled neither the subject nor the form. 
 He was waiting for the divine breath to inspire him. The poem 
 was to be as popular as the ' Idylls of the King,' but as passionate 
 as ' Chastelard.' He was not going to write in a goody-goody 
 strain to please anybody. 
 
 Edward Clare felt himself a little like the prodigal son, when 
 he came home to the Vicarage after this abortive campaign in the 
 field of literature. If he had not wasted his -nbstance, it was 
 
176 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 only because he had little substance to waste. He had spent ail 
 that his father had sent him, and had received small additions to 
 this allowance out of his mother's scantily-supplied purse. He 
 came home penniless and dispirited : and he felt rather offended 
 that no fatted calf was slain to do him honour, and that his 
 parents received him with an air of unmistakable despondency. 
 
 ' Really, my dear Edward, you ought to begin to think of some 
 definite course,' said the father. ' It may be too late for a pro- 
 fession, but the Government offices ' 
 
 ' Red tape and drudgery, with a salary that would scarcely 
 afford dry bread and a garret,' interrupted Edward contemptu- 
 ously. 'No, my dear father, as a poet I will stand or fall.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry to hear it,' sighed the Vicar, ' for at present it looks 
 like falling.' 
 
 What Edward really meant was that he would depend upon 
 his father until the public and the critics, or the critics and the 
 public, could be brought to acknowledge him as one of the new 
 lights in the starry world of imagination. Mr. Clare understood 
 this, and felt that it was rather hard upon him as a man of 
 limited means. 
 
 Edward arrived at Hazlehurst only the night before Mrs. 
 Treverton's dinner-party. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I'm going,' he told Celia, when she asked him if he 
 had accepted Laura's invitation. ' I want to see how this Tre- 
 verton fellow plays the country squire.' 
 
 ' As if to the manner born,' answered Celia. ' The part suits 
 him admirably. I don't want to wound your feelings, Ted, dear, 
 but Mr. Treverton and Laura are the happiest couple I ever 
 saw.' 
 
 * " These violent delights have violent ends, 
 And in their triumph die," ' 
 
 quoted Edward, with a diabolical sneer. ' I am not going to envy 
 them their happiness, my dear. Whatever feeling I once enter- 
 tained for Laura is dead and buried. A woman who could sell 
 herself, as she has done — ' 
 
 ' Sell herself ! Oh, Ted, how can you say anything so dread- 
 ful 1 I tell you she is devotedly attached to John Treverton.' 
 
 'And he rewards her devotion by running away from her 
 before the end of their honeymoon ; and when he turns up again, 
 after an interval of six months or so, during which nobody knows 
 what he has been doing, she receives him with open arms. A 
 curious couple assuredly. But an estate worth fourteen thousand 
 pounds a year excuses a good deal of eccentricity ; and I can 
 quite understand that Mr. and Mrs. Treverton are immensely 
 popidar in the neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' They are/ said Celia, warmly ; ' and they deserve to be. If 
 
A Village Iago> 177 
 
 you knew how good they are to their tenants, their servants, and 
 the poor.' 
 
 'Goodness of that kind is a very sagacious investment, my 
 unsophisticated child. It may cost a man five per cent, of his 
 income, and it buys him respectability.' 
 
 ' Don't be bitter, Edward.' 
 
 1 1 am a man of the world, Celia, and not to be hood-wanked 
 by shams and appearances.' 
 
 ' Then you'll never be a poet,' protested his sifter. ' A mart 
 who doesn't believe that good deeds come from the hearts of men 
 — a man who looks for an unworthy motive behind every 
 generous action — such a man as that will never be a great poet. 
 It is quite too dreadful to hear you talk, Edward. That odious 
 London has corrupted you.' 
 
 Edward went to the dinner next day, but not with his family. 
 He came alone, c~-d rather late, in order to observe tha 
 effect of his entrance upon Laura Treverton. Alas, for his 
 wounded vanity ! She welcomed him with a frank smile and a 
 friendly grasp of the hand. 
 
 ' I am so glad you have come back in time to be with us to- 
 night,' she said. 
 
 'I came back on purpose for to-night,' be answered, throwing 
 aa much tenderness as he could into a commonplace remask. 
 
 ' I think you know every one here. I need not introduce 
 you.' 
 
 ' I know the local magnates, of course. But I dare say there 
 are some of your husband's swell friends who are strangers to me.' 
 
 ' There are none of my husband's friends,' answered Laura, 
 ( we are strictly local.' 
 
 ' Then I'm afraid you'll find the evening rather uphill work.' 
 
 ' I expect you to help me through it by the brilliancy of your 
 conversation,' Laura answered lightly, as Edward moved aside 
 to make way for a new arrival. 
 
 He had contrived to make her uncomfortable for a minute or 
 so, for that speech of his had set her wondering why her husband 
 Aad no friends worth summoning to his side now that fortune 
 smiled upon him. 
 
 The dinner-party was not a very joyous festivity, but every- 
 body felt, nevertheless, that it was a great social success. Lady 
 Parker, in ruby velvet and diamonds, and Lady Barker in blaciC 
 satin and rubies, made two central lights round which the lesser 
 planets revolved. There was the usual county and local talk ; 
 reprobatien against the farming parson of a neighbouring parish 
 for having treacherously trapped and slain four cub foxes since last 
 season ; cordial approval of a magistrate who had sent a lad of 
 nine to jail for stealing three turnips, and who had been maligned 
 and held up to ridicule by the radical newspapers for that 
 
 ai 
 
178 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 necessary assertion of the rights of property ; a good deal of dis- 
 cussion as to the prospects of the hunting season ; a good deal of 
 talk about horses and dogs, and a little about the outside world, 
 and its chances of peace or war, famine or plenty. The party 
 was too large for general conversation, but now and then the 
 eubdued Babel of tongues became concentrated here and there 
 into a focus, and a gentle hush descended on a select few listening 
 eagerly to a single talker. This happened oftenest at thai part 
 -of the table near which Edward Clare was sitting, next but 
 one to John Treverton. Mr. and Mrs. Treverton were seated 
 opposite each other in the middle of the long table, with ?U the 
 more important guests clustered about them in a constellation of 
 local splendour, leaving the two ends of the table for youth and 
 obscurity. Edward Clare had got himself into the constellation 
 by a fluke ; a portly justice of the peace having suddenly 
 succumbed to gout, and sent an apology at the last moment; 
 whereupon Laura had despatched Celia with a message to the 
 butler, and had contrived that there should be a shuffling of 
 cards, and that Edward Clare should be put into this place of 
 honour. 
 
 She did this from a benevolent desire to soothe his wounded 
 feeling, suspecting that there might be some soreness in his mind 
 at this first meeting with her in her new character, and knowing 
 that vanity made the larger half of this young man's sensibility.! 
 
 Edward had rewarded her by talking remarkably well. He 
 was fresh from London, and well posted in all that is most in-! 
 teresting in the butterfly life of a London season. He told them' 
 all about the pictures of the year, let fly some sharp arrows of 
 ridicule against the new school of painting, described the belle of 
 the season, and let his hearers into the secret of her popularity. 
 
 ' The curious part of the story ' he said, in conclusion, is that 
 nobody ever considered the lady pretty till she burst all at once 
 upon society as the one perfect creature that the world had seen 
 since the Venus was dug up at Milo. She never was thought so 
 in her own world. No one was more surprised than her own 
 family when she was elected queen of beauty, unless it was 
 herself. Her mother never suspected it. At school she was 
 considered rather plain than otherwise. They say she was 
 married off early because she was the dowdy of the family, and 
 now she cannot take her drive in the park without all London 
 craning its neck and straining its eyes to get a look at her. When 
 she goes into society the women stand upon chairs to stare at her 
 over other people's shoulders. I suppose they want to find out 
 how it's done. This kind of popularity may seem very pleasant 
 in the abstract, but I think it's rather hard upon the lady.' 
 
 ' Why hard upon her ] ' inquire*! John Treverton. 
 
 Because there's no salary goes with the situation. The Wis 
 
A Village Iago. 179 
 
 of the season ought to get something to lighten the expenses of 
 her year of office like the Lord Mayor. See what is expected of 
 her ! Every eye is upon her. Every woman in London looks to 
 her as a model of taste and elegance, and eagerly strives to dress 
 after her. How is she to put a limit upon her milliner's bill, 
 when she knows that all the society journals are lying in wait to 
 describe her last gown, to eulogise her newest bonnet, to write an 
 epigram upon her parasol, to be ecstatic about her boots. Can 
 she ride in a hired carriage 1 No. Can she be absent from Good- 
 wood, or missing at Cowes 1 No. She must die standing. I say 
 tha'. Fince she furnishes the public with interest and amusement 
 — much better than the Lord Mayor does, by the way — she. 
 ought to get a handsome allowance out of the public purse.' 
 
 When he had exhausted pictures, and reigning beauties, ana 
 the winner of the Leger, Edward began to talk about crime. 
 
 'People in London have a knack of wearing a subject to 
 tatters,' he said. ' I thought neither the newspapers nor the 
 public would ever get tired of talking about the Chicot 
 murder.' 
 
 ' The Chicot murder. Ah, that was the ballet dancer, was it 
 not 1 ' inquired Lady Barker, who was so interested in this 
 vivacious young man on her right hand, tnat she had hardly 
 given due attention to Mr. Treverton, who was on her left. ' I 
 remember feeling rather interested in that mystery. A diabolical 
 murder, certainly. And how stupid the police must have been 
 not to find the murderer.' 
 
 ' Or how cleA r er the murderer to sink his identity so com- 
 pletely as to give the police the slip,' suggested Edward. 
 
 ' Oh, but he must have got away to the Colonies, or some- 
 where, surely,' cried Lady Barker. ' There are so many vessels 
 leaving England now-a-days. You don't imagine for a moment 
 that the murderer of that wretched woman remained in 
 England V 
 
 ' I think it highly probable that he did, discreetly hidden 
 under some outer shell of intense respectability.' 
 
 ' I suppose you think it was the husband V put in Sir Jbshu? 
 Parker, from his place at Laura's right hand. 
 
 I don't see any ground for doubt,' replied Edward. ' If the 
 husband was not guilty, why should he disappear the moment 
 the crime was discovered V 
 
 'He may have had reasons of his own for wishing to get 
 away, reasons unconnected with the mode and manner of his 
 wife's death,' hazarded John Treverton, 
 
 ' What reasons could hekavehad strong enough to induce him to 
 run the risk of being thought a murderer 1 ' asked Edward, in- 
 credulously. ' No innocent man would place himself in such ft 
 position as that.' 
 
180 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Not knowingly,' said John ' but this man may have aeted 
 on impulse, without reckoning tne consequences of his act.' 
 
 'To admit that would be to consider him a fool,' retorted 
 Edward ; ' and from all I have heard of the fellow, he belonged 
 to the other half of humanity.' 
 
 ' You mean that he was a knave V 
 
 1 1 mean that he was a fellow who knew the ropes. He was 
 not the sort of man to find his wife's throat cut, and to make a 
 bolt, leaving every newspaper in London free to brand him as a 
 coward and a murderer,' said Edward, decisively. 
 
 John Treverton pursued the subject no further. Lady 
 Parker, who sat at his left, had just begun to question him about 
 a late importation of Jersey cows, in which she was deeply 
 interested ; whereupon he favoured her with a detailed account 
 of their graces and merits. Laura happened to look up at 
 Edward Clare as he finished speaking, and the expression of his 
 countenance startled and shocked her. Never had she seen so 
 keen a look of malice in any living face. Only in the face of 
 Judas in an old Italian picture had she ever beheld such craft 
 and such venom. And that malignant look — brief as a flash of 
 lightning — glanced at her unconscious husband, whose face was 
 gravely courteous as he bent his handsome head a little to tell 
 Lady Parker about the Jersey cows. 
 
 'Good heavens!' thought Laura, with a sense of absolute 
 fear. ' Is it possible that this young man can be so bitter against 
 my husband because I loved him best 1 What could the love be 
 like that could engender such malice V 
 
 Later in the evening when'Edward came and hung over the 
 ottoman where Laura was sitting, she turned from him with an 
 involuntary movement of disgust. 
 
 ' Have I offended you 1 ' he asked, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Yes. I saw a look in your face at dinner that told me you 
 dislike my husband.' 
 
 ' Do you expect me to love him — very dearly — at first ? You 
 must at least give me time to get accustomed to the idea that he 
 is your husband. Time cures most wounds. Give me time, 
 Laura, and do not iudge me too hardly. I possess the poet's 
 curse, a mind more sensitive than the minds of ordinary men — 
 dowered with the love of love, the hate of hate, the scorn of 
 scorn.' 
 
 ' I hope you will leave your dowry outside when you come 
 across this threshold,' said Laura, with a smile that was more 
 contemptuous than relenting. ' I can accept friendship from no 
 one who does not like my husband.' 
 
 ' Then I will struggle with the original man within me, and 
 try to like John Treverton. Believe me, Laura, I want to be 
 your friend — in honest and unequivocal friendship.' 
 
A Village lago. 181 
 
 'That is the kind of friendship I expect from your father's 
 Bon,' said Laura, in a gentler tone. 
 
 She was too happy, too secure in her own happiness to be un- 
 forgiving. She reasoned with herself — arguing against instinct 
 and conviction — and told herself that Edward Clare's malevolent 
 look had meant less than it seemed to mean. 
 
 Edward looked on, and saw John Treverton play his part as 
 host and master in a manner that he was compelled to admit was 
 irreproachable. The new squire showed none of the pride in ( 
 himself and his surroundings which might have been anticipated 
 in a man unexpectedly raised to the possession of a large fortune. 
 He did not brag of his wine, or his horses, his pictures, or his 
 farm. He accepted his position as quietly, and filled it as natu- 
 rally, as if he had been born^heir to an entailed, unalienable estate. 
 
 ' Upon my word, they are a charming couple,' said Sir Joshua 
 Parker, in his fat voice, 'and an acquisition to our county 
 families.' 
 
 Sir Joshua was very fond of talking about our county fami- 
 lies, although his own establishment in that galaxy had been but 
 recent, his father and grandfather having made their fortunes in 
 the soap-boiling business, amidst the slums of Lambeth. Lady 
 Barker, the dowager, was of the vieiile roche, having been a 
 Trefusis and an heiress when she married the late General Sir 
 Eodney Barker. K.C.B. 
 
 After that one little flash of anger on the night of the dinner- 
 party, Edward Clare was all friendliness. Celia spent a large 
 portion of her life at the Manor House, where she was always 
 welcome ; and it seemed only natural that her brother Edward 
 should drop in frequently, almost as he had^one in the old days 
 when Jasper Treverton was alive. There were so many reasons 
 for his coming. The library at the Manor House was much 
 larger and better than the vicar's modest collection of old-fashioned 
 books. The gardens were a delight to the young man's poetic 
 soul. John Treverton showed no dislike to him. He appeared 
 to consider the poet a poor creature, whose going or coming could 
 make no difference. 
 
 ' I confess that I have a contempt for that kind of man,' he 
 told his wife, candidly. ' An effeminate, white-handed mortal, 
 who sets up as a wit and a poet on the most limited stock-in- 
 trade — all his best goods in his windows, and nothing but empty 
 shelves inside the shop. But, of course, as long as you like him, 
 Laura, he will be welcome here.' 
 
 1 1 like him for the sake of his father and mother, who are 
 my oldest and best friends,' answered Laura. 
 
 1 "Whieh means in plain English that you only tolerate him ? 
 said John, carelessly. Well, he is harmless, and sometimes 
 amusing. Let him come.' 
 
182 Tlie. Cloven Foot. 
 
 Edward came, and seemed at home and happy in the small 
 family circle. He lounged beside the fire in the snug book-room, 
 and joined in the easy familiar talk, when the autumn dusk was 
 deepening, and Laura made tea at her pretty little table, with 
 , her husband by her side, while Celia, who had a fancy for eccen- 
 'tric positions and attitudes, sat on the hearth-rug. 
 
 One November evening, about a month after the dinner party, 
 the conversation happened to light upon the county magnates 
 who had adorned that banquet. 
 
 ' Did anybody ever see such a funny little figure as Lady 
 Barker, surmounted by that wig 1 ' cried Celia. ' I really think 
 her dressmaker must be very clever to make any kind of gown 
 that will hold together upon her. Pdon't complain of her being 
 fat. A woman may weigh sixteen stone and carry herself like a 
 duchess. But Lady Barker is such an undecided figure. There's 
 no consistency in her. When she sinks on a sofa one expects to 
 see her collapse, like a mould of jelly that hasn't cooled properly. 
 Oh, Edward, you should see Mr. Treverton's portrait of her — the 
 most delicious caricature.' 
 
 ' Caricature ! ' echoed Edward. ' Why, that is another new 
 talent. If Treverton goes on in this way we shall have to call 
 him the admirable Crichton. It was only last week that I found 
 out he could paint ; and now you say he is a caricaturist. What 
 next?' 
 
 ' I believe you have come to the end of my small stock of 
 accomplishments,' said John Treverton, laughing. I used once 
 to amuse myself by an attempt to illustrate the absurdities of 
 human nature in pen and ink. It pleased my brother officers, 
 and helped to keep us alive sometimes in the dulness of country 
 quarters.' 
 
 ' Talking of caricature, by the way,' said Edward, lazily, as he 
 slowly stirred his cup of tea, ' did you ever see " Folly as it 
 Flies 1 " ' 
 
 ' The comic newspaper ] Yes, often.' 
 
 ' Ah, then you must have noticed the things done by that 
 fellow Chicot — the man who murdered his wife. They were 
 extraordinarily clever — out and away the best things I have ever 
 seen since the days of Gavarni ; rather too French, perhaps, but 
 remarkably good.' 
 
 ' It was natural the style should be French, since the man 
 was French.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Edward, ' he was as English as you 
 or I.' 
 
 Celia had risen from the floor and lighted a pair of candles on 
 Laura's open Davenport, near which Edward was sitting. She 
 selected a sheet of paper from a heap of loose sheets lying there 
 aaid showed it to her brother, candle in haa i. 
 
A Village Iago. 183 
 
 ' Isn't that too lovely 1 ' she asked. 
 
 Edward examined the sketch with a critical air. 
 
 ' I don't want you to suppose I'm trying to natter you,' he 
 said at last, ' but, upon my word, this little sketch is as good as 
 anything of Chicot's, and very much in his style.' 
 
 ' It is the only accomplishment of my husband's that T cannot 
 praise,' said Laura, with gentlest reproof, ' for it cannot be 
 exercised without unkiudness to the subject of the caricature.' 
 
 ' " He that is robbed not wanting what is stolen, let him not 
 know it, and he is not robbed," ' quoted Celia, who had resumed 
 her lowly place at Laura's feet. ' Shakespeare's ineffable wisdom 
 found that out ; and may not the same tiling be said of carica- 
 ture 1 If Lady Barker never knows what a lifelike portrait you ' 
 have drawn of her, with half-a-dozen scratches of a Hindoo pen, 
 the faithfulness of the picture can't hurt her.' 
 
 ' But isn't it the usual course to show that kind of thing to all 
 the lady's particular friends, till the knowledge of it percolates to 
 the lady herself 1 ' inquired Edward with his lazy sneer. 
 
 ' I had rather cut off my right hand than make a harmless 
 good-natured old lady unhappy,' said Laura, warmly. 
 
 1 Turn up your cuff, Mr. Treverton, and prepare your wrist 
 for the chopper,' cried Celia. ' But really now, if Lady Barker's 
 figure is like a dilapidated mould of jelly, she ought to know it. 
 Did not one of those seven old plagues of Greece, whose names 
 nobody ever could remember, resolve all the wisdom of his life 
 into that one precept, " Know thyself " ' 1 
 
 Celia rattled on gaily ; Laura and Edward both joined in her 
 careless talk ; but John Treverton sat grave and silent, looking 
 at the fire. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 C IN THE MEANWHILE THE SKIES 'GAN RUMBLE SORE.' 
 
 After that portrait of Lady Barker, John Treverton drew 
 no more caricatures. It seemed as if he had laid aside the pen 
 of the caricaturist in deference to his wife's dislike of that some- 
 what ill-natured art. But he had not abandoned the higher 
 walks of art, for he had made himself a studio out of one of the 
 spare bedrooms that looked northward, and was engaged on a 
 portrait of his wife, an altogether fanciful and ideal picture, 
 which he worked at for an hour or two daily with infinite delight. 
 He had many pleasant labours and occupations at this period of 
 his life. The farm, the hunting field, the busing s details of a 
 
184 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 large property, which he wished to conduct in an orderly manner, 
 not hiding his talents in a napkin, but improving the estate, 
 which Jasper Treverton. had considerably increased during his 
 long life, but upon which the old man had been somewhat loth 
 to spend money. It was altogether a full and happy life which 
 John Treverton led with his wife in this first year of their union, 
 and it seemed to both that nothing was wanting to perfect their 
 happiness. And yet, by-and-by, when there came the prospect 
 of a child being born in the grave old house which had so long 
 been undisturbed by the patter of childish feet, the fulfilment of 
 this sweet hope seemed the one thing needed to fill their cup of joy. 
 
 While at the Manor House all was bliss, life dawdled on 
 comfortably enough at the Vicarage, where the good, easy-tem- 
 pered, hard-working Vicar had begun to be reconciled to the idea 
 that his only son was to be an idler all his life ; until perchance 
 this seemingly barren plant should some day put forth the 
 glorious flower of genius. And then the father's patience, the 
 mother's love, would be rewarded all at once for weary days of 
 waiting and despondency. 
 
 Edward had contrived to make himself particularly agreeable 
 since his return to the family roof tree. He was less cynical than 
 of old ; less apt to rail against fate for not having set his lines in 
 pleasanter places. 
 
 Even Celia was beguiled into the belief that her brother was 
 completely cured of his attachment to Laura. 
 
 'I suppose his passion was like that poor sentimental old 
 Petrarch's,' mused Celia, who had read about half a dozen sonnets 
 of the illustrious Italian's in the whole course of her life, ' and he 
 will go on spinning verses about the lady of his love for the next 
 twenty years, without feeling any the worse for his platonic 
 affection. He seems to enjoy being at the Manor House ; and 
 he and John Treverton get on very well together, considering 
 how different they are in character.' 
 
 Edward made himself very comfortable in his rural home. 
 He had tried London life, and had grown heartily sick of it ; 
 and he was now less disposed than of old to grumble at the dul- 
 ness of a Devonshire village. What though he saw the same 
 stolid bovine faces every day ? Were they not better and fairer 
 to look at than the herd of strange faces — keen and sharpened as 
 if the desire for gain was an absolute physical hunger — that had 
 passed him by in the smoke-tainted streets of London 1 These 
 faces knew him. Here hats were touched as he passed by. 
 People noticed whether he looked well or ill. Here, at least, he 
 was somebody, an important figure in the sum of village life. 
 His death would cause a sensation, his absence would make a 
 blank. Edward did not care a straw about these simple villagers ; 
 fbut it pleased him that they should care for him. He settled 
 
'In the Meanwhile the Skies 'gan rumble sore.' 185 
 
 himself down in his old home — the good substantial old Vicarage, 
 a roomy house with stone walls, high gables, and heavy chimney 
 stacks, shut in from the road by a holly hedge of a century's 
 growth, sheltered at the back by the steep slope of the moor, while 
 its front windows faced undulating pastures and distant woods. 
 
 Here Edward made himself a study, or den, where he could 
 work at his magnum opus, and where his solitude was undis- 
 turbed by intrusion. It was understood that his labours in this 
 sanctuary of genius were of the hardest. Here he gave up his 
 soul to convulsive throes and struggles, as of Pythoness on her 
 tripod. The chamber was at the end of a long passage, and had 
 a lattice overlooking the moor. Here tobacco was not forbidden, 
 although the Vicar was no smoker, and had an old-fashioned 
 detestation of cigars. Edward found a good deal of smoke 
 necessary to relax the tension of his nerves, during the manufac- 
 ture of his poem. If the door was suddenly opened by Celia or 
 Mrs. Clare, the poet was apt to be discovered reclining in his 
 rocking chair, with a cigar between his lips, and his eyes fixed 
 dreamily upon the topmost ridge of moorland. At such times 
 he told his mother and sister he was doing his thinking. The 
 scored and blotted manuscript on his writing-table testified to 
 the severity of his labours ; but the sharp-eyed Celia perceived 
 that the work progressed but slowly. There was a good deal of 
 meditation and cigar smoke necessary to its elaboration. Once 
 or twice Edward had been discovered reading a French novel. 
 
 'One so soon forgets a language if one doesn't read a 
 thoroughly idiomatic work now and then/ he said, explaining 
 this seeming frivolity. 
 
 He kept up his connection with the popular magazines, 
 sending them as many trifles in the drawing-room style as they 
 could expect from him ; and by this means he contrived to be 
 well dressed and provided with pocket-money, without sponging 
 on his father. 
 
 ' All I want is the run of my teeth for the next year or so, 
 till I have made a name,' he told his mother ; ' that is not much 
 for an only son to ask of his father.' 
 
 The Vicar agreed that the demand was modest. He would 
 have preferred a son of a more active and eager temperament — a 
 son who would have taken to the church, or law, or medicine, or 
 even soldiering. But it was not for him to complain if Heaven 
 had given him a genius, instead of a commonplace plodder. It 
 was the old story of the ugly duck, no doubt. By-and-by, the 
 snow-white wings would unfold themselves for a noble flight, and 
 the admiring world would acknowledge the beauty of the swan. Mrs 
 Clare, who adored her only son, after the manner of weak-minded 
 mothers, was delighted to have him at home, for good, as she 
 said, delightedly. She made his den as luxurious as her small 
 
186 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 means -would allow ; put up bookshelves wherever he wanted 
 them, covered his mantlehoard with velvet, and draped it with 
 point lace of her own working, bought him cigar stands and 
 ash trays, tobacco jars and fusee boxes, blotting books, slippers, 
 down pillows for his hours of lassitude, soft fluffy rugs to cover 
 his feet when he sank on his snug little couch, prostrate after 
 lengthened wrestling with an unpropitious muse. All that a 
 doting mother can do to spoil a young man, Mrs. Clare did for her 
 son ; and it happened, unfortunately, that he was not made of 
 that strong stuff which the sweet flatteries of love cannot corrupt. 
 
 There were certain hours when the poet was approachable. At 
 five o'clock on those evenings when the brother and sister were 
 not at the Manor House, Celia used to bring him a cup of coffee, 
 and the small stock of gossip which she had been able to collect 
 in the course of her frivolous day. She would seat herself on a 
 hassock beside the fire, or even on the edge of the fender, and 
 chatter gaily, while Edward lay back in his easy chair, sipping 
 his coffee, and listening with an air of condescending indulgence. 
 
 A good deal of Celia's talk was naturally about her friends 
 at the Manor House. She had got over her prejudice against 
 John Treverton, and was even enthusiastic in her praise of him. 
 He was ' quite too lovely.' As a husband she declared him 
 ' perfect.' She wished that Heaven had made her such a man. 
 I ' I really think Laura is the luckiest girl in creation ! ' she 
 exclaimed. ' Such a husband, such a house, such a stable, such 
 gardens, such a rent-roll ! It is almost provoking to see her take 
 everything so quietly. I believe she is grateful to Providence, 
 because she is dreadfully religious, you know. But her placidity 
 almost enrages me. If I had half such good fortune I should 
 want to jump over the moon ! ' 
 
 ' Laura is thoroughly good style, my dear. Well-bred people 
 never want to jump over the moon,' Edward remarked, languidly. 
 
 ' Strictly fraternal,' ejaculated Celia, with a shrug. 
 
 1 1 am very glad to hear she is so happy,' pursued Edward, 
 with an ah of ineffable good nature. ' Thank heaven, I have 
 quite got over my old weakness about her, and can contemplate 
 her happiness without a twinge of jealousy. But at the same 
 time I do rather wonder that she can be thoroughly happy with 
 a man of whose antecedents she knows nothing.' 
 
 ' How can you say that, Ted 1 She knows who he is, and what 
 he is. She knows that he was a lieutenant in a crack regiment, 
 and sold out because he had run through his money ' 
 
 ' Sold out just seven years ago,' interrupted Edward. ' What 
 has he been doing with himself in the meantime ? : 
 
 ' Knocking about London.' 
 
 ' That is a very vague phrase. Seven years ! He must have 
 earned his living somehow during the greater part of that time. 
 
' In the Meanwhile the Shies 'gan rumble sore.' 187 
 
 The money lie got for his commission would not last him long. 
 He must have had his own particular circle of acquaintances 
 during that interval. "Why are none of them forthcoming 1 Why 
 is he so silent about the experiences of those seven years ? Man 
 is an egotistical animal, my dear Celia. Be sure that there is 
 always something to be ashamed of when a man keeps silence 
 about himself.' \ 
 
 1 There is something rather odd about that, certainly, assented 
 Celia, in a musing tone. ' John Treverton never talks of his past 
 life, or, at any rate, of the time that has gone by since he left the 
 army. I suppose he has been in London all the time, for he talks 
 as if he were awfully disgusted with London life. If I were 
 Laura I should insist mpon knowing all about it.' 
 
 ' There can fee no happiness between man and wife without 
 perfect confidence,' said Edward. ' No enduring happiness, at 
 least.' 
 
 ' Poor, dear Laura,' sighed Celia. ' I always said it was an 
 ill-omened marriage ; but lately I have thought that I was going 
 to turn out a false prophet.' 
 
 ' Has she ever told you what took her husband away after 
 their marriage 1 ' 
 
 ' No, on that point she has been as silent as the grave. She 
 told me once that he had been to Buenos Ayres, called away on 
 business. I have never b een able to extort anything more out 
 of her.' 
 
 ' It must have been a curious kind of business which called a 
 man away from his newly- wedded wife,' said Edward. 
 
 Celia nodded significantly, and looked at the fire. She loved 
 Laura well, but she loved scandal better. 
 
 Edward gave a short, impatient sigh, and turned his head 
 fretfully upon the cushion which maternal hands had worked in 
 softest wool. That movement, expressive of disgust with life in 
 general, did not escape the sharp eyes of his sister. 
 
 'Ted, dear, I'm afraid you have not left off being unhappy 
 about Laura,' she murmured, sympathetically. 
 
 ' I am only unhappy about her when I think she is married 
 to a scoundrel.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ted, how can you say such a thing ? ' 
 
 ' Celia, a man who can give no account of seven years of his life 
 must be a scoundrel,' Edward Clare, said decisively. ' Say nothing 
 to alarm Laura, I beg you. I am talking to you to-day as if you 
 were a man, and to be trusted. Wait and watch. Wait and 
 watch, as I shall' 
 
 1 Edward, how you frighten me ! You make me feel as if we 
 were living in one of those villages at the foot of Vesuvius, with 
 a fiery mountain getting itself ready to explode and destroy us.' 
 
 'There will be an explosion some day, Celia, depend upon it ; 
 
188 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 an explosion that will blow tip the Manor House as surely as 
 Kirk o' Meld was blown up the night Darnley was slain.' 
 
 He said no more, though Celia did not willingly let th« 
 subject drop. Indeed, he was inclined to be angry with himself 
 for having said so much, though he had not given his sister his 
 confidence without a motive. He wanted to know all that could 
 be known about John Treverton, and Celia was in a position to 
 learn much that he could not discover for himself. 
 
 ' I really thought you were beginning to like Mr. Treverton,' 
 the girl said, presently. 'You and he seem to get on so well 
 together.' 
 
 ' I am civil to him for Laura's sake. I would be guilty of a 
 worse hypocrisy if I thought it would serve her interests.' 
 
 Edward sighed, and gave his head another angry jerk upon 
 the cushion. He wanted to do John Treverton deadly harm ; 
 and yet he knew that the worst he could do to his rival would 
 bring about no good result to himself. There was nothing to be 
 gained by it. The injury would be irrevocable, deadly ; a blight 
 upon name and fortune — perchance the gallows — a shame so 
 deep that a loving wife would scarcely survive the blow. All 
 this was in Edward Clare's mind as a not impossible revenge. 
 And unhappily there was no smaller revenge possible. He felt 
 himself possessed of a deadly power ; but of no power to wound 
 without slaying. He was like the cobra, whose poisonoiis fangs 
 are provided with an ingenious mechanism which keeps them in 
 reserve until the creature wants to use them. Two hinged teeth 
 lie back against the roof of the snake's mouth. When he attacks 
 his victim the hinge moves, the fangs descend, the poison gland 
 is pressed, and the deadly poison runs down a groove in the 
 tooth, and drops into the puncture prepared to receive it. Lop 
 off the wounded limb ere the shadow on the dial has marked the 
 passage of twenty seconds, or the venom will have done its work. 
 Medicine has yet to discover the antidote that can save the life 
 ©f the victim. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 'and purple light shone over all.' 
 
 Christmas was at hand, the first Christmas in Laura's married 
 life, and to her happy fancy it seemed the most wonderful season 
 that had ever been marked on the calendar of the ages. How 
 could she and John Treverton be thankful enough for the blessings 
 Providence had given them 1 How could they do enough to make 
 other people happy ? About a fortnight before the sacred festival 
 she carried Celia off to Beechampton in the pony carriage, to buy 
 a tremendous stock of blankets and flannel petticoats for the old 
 women, and comfortable homespuri coats for the rheumatic old men, 
 
' And Purple Light shone, over all' 189 
 
 'Have you any idea as to the amount you are spending, 
 Laura 1 ' asked the practical Celia. 
 
 ' No, dear ; but I have one fixed idea, and that i3 that no one 
 near Hazlehurst shall be cold and wretched this Christmas, if I 
 can help it.' 
 
 1 I'm afraid you are encouraging pauperism,' said Ceiia. 
 
 1 No, Celia ; I am waging war against rheumatism.' 
 
 ' I hope you don't expect gratitude. 1 
 
 ' I only expect the blankets to keep out Jack Frost. And 
 now for the grocer's.' 
 
 She shook the reins gaily, and drove on to the chief grocer of 
 Beechampton, in whose plate-glass windows a pair of tall Japanese 
 jars announced the superior character of the trade transacted 
 inside. Here Mrs. Treverton ordered a hundred parcels of 
 plums, currants, sugar, spice, and candied peel, each parcel con- 
 taining an ample supply for a family Christmas pudding. The 
 shopman rejoiced as he booked the order, and was eloquent in 
 his praise of ' our new fruit.' 
 
 From the grocer's they drove to the confectioner's, and there 
 Laura ordered such a supply of plum cake and buns, mufiins and 
 tea cakes, all to be delivered at the Manor House on Christmas 
 Ev», that Celia began to be seriously alarmed for her friend's 
 sanity. 
 
 ' What can you want with all that indigestible rubbish ? ' she 
 exclaimed. ' Are you going to open a pastrycook's shop 1 ' 
 
 'No, dear. These things are for my juvenile party.' 
 
 ' A juvenile party — already ! I can't understand your motive, 
 unless it is to get your hand in for the future. Who are you 
 going to have ? All Lady Parker's nursery, of course — and 
 Lady Barker's grandchildren, and Mrs. Pendarvis's seven boys, 
 the Briggses, and the Dropmores, and the Seymours. You'll 
 want dissolving views, and a conjuror ; and you might have 
 tableaux vivants, as you don't seem to care how much money 
 you waste. People expect so much at juvenile parties now-a- 
 days.' 
 
 ' I think my guests will be quite happy without tableaux 
 vivants, or even a conjuror.' 
 
 ' I doubt it. Those little Barkers are intensely old for their 
 age.' 
 
 ' The little Barkers are not coming to my party.' 
 
 ' And the Pendarvis boys give themselves as many airs as 
 undergraduates after their first term.' 
 
 ' But I have not invited the Pendarvis boys.' 
 
 ' Then what children, in goodness' name, are to eat all those 
 cakes 1 ' cried Celia. • 
 
 ' My party is for the children of the cottagers, All yotir 
 father's infant school will be there.' 
 
ISO £lie Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Then all I can say is, I hope you have arranged lor tha 
 ■ventilation of your rooms ; for if you expect me to spend Christ- 
 mas Eve in an atmosphere at all resembling that of our infant 
 Bchoolroom you are reckoning without your host.' 
 
 ' I am not reckoning without a knowledge of Celia Clare's 
 good nature. I shall expect you to help me with all your heart 
 and soul. Even your brother might do something for us. He 
 could give us a comic reading — " Mrs. Brown at the play," or 
 something of that kind.' 
 
 'Picture to yourself Algernon Swinburne reading "Mrs. 
 Brown " to a herd of charity children,' exclaimed Celia, laugh- 
 ingly. * I assure you my brother Edward thinks himself quite 
 as important a person as Mr. Swinburne. Would you have him 
 lay aside his magnum opus to study " Mrs. Brown at the play " ? ' 
 
 1 1 am sure he won't mind helping us,' said Laura. ' I shall 
 have a Christmas tree loaded with gifts, a good many of them 
 useful ones. I shall hive a magic lantern from London ; and for 
 the rest we can have all the old-fashioned games — Blind Man's 
 Buff, Oranges and Lemons, Thread my Needle — all the nosiest, 
 wildest romps we can think of. I am going to have the servants' 
 hall cleared out and decorated for the occasion ; so there will be 
 no fear of any of the dear old furniture coming to grief.' 
 
 If poor old Mr. Treverton could come to life again, and see 
 such goings on ! ' ejaculated Celia. 
 
 " I am sure he would be glad to know that his wealth was em- 
 ployed in making other people happy. Think of all those poor 
 little children, Celia, who hardly know the meaning of the word 
 pleasure, as rich people understand it.' 
 
 ' All the happier for them,' said Celia, philosophically. ' The 
 pleasures of the rich are dreadfully hollow ; as sickly-sweet and 
 ! crumbly as a meringue from an inferior pastry-cook, with the 
 cream gone sour inside. Well, Laura, you are a good soul, and I 
 will do my very best to help you through your juvenile muddle. 
 I wonder if fourteen thousand a year would make me benevolent. 
 I'm afraid my expenses would increase at such a jt&te that I 
 should have no margin for charity.' 
 
 Before Christmas Eve came a shadow had fallen upon Laura's 
 life, which made complete happiness impossible, even for one 
 who was bent upon giving joy to others. John Treverton fell ill 
 of a low fever. He was not dangerously ill. Mr. Morton, the local 
 doctor, who had attended Jasper Treverton for twenty years, and 
 who was a general practitioner of skill and experience, made very 
 light of the malady. The patient had got a chill riding a tired 
 horse a long way home through the rain, after his last hunt, and 
 the chill had resulted in slightly feverish symptoms, and Mr. 
 Treverton was a little below par. That was all. The only 
 remedies wanted were rest and good nursing, and for a man in 
 John Treverton.'** position both were easy. 
 
s And Purple Light shone over all.' lol 
 
 'Ought I to put off my children's party?' Laura asked, 
 anxiously, the day before Christmas Eve. ' I should be very 
 sorry to disappoint the poor little things, but,' here her voice 
 
 faltered, ' if I thought John was going to be worse ' 
 
 1 My dear Mrs. Treverton, he is not going to be worse : in fact 
 he is rapidly mending. Didn't I tell you the pulse was stronger 
 this morning 1 He will be well in a few days, I hope ; but I 
 shall keep him in his room to the end of the week, and I shall 
 not allow him to take part in any Christmas festivities. As for 
 your children's party, if you can prevent the noise of it reaching 
 him , there is no reason in the world why it should be postponed.' 
 
 ' The servants' hall is quite on the other side of the house,' 
 said Laura. ' I don't think the noise can possibly reach the next 
 room.' 
 
 This conversation between Mrs. Treverton and the doctor had 
 taken place in John Treverton's study — the panelled room adjoin- 
 ing his bedroom — the room in which he and Laura had first met. 
 
 ' Then that's all you need care about,' replied Mr. Morton. 
 
 Laura had been her husband's only nurse throughout his illness. 
 6he had sat with him all day, and watched him through the 
 night, taking snatches of slumber at intervals on the comfortable 
 old sofa at the foot of the big old-fashioned four-post bed. In 
 vain had John Treverton urged the danger of injury to her own 
 health from the fatigue involved in this tender care of him. 
 ! She told him she had never felt better or stronger, and never 
 enjoyed more refreshing sleep than on the roomy old soxa. 
 
 They had been happy together, even in this time of anxiety. 
 It was Laura's delight to read aloud to the invalid, to write his 
 letters, to pour out his medicine, to minister to all the trivial 
 wants of an illness that caused at its most only a sense of languor 
 and helplessness. Her only regret with regard to the children's 
 party was that for this one evening she must be for the most 
 part absent from the sick room. Instead of reading aloud to 
 her husband, she must give her mind to ' Blind Man's Buff,' 
 and all her energies to ' Thread my Needle.' 
 
 The winter twilight came gently down, bringing a light sno*V 
 shower with it, and at four o'clock Laura was seated at the little 
 I Chippendale table by her husband's bed, drinking tea with him 
 for the first time since the beginning of his illness. He had been 
 sitting up for a few hours in the middle of the day, and was 
 now lying outside the bed, wrapped warmly in his long fur- 
 bordered dressing-gown. 
 
 He was intensely interested in the children's party, and asked 
 Laura, all about her arrangements for entertaining her guests. 
 
 ' I should think the great point was to give them enough to 
 eat,' he said, meditatively. The nearest approach to perfect 
 
192 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 happiness I ever beheld is a child eating something it considers 
 nice. For the moment the mind of that infant is in a state of 
 complete beatitude. It lives in the present, and the present 
 only. Its little life is rounded into the narrow circle of now. 
 Slowly, thoughtfully, it smacks its lips, and gloats upon the 
 savour it loves. Hardly an earthquake would disturb it from 
 that deep and tranquil delight. With the last mouthful, its 
 gladness departs, and the child learns that earthly pleasiire is 
 fleeting. Let your children stuff themselves all the evening and 
 Btuff their pockets before they go home, Laura, and they will 
 realise the perfection of bliss.' 
 
 ' And to-morrow the poor little creatures would be ill and 
 miserable. No, Jack, they shall enjoy themselves a little more 
 rationally than you propose ; and every one of them shall have 
 something to take back to the person they love best at home, so 
 that even a child's idea of enjoyment shall not be utterly selfish. 
 But I shall be so sorry to be away from you all the evening 
 Jack.' 
 
 ' And I shall be still more sorry to lose you, love. I shall try 
 to sleep away the hours of your absence. Could you not give me 
 a good dose of chloral now, Laura 1 ' 
 
 ' Not for the world, dear. I have a horror of opiates, except 
 in extreme cases. I shall contrive tu be with you for an odd half 
 hour or two in the course of the evening. Celia is to be my 
 lieutenant.' 
 
 ' Then I hope you will let her do a good deal of your work, 
 and that I shall see the sweet face I love, very often. Who is 
 coming, besides the children ? ' 
 
 'Only Mr. Sampson and his sister, and Edward Clare. 
 Edward is going to read an Ingoldsby legend. I suggested 
 " Mrs. Brown at the play ; " but he would not hear of her. I 
 am afraid the children won't understand Ingoldsby.' 
 
 ' You and Celia must start all the laughter.' 
 
 ' I don't think I could laugh while you are a prisoner here.' 
 
 ' It has been a very short imprisonment and your sweet society 
 has made it very happy.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 
 
 The servants' hall was one of the finest rooms in the Manor 
 House. It was at the back of the house, remote from all the 
 reception rooms, and had been part of a much older building 
 than the Carolian mansion to which it now belonged. It waa 
 lighted by two square latticed windows with stone mullions, 
 looking into the stable yard. There was also a door opening 
 
The Children's Party. 193 
 
 directly into the same stable yard, and offering a convenient 
 approach for the wandering tribes of tramps, hawkers, and 
 gipsies, who boldly defied the canine guardians of the yard, 
 knowing that the stoutest mastiff that ever thundered forth his 
 abhorrence of rags and beggary is only formidable within the 
 circle described by the length of his chain. 
 
 On this Christmas Eve the servants' hall looked as cheerful a 
 room as one could choose for a night's revelry. Huge logs flamed 
 and crackled in the wide old fireplace, and shone and sparkled on 
 the whitewashed wall, which was glorified with garlands of holly 
 and ivy, and lighted with numerous candles in tin sconces made 
 for the occasion by the village blacksmith. Two long tables on 
 trestles were spread with such a meal as a rustic child might see 
 in some happy dream, but could scarcely hope to behold in sober 
 reality. Such mountains of plum cake, such mighty piles of buns, 
 such stacks of buttered toast, such crystal jars of ruby jam and 
 amber marmalade ! The guests had been invited for the hour of 
 six, and, as the clock struck, they all came trooping in, with 
 shining faces, and cheeks and noses cherry red, after their run 
 through the lightly falling snow. It was not often that snow 
 fell in this western world, and a snowstorm at Christmas was 
 considered altogether pleasant and seasonable, an event for the 
 children to rejoice at. 
 
 Laura was ready to receive her young visitors, supported by 
 Mr. Sampson and his sister, Celia Clare, and all the servants*. 
 Edward had promised to drop in later. He had no objection to 
 distinguish himself by a comic reading, but he had no idea of 
 sharing all the fatigue of the entertainment. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Clare were to come in the course of the evening to see their small 
 parishioners enjoying themselves. 
 
 The tea party was a great success. Celia worked nobly. 
 While Mrs. Treverton and Miss Sampson poured out the tea, 
 this vivacious damsel flew hither and thither with plates of cake, 
 spread innumerable slices of bread and jam, tied the strings of a 
 score of pinafores, filled every plate the instant it was empty, and 
 provided at every turn for the pleasure of the revellers, who sat 
 in a happy silence — stolid, emotionless, stuffing automatically. 
 
 ' You'd hardly think they were enjoying themselves intensely, 
 would you 1 ' whispered Celia, coming to Laura for a fresh supply 
 of tea, ' but I know they are, because they all breathe so hard. 
 If this was a gathering of the county families, you might think it 
 a failure ; but silence in this case means ecstasy.' 
 
 At the stroke of seven the tables were being cleared, while 
 Celia, in wild spirits, ran about after the smiling housemaids, 
 crying, ' more light, ye knaves, and turn the tables up.' Then 
 came a merry hour at 'Blind Man's Buff' and 'Thread my 
 Needle,' and the silent tea party grew clamorous aa a flight 
 
194 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 of rooks at sunset. At eight Mr. and Mrs. Clare arrived, followed 
 a little later by Edward, who sauntered in with a somewhat 
 languid air, as if he had not quite made up his mind that he ought 
 to be there. 
 
 He came straight to Laura, who had just returned from a 
 stolen half -hour by her husband's bedside. 
 
 ' "What an uproar ! ' he said. ' I've come to keep my promise ; 
 but do you really think these little animals will cars for the 
 " Jackdaw of Rheims " 1 ' 
 
 1 1 think they will be glad to sit still for a little while after 
 their romp, and I've no doubt they'll laugh at the " Jackdaw." It's 
 very good of you to come.' 
 
 ' Is it ? If you knew how I detest infant school children you 
 
 might say so, but if you knew how I ' He left the sentence 
 
 unfinished. ' How is Treverton V he asked. 
 
 ' Much better. Mr. Morton says he will be well in a day or 
 two.' 
 
 ' I passed a curious-looking fellow in the road just outside your 
 gates, a regular London Bohemian ; a man whose very walk re- 
 called the most disreputable quarters of that extraordinary city. 
 I have no idea who the fellow is ; but I'll swear he's a Londoner, 
 a swindler, and an adventurer ; and I have a lurking idea that 
 I have seen him before.' 
 
 'Indeed ! "Was it that which attracted your notice V 
 
 1 No, it was the man's style and manner altogether. He was 
 loitering near the gate, as if with some intention ; possibly not 
 the most honourable. You've heard perhaps of a kind of robbery 
 known as the portico dodge ? ' 
 
 ' No. I am not learned in such distinctions.' 
 
 ' It is a common crime now-a-days. A country house with a 
 portico is a fine field for the display of genius in burglary. One 
 of the gang scales the portico after dusk, most likely at the 
 family dinner-hour, gets from the roof of the portico through a 
 convenient window, and then quietly admits his accomplices. In 
 all such robberies there is generally one member of the gang, the 
 cleverest and best educated, who has no active part in toe crime* 
 He does all the intellectual work, schemes and directs the whole 
 business ; but though the police know him and would give then 
 eyes to catch him tripping, he never tumbles into their trap. 
 The fellow I saw at your gates to-night seemed to me just this 
 sort of man.' 
 
 Laura looked very serious, as if she were alarmed at the idea 
 of robbery. 
 
 ' Was this roan young or old ? ' she asked thoughtfully. 
 
 'Neither. ife is middle-aged, perhaps even elderly, but 
 certainly not old. He is as straight as a dart, spare but broad- 
 shouldered, and with something of a military air.' 
 
The Children's Party. 195 
 
 1 "What made you fancy he had some evil design upon this 
 house ? ' asked Laura, her face clouded with anxious thought. 
 
 ' I did not like the way in which he loitered by the gate. He 
 seemed to be looking for some one or something, watc hing hia 
 opportunity. I don ; t want to scare you, Laura. I only want to 
 put you on your guard, so that you may hare all the doors 
 and shutters looked after with extra care to-night. After all, 
 the man may be perfectly harmless — some seedy acquaintance of 
 your husband, perhaps. A man cannot live in the world of 
 London without that kind of burr sticking to his coat.' 
 
 1 You do not flatter my husband by such a supposition,' said 
 Laura, with an offended look. 
 
 ' My dear Laura, do you think a man can lire his life with-' 
 out making acquaintance he would not care to exhibit in the 
 glare of noonday ? You know the old adage about poverty and 
 strange bedfellows. I hope there is no treason in reminding you 
 that Sir. Treverton was not always rich.' 
 
 ' No. I am not ashamed of his having been poor ; but it 
 would shame me if I thought he had any acquaintance in his 
 poverty whom he would blush to own now he is rich. Will you 
 begin your reading 1 The children are ready.' 
 
 The infants, flushed and towzled by their sports, had 'been 
 ranged on benches by the joint efforts of Tom Sampson, his 
 sister, and Celia Clare, and were now being regaled with cake 
 and negus. Celia had placed a small table, with a pair of 
 candles and a gla.ns of water, at the end of the room, for the 
 accommodation of the reader. 
 
 ' Silence ! ' commanded Mr. Sampson, as Edward walked to 
 his place, gave a little preparatory cough, and opened his book. 
 ' Silence for " The Jackdaw of Eheims." ' 
 
 "The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair i 
 Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there ; 
 Many a monk and many a friar, 
 Many a knight and many a squire,' 
 
 began Edward. 
 
 A loud peal of the front-door bell startled him. He stopped 
 for a moment, and looked at Laura, who was sitting with the 
 Vicar and his wife in a little group near the fireplace at the other 
 end of the room. At the sound of the bell she looked up quickly, 
 and, with an agitated air, kept her eves fixed on the door, as if she 
 expected some one to enter. 
 
 He had no excuse for leaving off reading, curious as he felt 
 about that bell, and Laura's evident concern. He went on 
 mechanically, full of wondering speculations as to what was 
 going on in the entrance hall, hating the open-mouthed and open- 
 eyed infants who were hanging on his words ; while Celia, 
 
196 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 seated at the end of the front row, started all the laughter and 
 applause. 
 
 ' Where did I meet that man 1 ' he asked himself over and 
 over again while he read on. 
 
 The answer flashed upon him in the middle of a sentence. 
 
 ' It is the man I saw with Chicot in Drury Lane ; the man I 
 talked to in the public-house.' 
 
 The door opened, and the slow and portly Trimmer came in, 
 and softly made his way to the place where his mistress was 
 seated. He whispered to her, and then she whispered to Mrs. 
 Clare — doubtless an apology for leaving her — and anon followed 
 Trimmer out of the room. 
 
 ' What can that man — if it is that man who rang the bell- 
 want with her ? ' wondered Edward, so deeply moved that he 
 could scarcely go on reading. ' Is the secret going to be told to- 
 night 1 Are the cards going to be taken out of my hands ? ' 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 A DISINTERESTED PARENT. 
 
 ' A person has called to see you, ma'am. He begs to apologise 
 for coming so late, but he has travelled a long way, and will be 
 very thankful if you can see him.' 
 
 This is what the butler had whispered in Mrs. Treverton's 
 ear, handing her at the same time a card on which there was a 
 name written — 
 
 ' Colonel Mansfield.' 
 
 A t sight of this name Laura rose, whispered her excuse to 
 Mrs. Clare, and glided quietly from the room. 
 
 ' Where have you left this gentleman ? ' she asked the 
 butler. 
 
 * I left liini in the hall, ma'am. I did not feel sure you would 
 see him.' 
 
 ■ He is related to my family,' said Laura, faltering a little ; 
 ' I cannot refuse to see him.' 
 
 Tins brief conversation occurred in the corridor leading from 
 the servants' hall to the front of the house. A tall man, wrapped 
 in a loose, rough great-coat, was standing just inside the hall 
 door, while Trimmer's subordinate, a rustic youth in a dark- 
 brown livery, stood at ease near the fireplace, evidently placed 
 there to pro^t the mansion from any evil designs on the part of 
 the unknovm intruder. 
 
 Laura w$wfc to the stranger and gave him her hand, without 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 197 
 
 a word. She was very pale, and it was evident the visitor was 
 aa unwelcome as he was unexpected. 
 
 ' You had better come to my study,' she said. ' There is a 
 good fire there. T rimm er, take candles to the study and some 
 wine.' 
 
 ' I'd rather have brandy,' said the stranger. ' I am chilled to 
 the bone. An eight hours' journey in a cattle track is enough to 
 freeze the youngest blood. For a man of my age, and with 
 chronic neuralgia, it means martyrdom.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' murmured Laura, with a look in which 
 compassion straggled ag ains t disgust. ' Come this way. We can 
 talk quietly in my room.' 
 
 She went upstairs, the stranger following close at her heels, 
 to the gallery out of which John Treverton's study, which was 
 also her own favourite sitting-room, opened. It was the room 
 where she and her husband had met for the first time, two years 
 ago, on just such a night as this. It adjoined the bedroom where 
 John Treverton was now lying. She had no desire that he 
 should be a witness to her interview with this visitor of to-night ; 
 but she had a sense of protection in the knowledge that her 
 husband would be within call. Hitherto, on the rare occasions 
 when she had been constrained to meet this man, she had con- 
 fronted him alone, defenceless ; and she had never felt her 
 loneliness so keenly as at those times. 
 
 ' I ought to have told John the whole truth,' she said to 
 herself ; ' but how could I — how could I bear to acknow- 
 ledge ' 
 
 She glanced backward, with a suppressed shudder, at the 
 man following her. They were at the door of the study by this 
 time. She opened it, and he went in after her and shut the door 
 behind him. 
 
 A fire was burning cheerily on the pretty, bright-looking 
 hearth, antique in its quaint ornamentation, modern in the 
 artistic beauty of its painted tiles and low brass fender. There 
 were candles on the mantelpiece and on the table, where an old- 
 fashioned spirit bottle on a silver tray cheered the soul of the 
 wayfarer. He filled a glass of brandy and drained it without a 
 word. 
 
 He gave a deep sigh of contentment or relief as he set down 
 the glass. 
 
 ' That's a little bit better,' he said, and then he threw off his 
 overcoat and scarf, and planted himself with his back to the fire, 
 and the face which he turned to the light was the face of Mr. 
 Desrolles. 
 
 The man had aged within the last six months. Every line in 
 his face had deepened. Hia cheeks were hollow, his eyes haggard 
 and bloodshot. The sands of life run fast for a man whose chief 
 nourishment is brandy. 
 
198 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Well,' lie exclaimed, in a hard, husky voice. * You do not 
 welcome me very warmly, my child.' 
 
 ' I did not expect you.' 
 
 ' The surprise should be all the pleasanter. Picture to your- 
 self, now, our meeting as it would be represented in a novel or a 
 stage play. You would throw your arms wide apart, shriek, and 
 rush to my breast. Do you remember Julia in the " Hunch- 
 back " 1 "With what a yell of rapture she flings herself into 
 Master Walter's arms ! ' 
 
 * Do you remember what Master Walter had been to Julia ? ' 
 asked Laura, looking steadily into the haggard eyes, which shifted 
 their gaze as she looked. 
 
 ' Real life is flat and tame compared with a stage play,' said' 
 Desrolles. ' For my part I am heartily sick of it.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to see you looking so ill.' 
 
 ' I am a perambulating bundle of aches. There is not a 
 muscle in my body that has not its particular pain.' 
 
 ' Can you find no relief for this complaint 1 Are there not 
 baths in Germany that might cure you 1 ' 
 
 ' I understand,' interrupted Desrolles. ' You would be glad to 
 get me out of the way.' 
 
 ' I should be glad to lessen your suffering. When I last 
 wrote to you I sent you a much larger remittance than I had ever 
 done before, and I told you that I should allow you six hundred 
 a year, to be paid quarterly. I thought that would be enough for 
 all your requirements. I am grieved to hear that you have been 
 obliged to ride in a third-class carriage in cold weather.' 
 
 ' I have been unlucky,' answered Desrolles. ' I have been at 
 Boulogne ; a pleasant place, but peopled with knaves. I fell 
 among thieves, and got cleaned out. You must give me fifty or 
 a hundred to-night, and you must not deduct it from your next 
 quarte4y payment. You are now a lady of fortune, and could 
 afford to do three times as much as you are doing for me. Why 
 did you not tell me you were married 1 Pretty treatment that 
 from a daughter ! ' 
 
 ' Father,' exclaimed Laura, looking at him with the same calm 
 gaze which his shifting eyes had refused to meet just now, ' do 
 you want me to tell you the truth. 1 ' 
 
 1 Of course. Whatever else do you suppose I want ? ' 
 
 ' Even if it seems hard and cruel, as the truth often is ? ' 
 
 ' Speak away, girl. My poor old bones have been too 
 long battered about in this world for hard words to break 
 them.' 
 
 ' How can you ask me for a daughter's dutiful love ? ' asked 
 Laura, in low, earnest tones. ' How can you expect it from me 1 
 What of a father's affection or a father's care have you ever given 
 to me ? What do I know of your life except frwvl and mystery ? 
 
A Disinterested Parenk 199 
 
 Have you ever approached me except in secret, and as an 
 applicant for money 1 ' 
 
 ' It's a true bill,' ejaculated Desrolles, with a laugh that ended 
 in a groan. 
 
 ' When I was a little motherless child you gave me to the 
 one true friend of your youth. He took me as his adopted . 
 daughter, leaving you dying, as he supposed. Years passed, and 
 you let him believe you dead. For ten years you made no sign. 
 Your daughter, your only child, was being reared in a stranger's 
 house, and you did not trouble yourself to make one inquiry 
 about her welfare.' 
 
 ' Not directly. How do you know what measures I may have 
 taken to get information indirectly, without compromising your 
 1 future ? It was for your advantage that I kept niyself dark, 
 Laura ; it was for your sake that I let my old friend believe me 
 dead. As his adopted daughter your prosperity was assured. 
 What would your life have been with me I To save you I lent 
 myself to a he.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for it,' said Laura coldly. ' In my mind all lies 
 are hateful I cannot conceive that good can ever come of 
 them.' 
 
 ' In this case good has come of my innocent deception. You 
 are mistress of a fine estate, wife of a husband whom, as I hear, 
 you love.' 
 
 ' With all my heart and souL' 
 
 ' Is it too much to ask for a ray of your sunshine — a little 
 benefit from your large wealth 1 ' 
 
 ' I will do anything in reason,' answered Laura, ' but not even 
 for my own father — had you been all that a father should be to 
 his child — would I suffer Jasper Treverton's wealth to be turned 
 to evil uses. You told me that you stood alone in the world, 
 with no one dependent on you. Surely six hundred a year is an 
 income that should enable you to live in comfort and respectability V 
 
 1 It will, when I have got myself clear of past liabilities. 
 Tiemember that until six months ago the help you gave me 
 amounted only to a hundred a year, except when I appealed to 
 you, under the pressure of circumstances, for an extra trifle. A 
 hundred a year in London, to a man in bad health, hardly served 
 to keep the wolf from the door. I had debts to pay. I have 
 been unfortunate in a speculation that promised well.' 
 
 ' In future you will have no occasion to speculate.' 
 
 ' True,' said Desrolles, with a sigh, as he filled himself another 
 glass of brandy. 
 
 Laura watched him with a face full of pain. Was this a father 
 she could acknowledge to the husband she loved 1 Only with 
 deepest shame covld she confess her close kindred with a creature 
 so sunk in degradation. 
 
200 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Desrolles drank the brandy at a gulp, and then flung himself 
 nto the chair by the hearth. 
 
 ' And pray how long have you been married 1 ' he asked. 
 
 Laura's face crimsoned at the question. It was just the one 
 inquiry calculated to give her acutest pain ; for it recalled all 
 that was painful in the circumstances of her marriage. 
 
 ' We were married on the last day of last year/ she said. 
 
 ' You have been a year married, and I only learn the fact to- 
 night from the village gossips at the inn where I stopped to eat 
 a crust of bread and cheese on my way here ! ' 
 
 ' You might have seen the announcement in the Times' 
 
 1 1 might, but did not. Well, I suppose I surrendered a 
 father's rights when I gave my child to another man's keeping ; 
 but it seems hard.' 
 
 ' Why pain yourself and me with useless reproaches ? I am ; 
 prepared to do all that duty can dictate. I am deeply anxious 
 that your future life should be comfortable and respected. Tell 
 me where you intend to live, and how I can best assure your, 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' Happiness ! ' cried Desrolles, with a derisive shrug. ' I have 
 never known that since I was five-and-twenty. Where am I 
 going to live, do you ask ? Who knows 1 Not I, you may be 
 sure. I am a wanderer by habit and inclination. Do you t hink 
 I am going to shut myself in a speculative builder's brick and 
 mortar box — a semi-detached villa in Camden Town or Islington 
 — and live the monotonous life of a respectable annuitant ? That 
 kind of vegetation may suit a retired tradesman, who has spent 
 three-fourths of his life behind the same counter. It would be 
 living death to a man with a mind — a man who has travelled and 
 lived among his fellow-men. No, my dear ; you must not at- 
 tempt to limit my movements by the inch-measure of middle- 
 class respectability. Give me my pittance unfettered by con- 
 ditions of any kind. Let me receive it quarterly from your 
 London agent, and, since you repudiate my claim to your affec- 
 tion, I pledge myself never again to trouble you with my presence 
 after to-night.' 
 
 ' I do not ask that,' said Laura thoughtfully. ' It is only right 
 that we should see each other sometimes. By the deception 
 which you practised upon my benefactor, you have made it im- 
 possible that I should ever own you as my father before the 
 world. Everybody in Hazlehurst believes that my father died 
 when Jasper Treverton adopted me. But to my husband, at 
 least, I can own the truth : I have shrunk from doing so hither- 
 to, but to-night, while we have been sitting here, I have been 
 thinking that I have acted weakly and foolishly. John Treverton 
 will respect your secret for my sake, and he ought to know it.' 
 
 ' Stop,' cried Desrolles, starting to his feet, and speaking in a 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 201 
 
 louder tone than he had used hitherto. ' I forbid you to breathe 
 a word of me or my business to your husband. When I revealed 
 myself to you I pledged you to secrecy. I insist ' 
 
 He stopped and stood facing the doorway between the two 
 rooms, staring aghast, horror-stricken, as if he had seen a ghost. 
 
 ' Great heaven 1 ' he exclaimed, ' what brings you here ? ' 
 
 John Treverton stood in the open doorway, a tall, dark figure, 
 in a long velvet dressing-gown. Laura flew to his side. 
 
 ' Dearest, why did you get up 1 ' she cried. ' How imprudent 
 of you ! ' 
 
 ' 1 heard a voice raised as if threateningly. What has brought 
 this man here — with you 1 ' 
 
 ' He is the relation about whom you once questioned me, 
 John, 5 Laura answered, falteringly. ' You have not forgotten 1 ' 
 
 ' This man related to you 1 ' cried Treverton. ' This man 1 ' 
 
 1 Yes. You know each other % ' 
 
 ' We have met before,' answered Treverton, who had never 
 taken his eyes from the other man's face. ' We last met under very 
 painful circumstances. It is a surprise to find a relation of yours 
 in Mr. ' 
 
 'Mansfield,' interrupted Desrolles. 'I have changed' the 
 name of Malcolm for Mansfield — a name in my mother's family 
 — for Laura's sake. It might be disadvantageous for her to own 
 kindred with a man whom the world has played football with 
 for the last ten years.' 
 
 Desrolles had grown ashy pale since the entrance of Laura's 
 husband, and the hand with which he poured out his third glass 
 of brandy shook like a leaf. 
 
 'Highly considerate on your part, Mr. Mansfield,' replied 
 John Treverton. ' May I ask for what reason you have favoured 
 my wife with this late visit 1 ' 
 
 ' The usual motive that brings a poor relation to a rich man's 
 house. I want money, and Laura can afford to give it. Why 
 beat about the bush 1 ' 
 
 ' Why indeed ! Plaift dealing will be best in this case. I 
 think, as it is a simple matter of business, you had better let me 
 arrange it with you. Laura, will you leave your kinsman's claims 
 for me to settle ) You may trust me to take a liberal view of his 
 position.' 
 
 ' I will trust you, dearest, now and always,' answered his 
 wife, giving him her hand, and then she went to Desrolles, and 
 offered him the same frank hand, looking at him with tender 
 earnestness. ' Good night,' she said, ' and good-bye. I beg you 
 to trust my husband, as I trust him. Believe me, it will be the 
 oest for all of us. He will be as ready to recognise your claim as 
 I am, if you will only confide in him. If I have trusted him 
 with my life, cannot you trust him with your secret ? ' 
 
202 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Good night,' said Desrolles curtly. ' I haven't got over my 
 astonishment yet.' 
 
 ' At what ] ' 
 
 1 At finding you married.' 
 
 ' Good night,' she said again, on the threshold of the door, and 
 then she came back to tell her husband not to fatigue or excite 
 himself. ' I can only give you a quarter of an hour,' she said to 
 Desrolles. ' Pray remember that my husband is an invalid, and 
 ought to be in bed.' 
 
 1 Go to your school children, dearest,' said Treverton, smiling 
 at her anxiety. ' I shall be careful.' 
 
 The door closed behind Laura, and the two men — fellow- 
 lodgers a year ago in Cibber Street— stood face to face with each 
 other. 
 
 ' So you are John Treverton 1 ' said Desrolles, wiping his lips 
 with that tremulous hand of his, and looking with a hungry eye 
 at the half -empty decanter, looking anywhere rather than straight 
 into the eyes of his fellow-man. 
 
 ' And you claim relationship with my wife ? ' 
 
 ' Nearer, perhaps, than you would care to hear ; so near that 
 I have some right to know how you, Jack Chicot, came to be her 
 husband — how it was that you married her a year ago, at which 
 period the lovely and accomplished Madame Chicot, whom I had 
 the honour to know, was still living 1 Either that charming 
 woman was not your wife, or your marriage with Laura Malcolm 
 is invalid.' 
 
 ' Laura is my wife, and her marriage as valid as law can make 
 it,' answered John Treverton. ' That is enough for you to know. 
 And now be good enough to explain your degree of kindred with 
 Mrs. Treverton. You say your real name is Malcolm. What 
 was your relationship with Laura's father 1 ' 
 
 'Laura urged me to trust you with my secret,' muttered 
 Desrolles, throwing himself into his former seat by the fire, and 
 speaking like a man who is calculating the chances of a certain 
 line of policy. ' "Why should I not be frank with you, Jack — 
 Treverton 'l How much handier the old name comes ! Had you 
 been the punctilious piece of respectability I expected to meet in 
 the heir of my old friend Jasper Treverton, I might have shrunk 
 from telling you a secret that hardly redounds to my credit, from 
 the churchgoer and ratepayer's point of view. But to you — Jack 
 — the artist and Bohemian, the man who has tumbled on every 
 platform and acted in every show at the world's fair — to you I 
 may confide my secret without a blush. Come, fill me another 
 glass, like a good fellow ; my hand shakes as if I had the 
 scrivener's palsy. You know the history of Jasper Trevertoa'a 
 adopted daughter ? ' 
 
 ' I have heard ft, naturally.' 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 203 
 
 ' You have heard how Treverton, who had quarrelled with his 
 friend Stephen Malcolm about a foolish love affair, was summoned 
 many years after to that Mend's sick bed — found him dying, as 
 every one supposed — then and there adopted Malcolm's only 
 child, and carried her off with him, leaving a fifty-pound note to 
 comfort his old friend's last moments and pay the undertaker \ ' 
 
 ' Yes I ha\ e heard all this.' 
 
 ' But not wlint follows. When a doctor gives a patient up for 
 dead, he is sometimes on the high road to recovery. Stephen 
 Malcolm contrived to cheat the doctor. Perhaps it was the 
 comfort provided by that fifty-pound note, perhaps it was the 
 knowledge that his only child's future was provided for, — anyhow, 
 it seemed as if a burden had been lifted from the sick man's 
 shoulders, for from the time Jasper Treverton left him he mended, 
 got a new lease of lif e,, and went out into the world again — a 
 lonely wayfarer, happyin the knowledge that his daughter's fate 
 was no longer allied with his, that whatever evil might befall him 
 her hues were set in pleasant places.' 
 
 ( Do you mean to tell me that Stephen Malcolm recovered — 
 lived for years — and allowed his daughter to suppose herself an 
 orphan, and his friend to believe him dead 1 ' 
 
 ' To tell the truth would have been to hazard his daughter's 
 good fortune. As an orphan, and the adopted child of a rich 
 bachelor, her lot was secure. "What would it have been if she 
 had been flung back upon her actual father, to share his 
 precarious existence 1 I considered this, and took the unselfish 
 view of the question. I might have claimed my daughter back ; 
 I might have sponged on Jasper. I did neither — I went my 
 solitary way, along the stony highway of life, uncheered, unloved.' 
 
 ' You ! ' cried John Treverton. ' You ! ' 
 
 ' Yes. In me you behold the wreck of Stephen Malcolm.' 
 
 ' You Laura's father ! Great heaven ! Why, you have not a 
 feature, not a look in common with her ! Her father ! This is 
 indeed a revelation.' 
 
 I Your astonishment is not flattering to me. My child re- 
 sembles her mother, who was one of the loveliest women I ever 
 saw. Yet I can assure you, Mr. Treverton, that at your age, 
 Stephen Malcolm had some pretension to good looks.' 
 
 I I am not disputing that, man. You may have been as hand- 
 some as Adonis ; but my Laura's father should have at least 
 something of her look and air ; a smile, a glance, a turn of the 
 head, a something that would reveal the mystic link between 
 parent and child. Does she know this ? Does she recognise you 
 as her father ]' 
 
 ' She does, poor child. It is at her wish I have revealed my- 
 Belf to you.' 
 
 ' How long has she known ?' 
 
204 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'It is a little more than five years since I told her. I had 
 just returned from the Continent, where I had spent seven years 
 of my life in self-imposed exile. Suddenly I was seized with the 
 outcast's yearning to tread his native soil again, and look upon 
 the scenes of youth once more before death closes his eyes for 
 ever. I came back — could not resist the impulse that drew me 
 to my daughter — put myself one day in her pathway, and told 
 her my story. From that time I have seen her at intervals.' 
 
 ' And have received money from her,' put in John Treverton. 
 
 ' She is rich and I am poor. She has helped me to live.' 
 
 ' You might have lived upon the money she gave you a little 
 more reputably than you were living in Cibber Street, when we 
 were fellow-lodgers.' 
 
 ' What were my vices in Cibber Street ] My life was in- 
 offensive.' 
 
 ' Late hours and the brandy bottle — the ruin of body and 
 soul.' 
 
 ' I have a chronic malady which makes brandy a necessity 
 for me.' 
 
 'Would it not be more exact to say that brandy is your 
 chronic malady 1 Well, Mr. Mansfield, I shall make a proposition 
 to you in the character of your son-in-law.' 
 
 ' I have a few words to say to you before you make it. I have 
 told you my secret, which all the world may know, and welcome. 
 I have committed no crime in allowing my old friend to suppose 
 me dead. I have only sacrificed my own interests to the 
 advantage of my daughter ; but you, Mr. Treverton, have your 
 secret, and one which I think you would hardly like to lay bare 
 to the world in which you are now such an important personage. 
 The master of Hazlehurst Manor would scarcely care to be identi- 
 fied with Jack Chicot, the caricaturist, and husband — at least 
 by common repute — of the dancer whose name used to adorn all 
 the walls of London.' 
 
 ' No,' said Treverton, ' that is a dark page in my life which I 
 would willingly tear out of the book ; but I have always known 
 the probability of my finding myself identified with the past, 
 sooner or later. This world of ours is monstrous big when a man 
 tries to make a figure in it ; but it's very small when he wants to 
 hide himself from his fellow-men. I have told my wife all I can 
 tell her without stripping the veil from that past life of mine. 
 To reveal more would be to make her unhappy. You can have 
 no motive for telling her more than I have told her. I can rely 
 on your honour in this matter ? ' 
 
 ' You can,' answered Desrolles, looking at him curiously ; 
 ' but I shall expect you to treat me handsomely — as a son-in-law, 
 whose wealth has come to him through his marriage, should treat 
 his wife's father.' 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 205 
 
 'What would you call handsome treatment?' asked 
 Treverton. 
 
 ' I'll tell you. My daughter, who has a woman's petty notions 
 about money, has offered me six hundred a year. I want a 
 thousand.' 
 
 ' Do you V asked Treverton, with half -concealed contempt. 
 ' "Well, live a respectable life, and neither your daughter nor I 
 will grudge you a thousand a year.' 
 
 ' I shall live the lif e of a gentleman. Not in England. My 
 daughter wants to get me out of the country. She said as much 
 just now ; or, at any rate, what she did say implied as much. A 
 continental life would suit my humour, and perhaps mend my 
 health. Annuitants are long-lived.' 
 
 ' Not when they drink a bottle of brandy a day.' 
 
 ' In a milder climate I may diminish the quantity. Give me 
 a hundred in ready money to begin with, and I'll go back to 
 London by the first train to-morrow morning, and start for Paris 
 at night. I ask for no father's place at your Christmas table. 
 I don't want you to kill the fatted calf for me.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said Treverton, with an involuntary sneer, 
 'you only want money. You shall have it.' 
 
 He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and unlocked a 
 despatch bos, in which he was in the habit of keeping money 
 received from his steward before he sent it off to the bank. 
 There was a little over a hundred pounds in the box, in notes 
 and gold. John Treverton counted a hundred ; the crisp notes, 
 the bright gold, lay in a tempting heap on the table before him, 
 but he kept his hand upon the money for a minute or two, while 
 he sat looking at it with a meditative countenance. 
 
 'By the way, Mr. Mansfield,' he began after that 
 
 thoughtful silence, ' when, after a lapse of so many years, you 
 presented yourself to your daughter, what credentials did you 
 bring with you 1 ' 
 
 ' Credentials ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. In other words, how did you prove your identity ? 
 Yon had parted with her when she was a child of six years old. 
 Did her memory recall your features when she met you as a girl 
 of seventeen, or did she take your word for the fact that you 
 were the father she had believed to be in his grave 1 ' 
 
 ' She remembered me when I recalled myself to her. At first 
 her memory was naturally vague. She had a dim recollection of 
 my face, but no certainty as to when and where she had last seen 
 it, until I recalled to her the circumstances of her childhood, the 
 last days we spent together before my serious illness, her mother, 
 the baby brother that died when she was three years old. John 
 Treverton, you libel nature if you suppose that a daughter's in- 
 stinct can fail her when a father appeals to it. Had material 
 
206 The Cbven Foot. 
 
 proofs been wanted to convince my child that her father stood 
 before her, I had those proofs, and I showed them to her — old 
 letters, the certificate of her birth, her mother's picture. The 
 portrait I gave to Laura. I have the documents about me to- 
 night. I have never parted with them.' 
 
 He produced a bloated pocket-book, the leather worn greasy 
 with long usage, the silk lining frayed and ragged, and from this 
 receptacle brought forth half-a-dozen papers, yellow with age. 
 
 One was the certificate of Laura Malcolm's birth. The other 
 five were letters addressed to Stephen Malcolm, Esq., Ivy Cottage, 
 Chiswick. One of these, the latest in date, was from Jasper 
 Treverton. 
 
 ' I am deeply grieved to hear of your serious illness, my poor 
 friend,' he wrote ; ' your letter followed me to Germany, where I 
 have been spending the autumn at one of the famous mineral 
 baths. I started for England immediately, and landed here half- 
 an-hour ago. I shall come on as fast as rail and cabs can bring 
 me, and indeed hope to be with you before you get this letter. 
 ' Yours in all friendship, 
 
 ' Jasper Treverton. 
 
 ' The Ship Hotel, Dover, 
 'October 15th, 185—.' 
 
 The other letters were from friends of the past, like Jasper. 
 One had enclosed aid in the shape of a post-office order. The 
 rest were sympathetic and regretful refusals to assist a broken- 
 down acquaintance. The writers offered their impecunious friend 
 every good wish, and benevolently commended him to Providence. 
 In every case the respectability and the respectful tone of Stephen 
 Malcolm's correspondents went far to testify to the fact that he 
 had once been a gentleman. There was a deep descent from the 
 position of the man to whom these letters were written to the 
 status of Mr. Desrolles, the second-floor lodger in Cibber Street. 
 
 So far as they went his credentials were undeniable. Laura 
 had recognised him as her father. What justification could John 
 Treverton find for repudiating his claim 1 For the money the 
 man demanded he cared not a jot ; but it pained him unspeakably 
 to accept this dissipated waif, soaked in alcohol, as the father of 
 the woman he loved. 
 
 ' There is your hundred pounds, Mr. Mansfield,' he said, ' and 
 since you have taught the little world of Hazlehurst to consider 
 my wife an orphan, the less you show yourself here the better 
 *or all of us. Villages are given to scandal. If you were to b& 
 seen at this house, people would want to know who you are and 
 all about you.' 
 
 ' I told you I should start for Paris to-morrow night,' answered 
 Desrolles, strapping his pocket-book, which was now distended to 
 its uttermost with notes and gold. ' I shan't change my mind. 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 207 
 
 I'm fond of Paris and Parisian ■ways, and know my way about 
 that glorious city almost as well as you, though. I never married a 
 French wife.' 
 
 John Treverton sat silent, with his thoughtful gaze bent on 
 the fire, apparently unconscious of the other man's sneer. 
 
 'Ta ta, Jack. Any message for your old friends in the 
 Quartier Latin ? No ? Ah, I suppose the Squire of Hazlehurst 
 jias turned his back on the companions of Jack Chicot ; just as 
 Xing Harry the Fifth threw off the joyous comrades of the 
 Prince of Wales. The desertion broke poor old Falstaffs heart ; 
 but that's a detail. Good night, Jack.' 
 
 Laura re-entered the room at this moment, and drew back 
 startled at hearing her father address her husband with such 
 friendly familiarity. 
 
 ' I have told Mr. Treverton everything, my dear,' said 
 Desrolles. 
 
 'I am so glad of that/ answered Laura, and then she laid her 
 hand upon the old man's shoulder, with more affection than she 
 had ever yet shown him, and said, with grave gentleness, ' Try to 
 lead a good life, my dear father, and let us hear from you some- 
 times, and let us think of each other kindly, though Fate has 
 separated us.' 
 
 'A good life,' he muttered, turning his bloodshot eyes upon 
 her for a moment with a look that thrilled her with a sudden 
 horror. ' The money should have come sooner, my girl. I've 
 travelled too far on the wrong road. There, good-bye, my dear. 
 Don't trouble yourself about an old scapegrace like me. Jack, 
 send me my money quarterly to that address,' — he threw down a 
 dingy-looking card — ' and I'll never worry you again. You can 
 blot me out of your mind, if you like ; and you need never fear 
 that my tongue will say an evil word of you, go where I may.* 
 
 ' I will trust you for that,' answered John Treverton, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 Desrolles either did not see the gesture, or did not care to 
 take the hand. He snatched up his greasy-looking hat and 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 ' Dearest, do you think any worse of me now you know that 
 man is my father?' asked Laura, when the door had closed iipon 
 Desrolles, and the bell had been rung to warn Trimmer of the 
 guest's departure. 
 
 ' Do I think any worse of a pearl because it comes out of an 
 oyster ] ' said her husband, smiling at her. ' Dear love, if the 
 parish workhouse were peopled with your relations, not one of 
 them more reputable than Mr. Mansfield, my love and reverence 
 for you would not be lessened by a tittle.' 
 
 _ ' You don't believe in hereditary genius, then. You don't 
 think that we derive our characters mainly from our fathers and 
 mothers 1 ' 
 
208 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'If I did I should believe that your mother was ar& angel, and 
 
 that you inherited her disposition.' 
 
 ' My poor father,' said Laura, with something between a sigh 
 and a shudder. ' He was once a gentleman.' 
 
 ' No doubt, love. There is no saying how low a man may 
 descend -when he once takes to travelling down-hilL' 
 
 ' If he had not been a gentleman my adopted father could 
 never have been his friend,' mused Laura. ' It would not hava 
 been possible for Jasper Treverton to associate with anything 
 base. 
 
 ' No, love. And now tell me, when first your father presented 
 himself to you, was not his revelation a great surprise, a shock to 
 your feelings 1 ' 
 
 1 It was indeed.' 
 
 ' Tell me, dear, how it happened. Tell me all the circum- 
 stances, if it does not pain you.' 
 
 ' No, dear. It pained me for you to know that my father had 
 fallen so low, but now that you know the worst, I feel easier in 
 my mind. It is a relief to me to be able to speak of him freely. 
 Remember, Jack, he had bound me solemnly to secrecy. I 
 would not break my promise, even to you.' 
 
 ' I understand all, dear.' 
 
 ' The first time I saw my father,' Laura began falteringly, as if 
 even to speak of him by that sacred name were painful to her, 
 ' it was summer time, a lovely August evening, and I had strolled 
 out after dinner into the orchard. You know the gate that 
 opens from the orchard into the field. I saw a man standing 
 outside it smoking, with his arms resting on the top of the gate. 
 Seeing a stranger there, I turned away to avoid him, but before 
 I had gone three steps he stopped me. " Miss Malcolm, for God's 
 sake let me speak to you," he said. " I am an old friend whom 
 you must remember." I went up to him and looked him full in 
 ; the face ; for there was such earnestness in his manner that it 
 never occurred to me that he might be an impostor. " Indeed, I 
 do not remember you," I said. " "When have I ever seen you 1 " 
 Then he called me by my Christian name. " Laura," he said, 
 " you were six years old when Mr. Treverton brought you here. 
 Have you quite forgotten the life that went before that time 1 " ' 
 
 She paiised, and her husband drew her to the low chair by 
 the fire, and seated himself beside her, letting her head rest on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 'Go on, love,' he said gently, 'but not if these memories 
 agitate you.' 
 
 ' No, dear. It is a relief to confide in you. I told him that I 
 did remember the time before I came to the Manor House. 
 Some events I could remember distinctly, others faintly, like the 
 shadows in a dream. I remembered being in France, by the sea, 
 
A Disinterested Pa/rent. 209 
 
 in a place where the fisherwomen wore bright-coloured petticoats 
 and high caps, where I had children of my own age to play with, 
 and where the sun seemed always shining. And then that life 
 had changed to dull gray days in a place near a river, a place 
 where there were narrow lanes, and country roads and fields ; 
 and yet there was a town close by with tall chimneys and busy 
 streets. I remembered that here my mother was ill, lying in a 
 darkened room for many weeks ; and then one day my father 
 took me to London in the omnibus, and left me in a large, cold- 
 looking house in a great square — a house where all the rooms 
 were big and lofty, and had an awful look after our little parlour 
 at home, and where I used to sit in a dra wing-room all day with 
 an old lady in black satin, who let me amuse myself as best I 
 could. My father had told me that the old lady was his aunt, 
 and that I was to call her aunt, but I was too much afraid of her to 
 call her anything. I think I must have stayed there about a 
 week, but it seemed ages, for I was very unhappy, and used 
 to cry myself to sleep every night, when the maid had put me to 
 bed in a large, bleak room at the top of the house ; and then 
 my father came and took me home again in the red omnibus. 
 I could see that he was very unhappy, and while we were walking 
 in the lane that led to our house he told me that my dear 
 mamma had gone away, and that I should never see her again in 
 this world. I had loved her passionately, Jack, and the loss 
 almost broke my heart. I am telling you much more than I told 
 the stranger. I only said enough to him to prove that I remem- 
 bered my old life.' 
 
 ' And how did he reply ? ' 
 
 ' He took a morocco case from his pocket and gave it into my 
 hand, telling me to look at the portrait inside it. Oh, how well 
 I remembered that sweet face ! The memoiy of it flashed upon 
 me like a dream one has forgotten and tried vainly to recall, till 
 it comes back suddenly in a breath. Yes, it was my mother's 
 face. I could remember her looking just like that as she sat at 
 work on the rocks by the sands where I played with the other 
 children, at that happy place in France. I remembered her 
 sitting by my cot every night before I fell asleep. I asked 
 the stranger how he came to possess this picture. " I would give 
 ah the money I have in the world for it," I said. " You shall do 
 nothing of the kind," he answered. "I give it you as a free 
 gift, but I should not have done that if you had not remembered 
 your mother's face. And now, Laura, look at me and tell me if 
 you have ever seen me before 1 " ' 
 
 'You looked and could not remember him, 1 said John 
 Treverton. 
 
 'No. Yet there was something in the face that seemed 
 familiar to me. When he spoke I knew that I had heard the 
 
 o 
 
210 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 voice before. It seemed kind and friendly, like the voice of 
 some one Z iiad known long ago. He told me to try and realize 
 what change ten years of evil fortune would make in a man's 
 looks, it was not time only which had altered him, he told me, 
 but the world's ill-usage, bad health, hard work, corroding 
 sorrow. " Make allowance for all this," he said, "and look at me 
 with indulgent eyes, and then try to send your thoughts back to 
 that old life at Chiswick, and say what part I had in it." I did 
 look at him very earnestly, and the more I looked the more 
 familiar the face grew. " I think you must be a friend of my 
 father's," I said at last. " Poverty has no friends," he answered; 
 "at the time you remember your father was friendless. Oh, 
 child, child, can ten years blot out a father's image 1 I am your 
 father.'" 
 
 Laura paused, with quickened breathing, recalling the agi- 
 tation of that moment. 
 
 ' I cannot tell you how I felt when he said this,' she con- 
 tinued, presently. ' I thought I was going to fall fainting at his 
 feet. My brain clouded over ; I could understand nothing ; and 
 then, when my senses came slowly back, I asked him how this 
 could be true ? Did not my father die a few hours after I was 
 taken away by Jasper Treverton 1 My benefactor had told me 
 that it was so. Then he — my father — said that he had allowed 
 Jasper Treverton to suppose him dead, for my sake ; in order 
 that I might be the adopted child of a rich man, and well placed 
 in life, while he — my real father — was a waif and stray, and a pauper. 
 Mr. Treverton had received a letter announcing his old friend's 
 death — a 'etter written in a feigned hand by my father himself — 
 and had never taken the trouble to inquire into the particulars 
 if the death and burial. He felt tiiat he had done enough in 
 leaving money for the sick man's use, and in relieving him of all 
 care about his daughter. This is what my father told me. How 
 could I reproach him, Jack, or despise him for this deception, 
 for a falsehood which so degraded him 1 It was for my sake 
 he had sinned.' 
 
 ' And you had no doubt as to his identity ? You were fully 
 assured that he was that very father whom you had supposed 
 dead and buried ten years before ? ' 
 
 ' How could I doubt ? He showed me papers — letters — that 
 could have belonged to no one but my father. He gave me my 
 mother's portrait ; and then, through the mist of years, his face 
 came back to me as a face that had been very familiar ; his voice 
 had the sound of long ago.' 
 
 ' Did you give him money on this first meeting ? ' 
 
 'He told me that he was poor, a broken-down gentleman, 
 without a profession, with bad health, and no means of earning 
 hia living. Could I, hia daughter, living in luxury, refrain 
 
A Disinterested Parent. 211 
 
 from offering Mm all the help in my power ? I begged him to 
 reveal himself to Mr. Treverton — papa, as you know I always 
 called him — but he shrank, not unnaturally, from acknowledging 
 a deception that placed him in such a false position. " No," he 
 said, " I told a He for your sake, I must stick to it for my own." 
 I could not urge him to alter his resolution upon this point, for I 
 felt how hard it would be for him to stand faoe to face with his 
 old friend under such degrading circumstances. I promised to 
 keep his secret, and I told him that I would send him all the 
 money I could possibly spare out of my income, if he would give 
 me an address to which I might send it.' 
 
 'How often did you seeliim after this?' asked John Treverton. 
 
 • Before to-night, only three times. One of those occasions 
 was the night on which you saw me admit him at the garden- 
 door.' 
 
 ' True,' said Treverton, blushing as he remembered rthe cruel 
 suspicions that had been awakened in his mind by that secret 
 interview. 'And you never told my cousin anything about 
 your father 1 ' 
 
 ' Never. He made me promise to keep his existence a secret 
 from all the world ; and even if I had not been so bound I should 
 have shrunk from telling Mr. Treverton the cheat that had been 
 practised upon him ; for I felt that it was a cheat, however dis- 
 interested and generous the motive.' 
 
 * A purposeless cheat, I should imagine,' said John musingly, 
 1 for once having promised to take care of you, I should hardly 
 think that my cousin Jasper would have flung you back upon 
 poverty and gloomy days. No, love, once knowing your sweet- 
 ness, your truthful, loving nature, it would not have been human 
 to give you up.' 
 
 ' My poor father thought otherwise, unhappily.' 
 ' Dearest love, do not let this error of your father's cast a 
 shadow upon your life. I, who have known the shifts and 
 straits to which poverty may bring a man, can pity and in some 
 measure understand him. We will do all that liberality can 
 do to make the remnant of his days respectable and happy.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIL 
 
 DESROLLES IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE. 
 
 Mr. Desrolles left the Manor House a new man. He held 
 his head erect, and bore himself with a lofty air even before the 
 butler who showed him out. He was respectabilised by a full 
 purse. There was nothing left in him of the shabby, downcast 
 stranger who had approached the house with an air of mingled 
 
212 The Cloven Foot. - 
 
 mystery and apprehension. Trimmer hardly knew him. The 
 man's seedy overcoat hung with the reckless grace of artistic in- 
 difference to attire, and not with the forlorn droop of beggary. , 
 His hat was set on with a debonair slant. He looked a 
 Bohemian, a painter, an actor, a popular parson gone to the bad : 
 anything rather than an undistinguished pauper. He flung 
 Trimmer half-a-crown with the lofty elegance of a Lauzun or a 
 Richelieu, nodded a condescending good-night, and walked slowly 
 along the gravel drive, humming La Donna e mobile, with not an 
 unskilful mimicry of him who, of all men that ever walked the 
 boards of Covent Garden, looked and moved like a prince of the 
 blood royal, and the thinnest thread of whose fading voice sent a' 
 thrill through every heart in the vast opera-house. 
 
 The snow was no longer falling. It lay in patches here and 
 there upon the grass, and whitened the topmost edge of the 
 moor, but there was an end of the brief snowstorm. The stars 
 were shining in a deep blue sky, calm and clear as at mid- 
 summer. The moon was rising behind the dark ridge of moor. 
 It was a scene that might have stirred the heart of a man fresh 
 from the life of cities ; but the thoughts of Desrolles were 
 occupied in considering the new aspect given to affairs by his 
 discovery of Jack Chicot in the young squire of Hazlehurst, and 
 in calculating how he might best turn the occasion to his own 
 peculiar profit. 
 
 ' A good, easy-going fellow,' he reflected, ' and he seems in- 
 clined to be open-handed. But if the dancer was his legal wife, 
 and if he married Laura a year ago, that poor girl is no more his 
 wife than I am. Awkward for me to wink at such a position as 
 that, in my paternal character ; yet it might be dangerous for me 
 to interfere.' 
 
 ' Good evening, Mr. Desrolles,' said a voice close behind him. 
 
 He had been so deeply absorbed in self-interested speculations 
 that he had not heard footsteps on the graveL He turned 
 sharply round, surprised at the familiar mention of his name, and 
 i encountered Edward Clare. 
 
 In that dim light he failed to recognise the man whom he had 
 met in Long Acre, and talked with for about ten minutes, nearly 
 a year ago. 
 
 ' You seem to have forgotten me,' said Clare pleasantly ; ' yet 
 we have met before. Do you remember meeting me in Long 
 Acre one afternoon and our talking together of your fellow- 
 lodger, Mr. Chicot 1 ' 
 
 *' Your face and voice are both familiar to me,' said Desrolles 
 thoughtfully. ' Ifes, you are the gentleman with whom I con- 
 versed for some minutes in the bar of the Bose Tavern. I remem« 
 ber your speaking of Hazlehurst. You belong to this part of 
 the world, I presume ? ' 
 
Desrolks is not Communicative. 213 
 
 ' I do ; btit I am rather surprised to see you in such an out- 
 of-the-way nook and corner of the universe — on Christmas Eve, 
 too ' 
 
 'When I ought to be hanging up holly in my ancestral 
 mansion, and kissing my grandchildren under the mistletoe, 5 in- 
 terjected Desrolles, with a harsh laugh. ' Sir, I am a floating 
 weed upon the river of life, and you need never be surprised to 
 see me anywhere. I have no cable to moor me to any harbour, 
 no dock but the hospital, no haven but the grave.' 
 
 Desrolles uttered this dismal speech with positive relish. He 
 had a hundred pounds in his pocket, and the world before him 
 where to choose. What did he want with dock or haven ? He 
 was by nature a rover. 
 
 ' I am very glad we have met,' said Edward gravely ; ' I 
 have something serious to say to you — so serious that I would 
 rather say it within four walls. Can you come with me to my 
 house for half-an-hour, and let me talk to you over a tumbler of 
 toddy?' 
 
 Toddy had but little temptation for the brandy drinker ; it 
 was almost as if some one had offered him milk and water. 
 
 ' I want to get away by the mail,' said Desrolles doubtfully ; 
 ' and what the deuce can you have to say to me ? ' 
 
 ' Something of the utmost importance. Something that may 
 put money in your purse.' 
 
 "The suggestion provokes my curiosity. Suppose I forego 
 the idea of the mail ? It's a cold night, and I've had a good 
 deal of travelling since morning. Does your village boast an 
 inn where a man can get a decent bed 1 ' 
 
 'Yes, they will make you comfortable at the George. You 
 had better come home with me, and hear what I have to say. 
 It's a quarter past nine, and the mail goes at ten thirty. You 
 could hardly do it, if you tried.' 
 
 ' Well, let the mail go without this Caesar and his fortunes ; 
 I'll hear what you have to say.' 
 
 They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clara 
 and CeHa were still at the Manor House, where the Christmas- 
 tree was being stripped by the tumultuous infants, with shouts 
 of rapture and shrill screams of delight. Edward had slipped 
 out directly he had finished the ' Jackdaw,' under the pretence 
 of smoking a cigar, and had gone round to the front of the house 
 to watch for the unkn own visitor's departure. 
 
 The Yicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants' 
 quarters, where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward 
 let himself in at the hall door, and went up to his den, followed 
 by Mr. Desrolles. The fire had burnt low, but there was a 
 basket of wood by the hearth. Edward flung on a log, and 
 lighted the candles en the tabe. Then he opened a cosy little 
 
2H The Cloven Foot. 
 
 corner cupboard in the panelling, and took out a black bottle, 
 a couple of tumblers, and a sugar basin. 
 
 ' If your whisky's good, don't trouble to mix it,' said Desrolles ; 
 * I'd rather taste it neat.' 
 
 He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, 
 the poet's own particular rocking-chair, in which he was wont to 
 cradle his fine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid 
 slumber. 
 
 ' A tidy little crib,' said Desrolles, looking curiously round 
 the room, with all its masculine luxuries and feminine frivolities. 
 'I wonder you should speak so disparagingly of a village in 
 which you've such snug quarters.' 
 
 ' The grub is snug in his cocoon,' retorted Edward, ' but that 
 isn't life.' 
 
 ' No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind 
 that blows. I think on the whole the grub has the best of it.' 
 
 ' Help yourself,' said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle 
 across the table to his visitor. 
 
 Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. ' New 
 
 and raw,' he said, disapprovingly. 'Well, Mr. . By the 
 
 way, you did not favour me with your card when last we met.' 
 
 ' My name is Clare.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Clare, here I am. I have gone out of my own way 
 to put myself at your disposal. What is this wondrous com- 
 munication you have to make to me 1 ' 
 
 ' First, let us discuss your own position.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking 
 up his hat. ' I did not come here to talk about that. If you've 
 set a trap for me you'll find you've got the wrong customer. I 
 belong to the ferret tribe.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, don't be in such a hurry,' said Edward, 
 putting up his white, womanish hand in languid entreaty ; ' as a 
 prelude to what I have got to say I am obliged to speak of 
 your own position with reference to Laura Treverton and 
 her husband, John Treverton, otherwise Jack Chicot.' 
 
 ' What do you mean 1 ' 
 
 1 Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, 
 and Jack Chicot — Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and 
 white, unsuccessful painter in oils, what you will — are one and 
 the same. It may suit Mr. Treverton to forget that he was 
 ever Jack Chicot ; but the story of his past lif e is not blotted 
 out because he is ashamed of it. You know, and I know, that 
 l&e present lord of Hazlehurst Manor is Mrs. Evitt's old lodger.' 
 
 ' You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,' said Desrolles, 
 Looking at the other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a 
 man in whom he did verily perceive indications of insanity. 
 The two men have not one attribute in common.' 
 
Desrolles is not Communicative. 815 
 
 1 If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, 
 the caricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there 
 may be a kind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, 
 go.' 
 
 ' I saw the man's face at the magazine office, and I'll swear 
 it was Treverton's face.' 
 
 Desrolles shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, ' Here ia 
 a poor half-cracked fellow labouring under a harmless delusion. 
 I must indulge him.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear sir,' he said presently, stretching his well-worn 
 boots before the hearth, and luxuriating in the warmth of the 
 blazing wood, ' if this is all you have to say, you might as well 
 have let me get away by the mail.' 
 
 1 You deny the identity of John Treverton and Chicot, the 
 caricaturist ? ' 
 
 ' Most emphatically. I have the honour to know both men, 
 and am in a position to state that they are totally distinct 
 individuals — bearing a kind of resemblance to each other in 
 certain broad characteristics — height, figure, complexion — a re- 
 semblance that might mislead a man seeing one of the two for a 
 few moments, as you saw Chicot ' 
 
 ' How do you know how often I saw Chicot 1 ' 
 
 ' I draw my inference from your own conduct. If you had 
 seen him often — if you had seen him more than once — you could 
 not possibly mistake him for Mr. Treverton, or Mr. Treverton 
 for him.' 
 
 Edward Clare shrugged his shoulders, and sat looking frown- 
 ingly at the fire for some moments. "Whatever this man 
 Desrolles knew, or whatever he thought, it was evident that 
 there was very little to be got out of him. 
 
 ' You are very positive,' Edward said presently, ' so I suppose 
 you are right. After all, I can have no desire to identify the 
 husband of a woman I highly esteem with such a fellow as this 
 Chicot. I want only to protect her interests. Married to a 
 scoundrel, what might not be her fate 1 Perhaps as terrible as 
 that of the dancer.' 
 
 Desrolles answered nothing. He was lying back in the rock- 
 ing chair, resting, his eyes half closed. 
 
 ' Have you seen Chicot since his wife was murdered ? ' asked 
 Edward, after a pause. 
 
 ' No one has seen him. It is my belief that he made straight 
 for one of the bridges, and drowned himself.' 
 
 ' In that case his body would have been found, and his death 
 made known to the police.' 
 
 'You would not say that if you were a Londoner. How 
 many nameless corpses do you think are fished out of the Thames 
 
'216 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 every week — how many unrecognised corpses lie in the East-end 
 deadhouses waiting for some one to claim them, and are never 
 claimed or identified, and go to the paupers' burial-ground with- 
 out a name ? The police did not know Chicot. They had only 
 his description to guide them in their search for him. I am very 
 dear in my mind that the poor devil put himself out of their 
 way in the most effectual manner.' 
 
 ' You think he murdered his wife 1 ' 
 
 Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously. 
 
 ' I think nothing,' he answered. ' Why should I think the 
 very worst of a man wh© was my friend 1 But I know he bolted. 
 The inference is against his innocence.' 
 
 'If he is alive it shall be my business to find him,' said 
 Edward savagely. ' The crime was brutal — unprovoked — inex- 
 cusable — and if it is in my power to bring it home to him he 
 shall suffer for it.' 
 
 ' You speak as if you had a personal animosity,' said Desrolles. 
 ' I could understand the detectives being savage with him, for 
 he has led them a pretty dance, and they have been held up to 
 ridicule for their failure in catching him. But why you — a 
 gentleman living at ease here — should feel thus strongly ' 
 
 1 1 have my reasons,' said Edward. 
 
 ' Well, I'll wish you good night. It's getting late, and I 
 suppose the George is an early house. Au revoir, Mr. Clare. 
 By the way, when you told me your name just now I forgot to 
 ask you how you came to be so familiar with mine.' 
 
 ' I saw it in the newspapers, in the report of the inquest on 
 Madame Chicot.' 
 
 'True. I had told you that I was Jack Chicot's fellow- 
 Jodger. I had forgotten that. Good night.' 
 
 ' You aae still living in Cibber Street, I suppose ? ' 
 
 'No, the house became Hateful to me after that terrible 
 event. Mrs. Evitt lost both her lodgers. Mrs. Bawber, the 
 tragedienne, moved two doors off. My address is at the Poste 
 Bestante all over Europe. But for the next week or so I may be 
 found at Paris.' 
 
 ' Good night,' said Edward. ' I must come downstairs and 
 let you out. My people ought to be home by this time, and per- 
 haps you may not care to meet them.' 
 
 ' It is indifferent to me,' Desrolles answered loftily. 
 
 They did not encounter the Vicar or his wife on the stairs. 
 The children's party had been kept up till the desperate hour of 
 half -past ten, and Mr. and Mrs. Clare were now on their road 
 home, leaving Celia behind them to spend Christmas Day with 
 the Trevertons. 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 217 
 CHAPTEK XXVIII. 
 
 EDWARD CLARE GOES ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERT. 
 
 To sit beside a man's hearth, drink his wine, shoot his 
 pheasants and ride his horses, would in a savage community he 
 incompatible with the endurance of a deadly hatred against that 
 man. The thoroughbred savage hates only his enemy and the 
 intruding stranger. Mr. Stanley tells us that if he could once 
 get close enough to a tribe to hold a parley with them, he and 
 his followers were safe. The difficulty was that they had to en- 
 counter a shower of arrows before they could get within range for 
 conversation. When the noble African found that the explorer 
 meant kindly, he no longer thirsted for the white man's blood. 
 His savagery for the most part meant self-defence. 
 
 The ways of civilization are not as the ways of the desert. 
 There are men and women whose animosity is not to be 
 appeased by kindness — who will take all they can get from a 
 man, and go on detesting him cordially to the end. Edward 
 Clare, the sleek, white-handed poet, possessed this constancy, in 
 hatred. John Treverton had done him no direct injury ; for 
 the poet's love for Laura had never been strong enough to out- 
 weigh prudence. He had wanted Laura and Hazlehurst Manor : 
 not Laura with her modest income of two hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year. He was angry with fate and Jasper Treverton 
 for the will which had made Laura's wealth dependent on her 
 marriage with the heir ; he hated John Treverton for the good 
 fortune which had fallen into his lap. And this hatred wore 
 such a noble aspect in the man's own mind. It was no base envy 
 of another's prosperity ; it was not even jealous anger against a 
 rival, Edward told himself. No, it was a chivalrous ardour in the 
 defence of the woman he had loved ; it was a generous desire to 
 serve her which urged him to pluck the mask from this smooth 
 hypocrite's face. If this man was indeed, as Edward believed, 
 the husband of Zaire Chicot, the dancer, then his marriage with 
 Laura was no marriage, and the conditions of the will had not 
 been fulfilled. The estate, the possession of which could only be 
 secured by a legal marriage within the year following Jasper 
 Treverton's death, had been obtained by an audacious fraud. 
 
 Was this great wrong to pass undetected and unpunished 1 Was 
 Laura, whose love had been so easily won by this scoundrel, to 
 go on blindly trusting him, until some day an accident should 
 reveal his infamy and her dishonour ] No, Edward believed that 
 it was his duty to let in the light upon this iniquitous secret ; 
 and he determined to leave no stone unturned in the fulfilment of 
 liis mission. 
 
 This fellow Desrolles was evidently a creature of John 
 
218 The Cloven Moot. 
 
 Treverton's. His denial of the identity between the two men 
 went for nothing in Edward's mind. There must be plenty of 
 people in the neighbourhood of Cibber Street able to identify the 
 missing Chicot, if they could only be brought face to face with 
 him. 
 
 ' I wonder you and Mrs. Treverton have not been photo- 
 graphed since your marriage,' Edward said one afternoon in the 
 Christmas week, when John Treverton was well enough to join 
 the kettledrum party in the book-room, and they four, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Treverton, Celia, and Edward, were sitting round a glorious 
 fire. 
 
 He had been looking over a volume of photographs by the 
 light of the blazing wood, so the question seemed natural enough. 
 
 ' Ah, by-the-by, Jack, I really must have you photographed,' 
 said Laura gaily. ' Lady Barker was very particular in her request 
 for our photographs the other day. She has a very fine collection, 
 she tells me.' 
 
 ' About a hundred and fifty of her bosom friends, I suppose,' 
 retorted John Treverton, ' all simpering in the highest style of 
 art, and trying to look unconscious of the photographer's iron 
 collar gripping them by the scruff of the neck. No, Laura, I am 
 not going to let the sun make a correct map of my wrinkles in 
 order that I may join the simperers in Lady Barker's photograph 
 album, that fashionable refuge for the destitute in brains, after a 
 dull dinner.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you have never been photographed ? ' 
 asked Edward. 
 
 ' No, I do not. I had my photograph taken by Nadar a good 
 many years ago, when I was young and frivolous.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jack, how I should like to have a picture of what you 
 were years ago ! ' exclaimed Laura. ' What has become of all the 
 photographs 1 ' 
 
 ' Heaven knows,' answered John carelessly ; ' given to Tom, 
 Dick, and Harry — scattered to the four winds. I have not kept 
 one of them.' 
 
 ' Nadar,' repeated Edward musingly ; ' you are talking of the 
 man in Paris, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 1 Yes.' 
 
 ' You know Paris well ? ' 
 
 ' Every Englishman who has spent a fortnight there would say 
 as much as that,' answered John Treverton carelessly. ' I know 
 my way from the Louvre to the Palais Royal, and I know two 
 or three famous restaurants, where a man may get an excellent 
 dinner if he likes to pay for it with its weight in gold.' 
 
 Nothing more was said upon the subject of photographs. 
 Edward Clare left Hazlehurst next day for London. He was not 
 going to be long away, he told his father and mother, but he 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 219 
 
 wanted to see a manager who had made overtures to him for a 
 legitimate historical drama, in blank verse. 
 
 ' He was struck by a dramatic fragment I wrote for one of 
 the magazines/ said Edward, ' and he has taken it into his head 
 that I could write as good a play as the " Hunchback " or the 
 " Lady of Lyons." ' 
 
 ' Oh, do go and see him, Ted,' cried Celia, with enthusiasm. 
 1 It would be awfully jolly if you were to write a play. We should 
 all have to go up to town to see the first performance.' 
 
 ' Should we ? ' interrupted the Vicar, without looking up from 
 his John Bull, and pray who would find the money for our railway 
 fare, and our hotel bill 1 J 
 
 ' Why, you, of course,' cried Celia. ' That would be a mere 
 bagatelle. If Edward were to burst upon the world as a successful 
 dramatic author he would be on the high road to fortune, and we 
 could all afford a little extravagance. But who is your manager, 
 Ted, and who are the actors who are to act in your play 1 ' in- 
 quired Celia, anxi ous for details. 
 
 ' I shall say nothing about that till my play is written and ac- 
 cepted,' answered Edward. ' The whole affair is in the clouds at 
 present.' 
 
 Celia gave a short impatient sigh. So many of her brother's 
 literary schemes had begun and ended in the clouds. 
 
 ' I suppose I am to take care of your den while you are away,' 
 she said, presently, ' and dust your books and papers 1 ' 
 
 ' I shall be glad if you will preserve them from the profane 
 hand of my mother's last domestic treasure in the shape of a new 
 housemaid,' answered Edward. 
 
 Before any one could ask him any more questions the 'bus 
 from the ' George ' was at the Vicarage gate, waiting to take him 
 to the station at Beechampton, in company with two obese 
 farmers, and a rosy-cheeked girl going out to service, and carrying 
 a nosegay of winter flowers, a bandbox, and an umbrella. 
 
 How sweet and fresh the air was in the clear December 
 morning, almost th» last of the year ! How picturesque the 
 winding lane, the wide sweep of cultivated valley and distant 
 belt of hill and moor. 
 
 Edward Clare's eyes roamed across the familiar scene, and saw 
 nothing of its tranquil beauty. His mind was absorbed in the 
 business that lay before him. His heart was full of rancour. 
 He was tormented by that worst of all foes to a man's peace — an 
 envious mind. The image of John Treverton's good fortune 
 haunted him like a wicked conscience. He could not go his own 
 way, and forget that his neighbour was luckier than himself. 
 Had Fate smiled upon his poetic efforts, had some sudden and 
 startling success whisked him up into the seventh heaven of lite- 
 rary fame, at the same time filling his pockets, he might possibly 
 
220 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 have forgiven John Treverton ; but with the sense of failure 
 goading him, his angry feelings were perpetually intensifying. 
 
 He was in the London streets just as dusk wa& falling, after a 
 cold, uncomfortable journey. He took bis travelling bag in his 
 hand, and set out on foot to find a lodging, for his funds were 
 scanty, as he had not ventured to ask his father for money since 
 Vis return to the Vicarage. It was an understood thing that he 
 was to have the run of his teeth at Hazlehurst, and that his muse 
 was to supply all other wants. 
 
 He did not go to the street where he had lodged before — a 
 narrow, dismal street, between Holborn and the British Museum. 
 He went to the more crowded quarter, bounded on one side by 
 Leicester Square, on the other by St. Martin's Lane, and betook 
 himself straight to Cibber Street. He had made up his mind to 
 get a room in that uninviting spot, if any decent shelter were 
 available there. 
 
 Before seeking for this accommodation elsewhere, he went to 
 look at the house to which La Chicot's murder had given such an 
 awful notoriety. He found it more reputable of aspect than when 
 he had last seen it, a few days after the murder. A new wire 
 blind shaded the lower part of the parlour window ; new red 
 curtains drooped gracefully over the upper panes. The window 
 itself looked cleaner and brighter than it had ever looked during 
 the stately Mrs. Bawber's occupation of the ground floor. A new 
 brass plate on the door bore the inscription, ' Mr. Gerard, 
 surgeon.' 
 
 Edward Clare contemplated this shining brass plate with the 
 blank gaze of disappointment. He concluded, not unnaturally, 
 that the whole house had passed into the possession of Mr. Gerard, 
 surgeon, and that Mrs. Evitt had gone forth into the wilderness 
 of London, where she would be more difficult to find than poor 
 Hagar and her son in the sandy wastes of the great desert. 
 While he stood ruminating upon this apparent change in the 
 aspect of affairs, his eye wandered to a window looking upon the 
 area beneath the parlour, from which there came a comfortable 
 glow of light. The occupant of the basement had not drawn 
 down the illuminated blind which generally shaded her domes- 
 ticity from the vulgar eye ; and, seated by her kitchen fire, in- 
 dulging in the inexpensive luxury of slumber, Edward beheld 
 that very Mrs. Evitt whom he had supposed lost in the metro- 
 politan labyrinth. He had no doubt as to those corkscrew curls, 
 that vinegar visage. This was the woman with whom he had 
 talked for half-an-hour one bleak March morning, when he had 
 inspected the scene of the murder, under the pretence of looking 
 for lodgings. 
 
 He went up the steps to the door. There were two bells, one 
 abelled ' Surgery,' the other ' House.' Edward rang the latter, 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 221 
 
 which -was answered after an interval by the landlady, looking 
 cross and sleepy. 
 
 At the sight of Mr. Clare, with his travelling bag in his hand, 
 she scented a lodger, and brightened. 
 
 1 Have yon a decent bedroom to let, on your second floor 1 ' 
 he asked, for although he was no believer in the influences of the 
 spirit world, he would have preferred spending the December 
 night upon the bleakest and windiest of the bridges to lying down 
 to rest in the room where La Chicot had been slain. 
 
 ' I've got my first floor empty,' said Mrs. Evitt, ' beautiful 
 rooms, all new papered and painted.' 
 
 ' I'd rather go higher up,' answered Edward. ' You had a 
 lodger named Desrolles. What has become of him 1 ' 
 
 ' Gone to travel in foreign parts,' replied the landlady. ' 1 
 believe he had money left him. He was quite a gentleman when 
 he started — everything new, from his portrnanchew to his railway 
 rug.' 
 
 ' Can I have his rooms for a few nights 1 I am only in town 
 as a bird of passage, but I dont want to go to an hotel.' 
 
 ' Their charges are so 'igh, and there's no privacy in 'em,' said 
 Mrs. Evitt, with a sympathetic air, as if she divined his inmost 
 feelings. 'You can have Mr. Desrolles' rooms, sir, and we shan't 
 quarrel about the rent.' 
 
 ' The rooms are clean, I suppose 1 ' Edward hazarded. 
 
 I Clean ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Evitt, lifting up her eyebrows with 
 the indignation of outraged innocence. ' Nobody that has ever 
 lodged with me would ask that question. Clean ! No house of 
 mine ever 'arboured dirt.' 
 
 I I should like to see the bedroom,' said Edward. ' The sitting- 
 room matters very little. I shall be out all the day.' 
 
 ' If you'll wait whila I fetch a candle, I'll show you both rooms.' 
 replied the landlady. ' I suppose you want to come in at once ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. I have just come from the country, and have no more 
 luggage than this bag. I can pay you for the rooms in advance, 
 if you like.* 
 
 ' Money comes uncommonly handy now that provisions have 
 rose to such a heighth,' returned Mrs. Evitt, with an insinuating 
 air. ' Not that I could ever feel an instant's doubt respecting a 
 young gent of your appearance.' 
 
 ' Money down is the best reference,' said Edward. ' I'm a 
 stranger in London. Here's a sovereign. I suppose that'll square 
 us if I only keep the rooms a week 1 ' 
 
 'There'll be a trifle for boot -cleaning,' insinuated Mrs 
 Evitt. 
 
 ' Oh, very well.' 
 
 ' And half-a-crown for kitching fire.' 
 Oh, come now, I won't stand kitchen fire. You don't sup- 
 
222 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 pose I'm going to dine here. If you bring me up a cup of tea 
 of a morning it is all I shall want, and the fire that boils your 
 kettle will boil mine.' 
 
 ' A trifle for attendance, then.' 
 
 1 I'll promise nothing. If you make me comfortable, I shall 
 not forget you at parting.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir,' sighed the landlady. ' I suppose it will 
 come to the same in the end, but I always think it best for all 
 parties to put things clear. 3 
 
 She retired into the darkness at the end of the narrow passage, 
 the dark brown wainscot of which was dimly lighted by an old- 
 fashioned oil lamp, and returned in a minute or two with a 
 tallow candle in a capacious tin candlestick. With this light she 
 preceded Mr. Clare up the staircase, whose shallow, uneven steps 
 and heavy balustrade gave evidence of its age. 
 
 On the first-floor landing Mrs. Evitt paused to recover her 
 breath, and Edward felt an icy thrill of horror as he found him- 
 self opposite the bedroom door. 
 
 ' Is that the room where that poor woman was murdered ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' replied Mrs. Evitt, with a deprecating sigh, 'it is 
 the room, and I won't deceive you. But it has been done up so 
 nice that nobody as ever knew it before would be able to recognise 
 it. My landlord acted very liberal ; " anything that paint and 
 paper can do to set you right with your lodgers, Mrs. Evitt, shall 
 be done," says he. " You've been a good tenant," says he, " always 
 punctual to the minute with your rent," he says, " and I should 
 take it to heart if you was to suffer." Come in and look at the 
 room, sir, and you'll see that there isn't a more cheerful bedroom 
 in this part of London.' 
 
 Mrs. Evitt flung open the door with a flourish of pride, and 
 led the way into the room with uplifted candlestick. 
 
 ' That's a brand new bedstead,' she said, ' which cost me 
 two pound ten without the curtains. And there ain't a inch of 
 carpet or a bit of bedding that was in the room when — when — 
 what you mentioned took place.' 
 
 Mrs. Evitt had pinned her faith upon vivid colour as a 
 charm to exorcise poor Zaire's ghost. A sixpenny chintz of all 
 the colours in the rainbow draped window and bed. A painted 
 drugget of corresponding violence hid the worm-eaten old boards, 
 upon which soap, sand, and soda had been vainly expended in 
 the endeavour to remove the dark traces of that awful stream 
 which had travelled from the bed to the threshold. The dressing- 
 table was draped with white muslin and rose-coloured calico. 
 The chimney-piece was resplendent with a pair of Bohemian 
 glass vases, and a gilded clock. Coloured lithographs in the 
 vilest German art brightened the walls. 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 223 
 
 1 Don't it look cheerful 1 ' asked Mrs. Evitt. 
 
 ' Is that the little room where the husband used to work ? ' 
 inquired Edward, pointing to the door. 
 
 ' Yes, but that doesn't go with the drawing-room floor. I've 
 let it to Mr. Gerard for a room to put his books in. He's such a 
 man for books. They overrun the place.' 
 
 ' Who is Mr. Gerard 1 Oh, by the way, that is the surgeon 
 downstairs. How long has he been lodging with you ? ' 
 
 'It was about a month after poor Madame Chicot's death, 
 when he come. " I'm going to set up in business for myself, 
 Mrs. Evitt," he says. " I ain't rich enough to buy a practice," 
 says he, " so I must try and make one for myself, somehow," he 
 says. " Now yom-s is a crowded neighbourhood, and I think I 
 might do pretty well here, if you let me your ground floor cheap. 
 It would be for a permanency," says he, " so that ought to make a 
 difference." " I'll do my best to meet you," says I, " but my rent 
 is high, and I never was a hour behind with it yet, and I never will 
 be." Well, sir, I let hint have the rooms very low, considering 
 their value, for I was that depressed in my sperrits it wasn't in 
 me to 'aggie. That ungrateful viper, Mrs. Eawber — a woman 
 I'd waited on hand and foot, and fried onions for her until I've 
 many a time turned faint over the frying pan — and she's gone 
 and turned her back upon me in my trouble, and took a first 
 floor over a bootmaker's, where the smell of the leather must be 
 enough to poison a female of any refinement ! ' 
 
 ' Has Mr. Gerard succeeded in getting a practice 1 ' asked 
 Edward. 
 
 ' Well, he do have patients,' answered the landlady, dubiously ; 
 ' gratis ones a many, between the hours of eight and nine every 
 morning. He's very steady and quiet in. his 'abits, and that 
 moderate that he could live where another would starve. He's a 
 wonderful clever young man, too ; it was him — much more than 
 the grand doctor — that pulled Madame Chicot through, after her 
 accident.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Edward, becoming suddenly interested ; ' then 
 Mr. Gerard knew the Chicots 1 '' 
 
 * .Knew 'em ! I should think he did, indeed, poor young man 1 
 He attended Madame Chicot night and. day for months, and if i£ 
 hadn't been for him I believe she'd have died. There never wa*. 
 a doctor so devoted, and all for love. He didn't take a penny 
 for his attendance.' 
 
 ' A most extraordinary young man,' said Edward. 
 
 They went up to the second-floor, and Mr. Clare was intro- 
 duced to the apartments upon which Desrolles had turned his 
 back for ever. The furniture was of the shabbiest, but the 
 rooms looked tolerably clean, much cleaner than they had 
 appeared during the eceupation of Mr. Desrolles. Edward flung 
 
224 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 down his travelling bag, and expressed himself contented with 
 the accommodation. 
 
 ' Don't put me into damp sheets,' he said, whereupon Mrs. 
 Evitt threw up her hands in horror, and almost wept as she 
 protested against so heartless an imputation. 
 
 ' There isn't a caref uller woman than me about airing linen 
 in all London/ she exclaimed. 'I'm over-particular. I've 
 scorched many a good piller-case in my carefulness ; but I'm 
 the only loser by that, and I don't mind.' 
 
 ' I must go and get some dinner,' said Edward. ' And then 
 I think I'll drop in at a theatre. I suppose you can give me a 
 latch-key 1 ' 
 
 1 You can have the very key that Mr. Desrolles had,' replied 
 Mrs. Evitt graciously, as if according a peculiar privilege. 
 
 ' I don't care whose key it is as long as it will open the door,' 
 answered the unappreciative poet ; and then he put the key in 
 his pocket, and went out to regale himself cheaply at a French 
 restaurant, and then to the pit of a popular theatre. He had 
 come to London on a particular errand, but he meant to get as 
 much pleasure out of his visit as he could. 
 
 From the moment that Edward Clare heard of George 
 Gerard's attendance upon Madame Chicot he became desirous of 
 making Mr. Gerard's acquaintance. Here was a man who could 
 help him in the business he had to carry through. Here was 
 a man who must know the dancer's husband intimately — a man 
 who could id&ntify Jack Chicot in the present Squire of Hazie- 
 hurst. This was the man of men whom it was valuable for 
 Edward Clare to know. Having once made up his mind upon 
 this point, Mr. Clare did not lose any time in making use of his 
 opportunities. He called upon Mr. Gerard on the morning after 
 his arrival in town. It was only half -past eight when he pre- 
 sented hims elf at the surgeon's door, so anxious was he to secure 
 an interview before Mr. Gerard left home. 
 
 He found George Gerard sitting at his modest breakfast of 
 bread and butter and coffee, an open book beside him as he ate. 
 Edward's eyes marked the neatness of the surgeon's attire, 
 marked also that his coat had been worn to the last stage of shabbi- 
 ness at all compatible with respectability. A month's wear more 
 and the wearer would be out at elbows. He observed also 
 the thick slices of bread and butter — the doubtful-looking 
 coffee, with an odour suggestive of horse-beans. Here, evidently, 
 was a man for whom the struggle of life was hard. Such a man 
 would naturally be easy to deal with. 
 
 George Gerard rose to receive his guest with a pleasant smile. 
 
 ' Mrs. Evitt told me that you wanted to see me,' he said, 
 waving his hand to a chair beside his somewhat pinched fire. 
 
 A scientific arrangement of firebrick had been adapted to 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 225 
 the roomy old grate since Mrs. Bawber's tenancy, and it now held 
 
 a minimum of f ueL 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Gerard, I very much want half -an-hour's talk with 
 you.' 
 
 1 1 can give you just half-an-hour before I start for my day's 
 work/ answered Gerard, with a business-like air and a glance at 
 the neat little clock on the chimney-piece. 
 
 The room was curiously changed since Mrs. Bawber's occu- 
 pation. It had then appeared the model of the vulgar lodging- 
 house parlour. It now looked the room of a student. George 
 Gerard had been able to spend very little money on the 
 decoration of his apartments, but he had lined the walls with 
 deal shelves, and the shelves were filled with books ; such 
 volumes as your genuine book-hunter collects with loving toil in 
 the lanes and by-ways of London. He had put a substantial, old- 
 fashioned writing table in the window, a pair of comfortable arm- 
 ehairs by the hearth, a skeleton clock, and a couple of bronze figures 
 — picked up in one of the back slums of Covent Garden for a song 
 — on the mantelpiece. The general effect was of a room which 
 a gentleman might occupy without a blush. 
 
 Edward Clare saw all this, not without a sharp pang of envy. 
 He recognised, in the capacity to endure such an existence, the 
 power to climb the rugged hill of fame. 
 
 ' This is the kind of fellow to succeed in life,' he thought. 
 1 But one can't expect this dogged endurance in a man of poetic 
 temperament.' 
 
 ' Do you wish to consult me professionally ? ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' No. What I have to say relates to a very serious matter, 
 but it is neither a professional question for you, nor a personal 
 affair of mine. You knew the Chicots.' 
 
 It was Gerard's turn to be interested. He looked at the 
 speaker with sudden intensity, which brightened every feature 
 in his face. 
 
 ' Yes. What of them ? Did you know them ? I never saw 
 you here when she "was ill. You knew them in Paris, perhaps 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; I never saw Madame CMcot off the stage. But I am 
 deeply interested in the discovery of her murderer : not for my 
 own sake, but for the protection of some one I esteem. Have you 
 seen John Chicot since the murder 1 ' 
 
 'No. If I had ' 
 
 George Gerard stopped suddenly, and left his sentence un- 
 finished. 
 
 ' If you had you would have given him up to the police, as hia 
 wife's murderer. Is that what you were going to say ? ' 
 
 1 Something very near it. I have strong reason to believe 
 that he killed her ; and yet there is ground for doubt. If he 
 were the murderer, why should he alarm the house ? He migh/ 
 
226 The Cloven Fbot. 
 
 have gone quietly away, and the crime would not have been dis- 
 covered for hours afterwards.' 
 
 ' An excess of caution, no doubt. Murderers often over-act 
 i their parts. Yet, if you look at the thing, you will see he was 
 obliged to give the alarm. Had he not done so, had he gone away 
 and left his wife lying dead, it would have been obvious that he, 
 and he alone, was her assassin. By rousing the household he 
 put on at least the semblance of innocence, however his flight 
 might belie it afterwards.' 
 
 ' It is a profound mystery,' said Gerard. 
 
 ' A mystery only to those who refuse to accept the natural 
 solution of the enigma. Here was a man with a drunken wife. 
 It is an acknowledged fact, I believe, that Madame Chicot was a 
 drunkard ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, poor souL He might have let her kill herself with a 
 brandy bottle. He would not have had long to wait.' 
 
 ' A man so fettered may get desperate. Suppose that I could 
 prove to you that this Chicot had the strongest possible tempta- 
 tion to rid himself of his wife by any means, fair or foul. Sup- 
 pose I could tell you that his inheritance of a large estate was 
 contingent upon his marriage with another woman, that he had 
 already, in order to secure that estate, contracted a bigamous 
 marriage with that other woman — she innocent as an angel, poor 
 girl, throughout the plot. Suppose I could prove all this, what 
 would you say of Jack Chicot then 1 ' 
 
 ' Most assuredly I would say that he did the deed. Only 
 show me that he had a motive strong enough to urge him to 
 crime — I know of my own experience that he was tired of his 
 wife — and I will accept the evidence that points to him as the 
 murderer.' 
 
 ' Do you think that evidence strong enough to convict him ? ' 
 
 ' On that point I am doubtful. His flight is damning 
 evidence against him ; and then there is the fact that at the 
 bottom of his colour-box there lay a dagger which corresponded 
 in form to the gash upon that poor creature's throat. I found 
 that dagger, and it is now in the possession of the police. It bears 
 the dark tarnished stain that blood leaves upon steel, and I have 
 no doubt in my own mind that it was with that dagger La Chicot 
 was killed. But these two points comprise the whole evidence 
 against the husband. They are strong enough to afford a 
 presumption against his innocence ; but I doubt if they are 
 strong enough to hang him.' 
 
 ' Let it be so. I don't want to hang him. But I do want 
 to reseue the woman I once fondly loved — for whom I still care 
 more than for any other woman on earth — from a marriage that 
 may end in her misery and untimely death. "What must be the fate 
 ri such a man as this Chicot, if he is, as you believe, and as I 
 
Edward Clare goes on a Voyage of Discovery. 22? 
 
 believe, guilty ? Either remorse will drive him mad, or he will 
 go on from crime to crime, sinking lower in the scale of 
 humanity. Let me but strip the mask from his face, separate 
 him for ever from his innocent wife, and I am content. To do this 
 I want your aid. Jack Chicot has disappeared from the ken of 
 all who knew him. The man who bore that name is now a 
 gentleman of landed estate, respected and respectable. Will you be 
 disinterested enough to waste a couple of days, and travel over 
 three hundred miles, in order to help me to identify the late 
 adventurer in the present lord of the manor? Your journey shall 
 not cost you sixpence.' 
 
 'If I go at all, I shall go at my own expense,' answered 
 Gerard curtly ; ' but you must first show me an adequate reason 
 for doing what you ask.' 
 
 ' To do that I must tell you a long story,' answered Edward. 
 
 And then, without mentioning the names of people or of 
 places, he told the story of Jasper Treverton's will, and of Laura 
 Malcolm's marriage. The facts, as he stated them, went far to 
 show John Treverton a scheming scoundrel, capable of com- 
 mitting a crime of the darkest kind to further his own interest. 
 
 ' The case against him looks black, I admit,' said Gerard, 
 when Clare had finished. ' But there is one difficult point in 
 the story. You say that in order to secure the fortune Chicot 
 married the young lady in the January before Madame Chicot's 
 death. Now if he had made up his mind to get rid of his lawful 
 wife by foul means, why did he not do it before he contracted 
 that marriage instead of afterwards 1 The crime would have 
 been the same, the danger of detection no greater. The murder 
 committed after the second marriage was an anachronism.' 
 
 ' Who can fathom his motives 1 He may have had no design 
 against his wife's life when he married the lady I know. He 
 may have believed it possible to so arrange his life that no one 
 would ever recognise Jack Chicot in the country squire. He 
 may have thought that he could buy his freedom from Madame 
 Chicot. Perhaps it was only when he found that her love, or 
 her jealousy, was not to be hoodwinked that he conceived the 
 idea of murder ! No man — assuredly no man of decent ante- 
 cedents — reaches the lowest depth of iniquity all at once.' 
 
 1 Well,' sighed Gerard, after a pause, ' I will go with you and 
 see this man. I had a curious interest in that poor creature's 
 career. I would have done much to save her from the con- 
 sequence of her own folly, had it been possible. Yes, I will go 
 with you ; I should like to know the end of the story.' 
 
 It was agreed between the two young men that they were to go 
 to Devonshire together in the first week of the new year, Edward 
 Clare remaining only a week in London. Gerard was to 
 accompany Clare ae his friend, and to stay at the Vicarage as his 
 
The Cloven Foot, 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 GEORGE GERARD. 
 
 John Treverton' was out of the doctor's hands before Christ- 
 mas was over, and able to appear on his mare, Black Bess, with 
 his wife, mounted on the gentlest of gray Arabs, at the lawn meet 
 which was held at the Manor House on New Year's Day. It 
 was the first time the hounds had met there since the death of 
 old John Treverton, Jasper's father, who had been a hunting 
 man. Jasper had never cared for field sports, and had subscribed 
 to the hounds as a duty. But now, John Treverton, the 
 younger, who loved horses and hounds, as it is natural to an 
 Englishman to love them, meant that things should be as they 
 had been in the days of his great-uncle, generally known among 
 the elder section of the community as ' the old Squire.' He had 
 bought a couple of hunters and a first-rate hack for himself, an 
 Arabian and a smart cob for his wife ; and Laura and he had 
 ridden for many a mile over the moor in the mild afternoons of 
 early autumn, getting into good form for the work they were to 
 do in the winter. 
 
 Laura took kindly to the cob, and petted the Arab to a dis- 
 tracting degree. After a month's experience on the moors, and 
 a good many standing jumps over furze and water, she began to 
 ride really well, and her husband looked forward to the delight 
 of piloting her across the country in pursuit of the red deer 
 before the hunting season was over. But he meant, if he erred 
 at all, to err on the side of caution, and on this New Year's Day 
 he had declared that he should only take Laura quietly through 
 the lanes, and let her have a peep at the hounds from a distance. 
 Ilelia, in the shortest of habits, a mere petticoat, and the most 
 coquettish of hats, was mounted on her father's steady-going road- 
 ster, a stalwart animal of prodigious girth, which contemplated 
 the hounds with unvarying equanimity. 
 
 ' What has become of your brother ? ' Laura asked, as she 
 and Celia waited about, side by side, watching the assembling of 
 the field. ' I haven't seen him since my children's party.' 
 
 ' Oh, didn't I tell you ? He is in London, making arrange* 
 ments about a play that he is to write for one of the big theatres. 
 Mother had a letter from Tiim this morning. He is coming home 
 the day after to-morrow, and he is going to bring a London 
 acquaintance to stay two or three days at the Vicarage. A young 
 doctor, good-looking, clever, a bachelor. Now, Laura, don't you 
 really think the world must be coming to an end very soon ? 
 
George Gerard. 229 
 
 'No, dear ; but I congratulate you on the bachelor. He will 
 be an acquisition. You must bring him to us.' 
 
 1 Oh, but Edwjjd says he can only stay Wo or three days. 
 He has his practice to attend to. He is only coming for a breath 
 of country air.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! What is his name 1 ' 
 
 ' Edward did not tell us that. Something horrid, I dare say. 
 Smith, or Jones, or Johnson — a name to dispel all pleasant 
 illusions.' 
 
 ' Here comes Mr. Sampson.' 
 
 'Yes, on the horse he drives in his dog-cart. Could you 
 believe, Laura, that a horse could support existence with so much 
 bone and so little flesh ? ' 
 
 This was all Laura heard about the expected guest at the 
 Vicarage, but poor Celia was in a nutter of wondering anticipa- 
 tion for the next two days. She took particular pains to make 
 her brother's den attractive, yet sighed as she reflected how much 
 of the stranger's brief visit would be spent within the closed 
 doors of that masculine snuggery. 
 
 ' I wonder whether he is fond of tea ? ' she mused, when she 
 had given the last heightening touch to the multifarious frivoli- 
 ties of the poet's study ; ' and whether I shall be allowed to join 
 them at kettledrum. Very likely he is one of those dreadfully 
 mannish men who hate to talk to girls, and look glum whenever 
 they're forced to endure women's society. A doctor ? scientific, 
 perhaps, and devoted to dry bones. Edward calls him handsome ; 
 but I dare say that was only said in order to prepossess us in his 
 favour, and secure a civil reception for him.' 
 
 Thus, in maiden meditation, mused the damsel on that January 
 evening when her brother and her brother's friend were expected. 
 The omnibus from the ' George ' was to bring them from the station, 
 and that omnibus would be due at a quarter past seven. It was 
 now striking seven by the deep-toned church clock ; a solemn 
 chime that had counted out Celia's hours ever since she could 
 remember. She hardly knew time or herself out of earshot of 
 that grave old clock. 
 i '. Seven,' she exclaimed, ' and my hair anyhow.' 
 
 She slipped off to her room, lighted her dressing-table candles, 
 and took up her hand mirror, the better to survey the edifice of 
 frizzy little curls which crowned her small, neatly-shaped head. 
 
 ' Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,' she sang 
 gaily, smiling at herself in the glass, as she put her pet ringlets 
 in their proper places, and smoothed the corner of an eyebrow 
 with her little finger. 
 
 ' What a blessing not to be obliged to powder, and to have 
 lips that are naturally red I' she said to herself. ' It might almost 
 reconcile one to be buried alive in a village.' 
 
' 230 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 She put on her prettiest gown in honour of the visitoR It 
 was by no means an elaborate costume. There were no intri- 
 cacies of style, no artistic combinations of material. Celia's best 
 indoor gown was only a dark-green French merino, brightened 
 by a good deal of ribbon, artfully difiposed in unexpected bows 
 *nd knots, and floating sash-ends. Happily, the colour suited 
 Celia's complexion, and the soft fabric fell in graceful folds upon 
 her slender figure. Altogether Celia felt herself looking nice 
 when she put out her candles and ran downstairs. 
 
 A substantial tea-dinner was waiting for the travellers in the 
 dining-room, to the sore discomfort of the Vicar, who hated a tea- 
 dinner, and was accustomed to dine at a punctual half -past six. 
 
 ' Why must we have a makeshift meal of this kind ? ' he 
 p,Rked fretfully. 'Why couldn't these young men be here in 
 time for our regular dinner 1 ' 
 
 1 Why, because there was no train to bring them, you dear, 
 stupid old pater,' retorted the flippant Celia. ' I'm sure the 
 table looks quite too lovely.' 
 
 A fine piece of cold roast beef at the end opposite the urn 
 and tea-tray, a pigeon pie, a salad, an apple pasty, a home-made 
 cake or two, diamond-cut jars of marmalade and jam, and a 
 noble glass bowl of junket, did not promise badly for two hungry 
 young men ; but the Vicar looked across the board, from Dan 
 even to Beer-sheba, and found it all barren. 
 
 ' I suppose nobody has thought of ordering anything hot for 
 me 1 ' he remarked with an injured air. 
 
 It was a tradition in the family that the Vicar could not eat 
 a cold dinner. It was not that he would not, but that he could 
 not. The consequences were too awful. No one but himself 
 knew the agonies which he suffered if he was forced to dine on 
 cold beef or mutton. His system could accommodate lobster, he 
 could even reconcile nature to cold chicken, but his internal 
 economy would have nothing to do with cold mutton or beef. 
 
 ' Dearest creature,' said Celia, raising herself on tiptoe in order 
 to caress her father's iron-gray beard, ' there is a particular dish 
 of cutlets for you, with the mushroom sauce your soul loveth.' 
 J The Vicar gave a sigh of satisfaction, and just at that moment 
 the wheels of the omnibus sounded on the road outside, the 
 Vicarage gate fell back with a clang, and Mr. Clare and his 
 daughter went out to receive the travellers, while Mrs. Clare, 
 who had been indulging herself with a nap by the drawing-room 
 fire, opened her eyes, and began to wonder vaguely whether it 
 was night or morning. 
 
 What sort of man did Celia behold when she went into the 
 lamp-fit hall, sheltering herself shyly under her father's wing, to 
 welcome her brother and his guest? Not at all the kind of 
 young man she expected to see, yet his appearance impressed her 
 
George Gerard. 231 
 
 favourably, notwithstanding. He -was strikingly original, she 
 told Laura afterwards, and that in an age of humdrum wag 
 much. She saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, with marked 
 features, well shaped yet somewhat rugged, a pale complexion 
 slightly pitted with small-pox, black hair and beard, dark gray 
 eyes, with a wonderful power and light in them, under thick 
 black brows. 
 
 ' The idea of calling this stern-looking creature handsome ! ' 
 thought Celia, while her father and Mr. Gerard were shaking 
 hands, and then in the next instant the stern-looking creature 
 smiled, and Celia admitted to herself that his smile was nice. 
 
 ' You must be desperately hungry,' said the Vicar, ' unless 
 you've dined on the way.' 
 
 ' Dined on the way ! ' echoed Edward peevishly. ' "We've 
 travelled third-class, and we've had nothing but a split soda and 
 a couple of Abernethy biscuits since nine this morning.' 
 
 ' Poor dear things !' cried Celia, with intense pity ; ' but I can't 
 help being rather glad, for you will so enjoy your tea.' 
 
 Edward aad introduced his friend to his father and sister, 
 and now presented him to Mrs. Clare, who came out of the 
 drawing-roon smiling blandly, and trying not to look sleepy; 
 
 They all vent into the dining-room, where the table which 
 the Vicar had despised seemed to the two young men a land of 
 promise. The urn hissed, and Celia made the tea, while Mrs. 
 Clare sat at tht other end of the board and carved the beef with 
 a liberal, motierly hand. It was quite a merry party, for 
 George Gerard had plenty to say for himself, and the Vicar was 
 pleased to get hold of an intelligent young man, fresh from 
 London, and steeped to the lips in the knowledge of metropolitan 
 politics, which are about a month ahead of rural politics. They 
 sat at table for in hour and a half, and the three-quarters of an 
 hour during whch Gerard leaned back in his chair, talking to 
 Celia on one sice and the Vicar on the other, and consuming 
 numerous cups cf tea, was in that young man's estimation the 
 pleasantest part ai the time. 
 
 It was long, T ery long, since Gerard had found himself in so 
 bright a room, >r in such agreeable company. The homelike 
 air of his surrouidings warmed his heart, which had been chilled 
 by long homelesness. The family history that lay behind his 
 hard career was not a happy one. A profligate father wasting 
 his cpportunitie and squandering his resources, a mother 
 struggling nobly against adversity, trying against all disadvan- 
 tages to maintain, by her own efforts in art and literature, a 
 home for her unworthy husband and her idolised son. A boy ■ 
 hood at a cheap Scotch university, and, just on the threshold at 
 manhood, thelosi of this patient, dearly loved mother, some, years 
 a widow. And ;hen the young man had found himself face to 
 
fi32 The Cbven Foot. 
 
 face with stern necessity, and in a hard, indifferent world, that 
 knew nothing of him and cared nothing for him. 
 
 He had begun the battle of life with a determination to place 
 himself amongst those who conquer. His ambition was hard and 
 bitter. He had none of those incentives to effort that sweeten 
 toil, where a man knows that he is working for mother, or wife, 
 or children. There was no creature of his own race to rejoice in 
 his success, or to compassionate his ill-fortune. If nature had 
 not made him of strong stuff he would most likely have drifted 
 to the gutter. For a weaker soul the unaided struggle would 
 have been too dreary. 
 
 Happily for George Gerard he loved his profession for its own 
 sake. That love stood him in the stead of human sympathy and 
 human affection. A word of commendation from one of the 
 famous men at the hospital, a word of gratitude from one of hia 
 own patients, the knowledge that he had managed a case well, 
 these things cheered and sustained him, and he tramped along 
 the difficult road with a bold front and a lofty heart, sure 
 of success at the end of it, if he but lived to ream the end. 
 
 To-night he abandoned himself to the new deligM of pleasant 
 society. A bright room, furnished with that heterogeneous 
 comfort which marks the gradual growth of a f ariily dwelling ; 
 dark crimson curtains drawn across the broad bay window ; 
 family portraits on the walls ; lamps on the table, candles on 
 the mantelpiece and sideboard ; a fire heaped Mgh with wood 
 and coal ; the Vicar's favourite collie stretched luxuriously on 
 the hearthrug. 
 
 ' I don't think I will go into the drawing-room to-night, 
 said the Vicar, wheeling his chair round to th<j fire when the 
 table had been cleared. ' I'm sure you haven't so good a fire as 
 this in there.' 
 
 Mrs. Clare admitted that the drawing-room fire was not so 
 good as it might be. 
 
 ' Very well, then, we'll finish the evening heife. If these two 
 young men want to smoke, they can go to Tel's room.' 
 
 Mr. Gerard declared that he did not want to smoke. He 
 was much too comfortable where he was. And then the Vicar 
 began to question him about his profession, what such and such 
 men were doing, and what these new men we e like who had 
 won reputation lately. Gerard talked best wten he talked of 
 his own calling, and Celia, working point lace irja corner by the 
 fire, thought that he looked really handsonfe when he was 
 animated. It was a face so different from all ijiose prosperous, 
 fresh-coloured, country-bred faces that her dailf life had shown 
 her ; a face marked with the strongest deternination, vivified 
 by a powerful intellect. The girl's observant kye noted every 
 characteristic in that interesting countenance. She saw, too, 
 
Thou art the Man. 233 
 
 that the young man's black frock coat had undergone harder 
 wear than any garment she had ever seen worn by her brother ; 
 that his boots were of a thick and useful kind, and lacked the 
 style of a fashionable maker ; that he wore a silver watch-chain, 
 and exhibited none of the trinkets affected by prosperous youth. 
 Now Celia Clare was not fond of poverty. She considered it 
 a necessary evil, but liked to give it as wide a berth as possible. 
 Any visiting she did amongst her father's poor went sorely 
 against the grain ; and she always wondered how it was that Laura 
 got on so well with the distressed classes. Yet she felt warmly 
 interested in this young doctor, who was evidently most unin- 
 terestingly poor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THOTT ART THE MAN. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. George Gerard was up as soon 
 as it was light, and off for a ramble on the moor before the nine 
 o'clock breakfast. This glimpse of the country was sweet to him, 
 even in the bleak January weather, and he wanted to make the 
 most of his brief opportunity. When he came back to the 
 Vicarage after his walk, he found Edward Clare smoking a 
 cigar in the shrubbery. 
 
 ' What a fellow you are to be rambling about in such wintry 
 weather ! ' cried Edward, by way of salutation. ' I want a few 
 minutes' talk before we go in to breakfast. We may not get a 
 chance of being alone afterwards. Celia is so fussy on Sunday 
 mornings. I should like you to go to church with us, if you 
 don't object ? ' 
 
 ' I had made up my mind to go. I hope you don't suppose I 
 have an antipathy to churches 1 ' 
 
 ' One never knows how that may be. I don't imagine there's 
 much church-going among young professional men in London.' 
 
 ' I used to escort my mother to church every Sunday morning 
 when I was a little boy, and those were my happiest days. If I 
 didn't like the Sunday morning service for its own sake, I should 
 like it because it puts me in mind of her.' 
 
 ' Ah,' sighed Edward, ' I dare say when a fellow lose* his 
 mother early in life he feels sentimental about her ever after- 
 wards. But when a mother gets to the elderly and twaddly age, 
 one may be fond of her, but one can't feel poetical about her. I'll 
 tell you why I want you to go to church with us, Gerard. John 
 Treverton is sure to be there. It will be a capital opportunity 
 for you to take stock of him . Our pew is just opposite the 
 Manor House pew. You'll have him in full view all through the 
 •ervice.' 
 
234 The, Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Very good,' assented Gerard. ' If this Mr. Treverton and 
 Jack Chicot are the same, I shall know him wherever I see him.' 
 
 Celia was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time, and poured 
 out tea and coffee with a vivacity and a grace worthy of French 
 comedy. The presence of a strange young man had a wonderfully 
 brightening influence. Celia felt grateful to her brother for 
 having afforded this unaccustomed variety in the monotonous 
 course of rural life. She took more pains than usual in putting 
 on her bonnet for church, though that was an operation which 
 she always performed carefully ; and she happened somehow to 
 be walking by Mr. Gerard's side for the few hundred yards 
 between the Vicarage and the lych-gate, 
 
 The Vicarage party were amongst the first arrivals. There 
 were only the charity children in the gallery, and a few gaffers 
 and goodies in the free seats. The gentry dropped in slowly. 
 Here was Mr. Sampson, the lawyer, looking his sandiest, accom- 
 panied by Miss Sampson, in a distinctly new bonnet. Here was 
 Lady Barker, short and fat and puffy, in an ancient velvet mantle, 
 bordered with brown fur, like a common councillor's cloak on 
 Lord Mayor's Day, and with a bonnet that reached the climax of 
 dowdiness — but when one is Lady Barker, and has lived in the 
 same house for five-and-thirty years, it matters very little what 
 one wears. 
 
 Here came the Pugsleys, the retired ironmonger and his wife, 
 from Beechampton, Mrs. Pugsley positively gorgeous in velvet 
 and sable, and with a bird of many colours in her bonnet. Next 
 arrived Mrs. Daracott, the rich widow, whose husband was the 
 largest tenant farmer in the district, and who looked as if all 
 Hazlehurst belonged to her ; and here, after a sprinkling of 
 nobodies, came John Treverton and his wife. 
 
 The Vicar gave out a New Year's hymn two minutes after this 
 last arrival, and the congregation rose. 
 
 ' The man is marvellously changed,' George Gerard said to 
 himself as he stood face to face with John Treverton, ' but he is 
 the man I knew in Gibber Street, and no other.' 
 
 Yes, it was Jack Chicot. Happiness had given new life and 
 colour to the face, prosperity had softened the harshness of its 
 outline. The hollow cheeks had filled, the haggard eyes had 
 recovered the glory and gladness of youth. But the man was 
 there — the same man in whose face Gerard had looked a year and 
 a half ago, reading the secret of his loveless marriage. 
 
 Did he look like an undetected murderer ? Did he look like a 
 man tormented by remorse, weighed down with the burden of a 
 guilty secret ? Assuredly not. He had the straight outlook of 
 one whose conscience is clear, whose heart is free from guile. 
 If he were verily guilty, he must be the prince of hypocrites. 
 
 His wife was at his side, and George Gerard looked at her 
 
Thm. art the, Man. 235 
 
 frith painful interest. What a lovely, trustful face, radiant with 
 innocence and contentment ! And was this guileless creature to 
 be made wretched by the knowledge of her husband's deceit? 
 Was her heart to be broken in order that John Treverton should 
 be punished ? 
 
 Edward Clare had said that it was for her sake he wanted to 
 know the truth about her husband, it was that she might be 
 rescued from a degrading alliance, protected from a man who 
 was at heart a villain. 
 
 George Gerard watched the husband and wife at intervals 
 during the service. He could see nothing but placid content, a 
 mind at ease, in the face of John Treverton. The idea of this 
 freedom from care on the part of him who had been La Chicot's 
 husband embittered Gerard. 
 
 1 Had that woman been my wife I should have been sorry for 
 her cruel fate; I should have mourned for her honestly, in spite 
 of her degradation. But had she been my wife, she would never 
 have sunk so low. I would have made it the business of my life 
 to have saved her.' 
 
 Thus argued the man who had passionately loved the beauti- 
 ful, soulless woman, and who had never comprehended the empti* 
 ness of her mmd and heart. 
 
 Onoe in the progress of the service John Treverton looked 
 across the aisle, and saw the stern gray eyes watching him. In 
 that one glance Gerard saw that he was recognised. 
 
 'What will he do if we meet presently?' Gerard asked him- 
 self. ' He'll cut me dead, no doubt.' 
 
 They did meet, for in leaving the church porch Laura stopped 
 to talk to Mrs. Clare and Celia, Edward and his friend were 
 close behind. 
 
 ' Is it the man 1 ' Edward asked, in a whisper. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Gerard. 
 
 They went along the churchyard path together, and at the 
 gates there was a pause. Laura wanted the Vicarage party to go 
 to luncheon at the Manor House, but Mrs. Clare declined. Of 
 course the children could do what they liked, she said ; as if her 
 children had ever done anything else since they had emerged from 
 the helplessness of infancy. Even in their cradles they had had 
 wills of their own. 
 
 Celia looked at her brother, and saw by a warning twitch of 
 his eyebrows that she was to say no. 
 
 ' I think we had better go home to luncheon,' she said meekly. 
 1 Papa likes us to be at home on Sundays.' 
 
 Then she gave her brother's sleeve a little tug. 
 
 ' You haven't introduced Mr. Gerard,' she whispered. 
 Ah, to be sure. Mr. Gerard, Mrs. Treverton, Mr. Treverton. 
 Mr. Gerard and I have met before, under circumstances 
 
236 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 that made me deeply indebted to him,' said John Treverton, 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 Gerard lifted his hat, but appeared not to see the offered hand. 
 This unexpected frankness took him by surprise. He had been 
 prepared for anything rather than for John Treverton's acknow- 
 ledgment of their past acquaintance. 
 
 It was a bold stroke if the man were guilty ; but Gerard's 
 experience had taught him that guilt is generally bold. 
 
 'I should be glad of ten minutes' talk with you, Mr. Gerard,' 
 said Treverton. ' Will you walk my way 1 ' 
 
 ' We'll all walk as far as the Manor House,' said Celia. ' We 
 need not be home till two, need we, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' No, dear, but be sure you are punctual,' answered the good- 
 natured mother. ' I shall say good-bye, Laura, my dear.' 
 
 While Laura lingered a little to take leave of Mrs. Clare, 
 Treverton and Gerard walked on in front of Celia and her 
 brother, along the frost-bound road, under the leafless elms. 
 
 ' The world is much smaller than I took it to be,' John 
 Treverton began, after a pause, ' or you and I would hardly 
 meet in such an out-of-the-way corner of it as this.' 
 
 Gerard said nothing. 
 
 ' Were you not surprised to see me in so altered a position ?* 
 the other asked, after an uncomfortable pause. 
 
 ' Yes, I was certainly surprised.' 
 
 ' I am going to appeal to your kind feeling — nay, to your 
 honour. My wife knows nothing of my past life, save that it was 
 wild and foolish. You know too well what degradation there 
 was for me in my first marriage. I am not going to speak ill of 
 the dead ' 
 
 ' Pray do not,' interposed Gerard, very pale. 
 
 'But I must speak plainly. When you knew me I was a 
 most miserable man. I have stood upon one of the bridges many 
 a night, and thought that the best thing I could do with myself 
 was to drop quietly over. Well, Providence cut the knot for me 
 — in a terrible manner — but still the knot was cut. I havo 
 profited by my release. Fate has been very kind to me. My wife 
 is the dearest and noblest of women. To pluck the veil fiom my 
 past history would be to give her infinite pain. I ask you, then, 
 as a gentleman, as a man of honour, to keep my secret and to 
 spare her and me.' 
 
 'And you,' said Gerard bitterly. 'Yes, it is doubtless of 
 yourself you think when you ask me to be silent. To spare you ? 
 Did you pity or spare the wretched creature who loved you fondly 
 even in her degradation 1 As for your secret, as you call it, it is 
 no secret. Mr. Clare, the Vicar's son, knows as well as I do that 
 John Chicot and John Treverton are one and the same,' 
 * He knows it ? Edward Clare 1 ' 
 
Thou art the Man. 237 
 
 'Yes. 
 
 ' Since when 1 ' 
 
 ' Positively, since this morning in church. He had his sus- 
 picions before. This morning I was able to confirm them.' 
 
 1 1 am sorry for it,' said John Treverton, after they had walked 
 a few paces in silence. ' I am sorry for it. I had hoped that 
 part of my life was dead and buried — that no phantom from that 
 hateful past would ever arise to haunt my innocent young wife. 
 It is rery hard upon me ; it is harder upon her.' 
 
 1 There are some ghosts not easily laid,' returned Gerard. ' I 
 should think the ghost of a murdered wife was one of them.' 
 
 ' Edward Clare is no friend to me,' pursued Treverton, hardly 
 hearing Gerard's remark. ' He will make the most malicious use 
 of this knowledge that he can. He will tell my wife.' 
 
 ' Might he not do something worse than that 1 ' 
 
 1 What ? ' 
 
 ' What if he were to tell the police where Chicot, the wife- 
 murderer, is to be found V 
 
 ' My God ! ' cried Treverton, turning upon the speaker with 
 a look of horror. ' You do not think me that 1 ' 
 
 1 Unhappily, I do.' 
 
 ' On what grounds 1 ' 
 
 ' First, on the strength of your cowardly conduct that night. 
 Why should you shirk the responsibility of your position if you 
 were not guilty ? Your flight was damning evidence against you. 
 Surely you must have known that when you fled 1 ' 
 
 ' fought to have known it, perhaps ; but I thought of nothing 
 except how best and quickest to escape from the entanglement 
 which had been the bane and blight of my manhood. My wife 
 was dead. Those glassy eyes, with their awful look of horror — 
 that marble hand — told me that life had been gone for hours. 
 What good could I do by remaining 1 Attend an inquest at 
 which the story of my life would be ripped up for the delight of 
 every gossip-monger in the kingdom ; until I, John Treverton, 
 alias Chicot, stood face to face with the world, so tainted and in- 
 fected that no innocent woman could own me as her husband ? 
 What good to me, to that poor dead woman, or to society at large, 
 could have come of my cross-examination at the inquest 1 ' 
 
 1 This much good, at least : your innocence — if you are inno- 
 cent — might have been made manifest. As it is, the inferences 
 are all in favour of your guilt.' 
 
 ' How could I have proved my innocence ? I could have 
 offered no stronger proof at the inquest than I offer you now — 
 my own word, the word of a man who at his worst never 
 stooped to dishonour. I tell you face to face, as man to man, 
 that I never lifted my hand against my wife : never, even when 
 words were bitter between us, and of late we had many bitter 
 
238 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 words. I tried, honestly, to save her from her own weakness. 
 The day had been when I was fond of her, in a reckless way, 
 never looking forward to the future, or thinking what kind of a 
 couple she and I would be when age had sobered us, and life had 
 grown real and serious. No, Mr. Gerard, I am not a cruel man ; 
 and though the fetters hung heavily upon me I should never have 
 striven to set myself free. When I saw those people — Desrolles 
 and the two women — standing round me that night, it flashed 
 upon me all at once that in then- eyes I might look like a mur- 
 derer. And then I foresaw suspicion, difficulties of all kinds, and 
 above all that which I most dreaded, a hideous notoriety. If I 
 stayed all this was inevitable. I might escape everything if I 
 could get away. At that moment I considered only my owu 
 interest. I saw as it were a gate standing open leading into a 
 new world. Was I very much to blame if I took advantage of 
 my chance, and left my old life behind me V 
 
 'No man can leave his past life behind him,' answered 
 Gerard. ' If you are innocent I am sorry for you ; as I should 
 be sorry for any innocent man who had acted so as to seem 
 guilty. I am still more sorry for your wife.' 
 
 ' Yes, you have need to be sorry for her,' said Treverton, with 
 a quiet anguish that touched even the man who thought him 
 guilty. ' God help her, poor girl ! We have been very happy 
 together : but if Edward Clare holds our happiness in his hand 
 our peaceful days are at an end.' 
 
 They were at the Manor House gate by this time, and here 
 they stopped and waited in silence for the others to join them. 
 Celia and Laura had been talking together merrily, while 
 Edward walked beside them, silent and thoughtful. 
 
 John Treverton shook hands with Celia, but he only gave 
 Edward a curt nod of adieu. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mr. Gerard,' he said, with cold courtesy. 
 'Come, Laura, if Celia has made up her mind to go home to 
 luncheon we mustn't detain her.' 
 
 ' Duty prevails over inclination,' said Celia laughingly. ' If I 
 were to come to the Manor House I should forget my Sunday 
 school work. From three to four o'clock I have to give my mind 
 to Scripture history. How dreadfully absorbed you look, Mr. 
 Gerard ! ' she exclaimed, struck by the surgeon's thoughtful 
 aspect. ' Have you any serious case in London that is preying 
 upon your mind i ' 
 
 ' I have plenty of serious cases, Miss Clare, but I was not 
 thinking of them just then,' he answered, smiling at her piquant 
 little face, turned to him interrogatively. ' My patients are mostly 
 sufferers from an incurable malady.' 
 
 ' Good gracious, poor things ! Is it an epidemic 9 ' 
 
 1 No, a chronic disorder — poverty.' 
 
Thou art the Man. 239 
 
 'Oh, poor souls, then I'm sure I pity them. I've been 
 subject to occasional attacks towards the end of the quarter evei 
 since I've been an independent being with a fixed allowance.' 
 
 They were walking homewards by this time, Edward in the 
 rear. 
 
 ' Now, do you seriously think, Miss Clare, that a young lady, 
 living in her father's house, with every want provided for, can 
 know the meaning of the word poverty 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly I do, Mr. Gerard. But I must tell you that you 
 start upon false premises. Young ladies living in their fathers 
 houses have not always every want provided for. I have known 
 what it is to be desperately in want of six-button gloves, and not 
 to be able to get them. 5 
 
 ' You have never known what it is to want bread.' 
 
 ' I'm not particularly fond of bread,' said Celia, ' but I have 
 often had to complain of the disgusting staleness of the loaf 
 they give us at luncheon.' 
 
 ' Ah, Miss Clare, when I was a student at Marischal College, 
 Aberdeen, I have seen many a young fellow walking the street 
 in his scarlet gown, gaunt and hungry-eyed, to whom a hunch of 
 your stale loaf would have been a luxury. When a Scotch parson 
 sends his son to the University he is not always able to give him 
 the price of a daily dinner. Well for the lad if he can be sure of 
 a bowl of porridge for his breakfast and supper.' 
 
 ' Poor dear creatures ! ' cried Celia. ' I'm afraid Edward spends 
 as much money on gloves and cigars as would keep an economical 
 young man at a Scotch University — but then he is a poet.' 
 
 ' Is a poet necessarily a spendthrift 1 ' 
 
 1 Upon my word I don't know, but poets seem generally given 
 that way, don't they ? One can hardly expect them to be very 
 careful about pounds, shillings, and pence. Their heads are in 
 the clouds, and they have no eyes for the small transactions of 
 daily life.' 
 
 After this they walked on for a little while in silence, George 
 Gerard thoughtfully contemplative of the fair young face, with its 
 mignon prettiness and frivolous expression. 
 
 ' It would be a misfortune, as well as a folly, for a man of my 
 stamp to admire such a girl as that,' he told himself ; ' but I may 
 allow myself to be amused by her.' 
 
 A minute afterwards Edward Clare came up to him, and took 
 him by the arm. 
 
 • Well,' he said, ' what passed between you and Treverton ? ' 
 
 'A good deal, yet it amounts to very little. I am sorry for 
 him.' 
 
 'Then you do not believe that he killed his wife 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know. It is a profound mystery. I should advise 
 you to let things take their own course. What good will it do 
 
240 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 for you to make that poor wife of his miserable ? If he is guilty, 
 punishment will come sooner or later. If he is innocent, it 
 would be a hard thing for you to persecute hinV 
 
 ' What, do you suppose I am such a milksop as to let him go 
 on his way unquestioned 1 I, who have loved Laura, and lost 
 her 1 Suppose him even innocent of the murder — which is more 
 than I am ready to believe, — he is guilty of a cruel fraud upon 
 his present wife, of an impudent fraud upon the trustees to 
 Jasper Treverton's estate, of whom my father is one. He has no 
 more right to yonder Manor House than I have. His marriage 
 with Laura Malcolm is no marriage. Am I to hold my peace, 
 knowing all this 1 ' 
 
 ' To reveal what you know will be to break Mrs. Treverton's 
 heart, and to reduce her to beggary. Hardly the act of a friend.' 
 
 ' I may give her pain, but I shall not reduce her to beggary. 
 She has a small income of her own.' 
 
 ' And the Manor House estate will be devoted to the creation 
 of an hospital.' 
 
 Those are the conditions of Jasper Treverton's will.' 
 
 ' As a professional man I am bound to rejoice ; but as a mere 
 human being I can't help feeling sorry, for Mrs. Treverton. She 
 seems devoted to her husband.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Edward, ' he has contrived to hoodwink her ; 
 but perhaps when she know3 that John Treverton is Jack 
 Chicot, the ballet-dancer's husband, she will be disenchanted.' 
 
 Gerard made no reply. He began to understand that 
 personal malignity was the mainspring of Edward's anxiety to 
 let in the light upon John Treverton's secret. He was almost 
 sorry that he had lent his aid to the discovery ; yet he had 
 ardently desired that justice should be done upon La Chicoff s 
 murderer. It was only since his recent conversation with John 
 Treverton that his opinion as to the husband's guilt had begun 
 V> waver. 
 
 He was haunted all the rest of the day by uncomfortable 
 thoughts about the master of Hazlehurst Manor and his fair 
 young wife ; thoughts so uncomfortable as to prevent his 
 enjoyment of Celia's lively company, which had all the charm of 
 novelty to a man whose youth had not been brightened by girlish 
 society, and whose way of life had been dull, and hard, and 
 laborious. He was to go back to London next morning by the first 
 train, and although the Vicar pressed him to remain, and even 
 Celia put in a kindly word, he stuck to his intention. 
 
 ' My practice is not of a kind that will bear being trifled 
 with,' he said when he had thanked Mr. Clare for his proffered 
 hospitality. ' The few remunerative patients I have would be 
 quick to take offence if they fancied I neglected them.' 
 
 'Sut you give yourself a holiday sometimes, I suppose ? ' said 
 
Why don't you trust Me ? 241 
 
 Mrs. Clare, whose large maternal heart had a kindly feeling for 
 all young men, simply because her son belonged to that section of 
 society. ' You go to stay with your relations now and then, don't 
 you?' 
 
 1 No, my dear Mrs. Clare, I do not ; and for the best of all 
 reasons — I have no relations. I am the last twig of a withered 
 tree.' 
 
 ' How sad ! ' replied the Vicar's wife. 
 
 Celia echoed the sigh, and looked compassionately at the 
 surgeon, and compassion in Celia's blue eyes was a sentiment no 
 man could afford to despise. 
 
 ' If you will let me come again some day, when I have made 
 a little progress in my profession, you will be giving me some- 
 thing pleasant to look forward to,' said Gerard. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, we shall always be glad to see you,' the Vicar 
 answered heartily. ' It strikes me you are the kind of friend 
 my son wants.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXI. 
 
 why don't totj trust me? 
 
 That winter Sabbath was a dreary day for John Treverton. 
 He walked home almost in silence, Laura wondering at his 
 thoughtfulness, and speculating anxiously upon the possible 
 reasons for this sudden change in his mood. Had this friend of 
 the Clares brought him bad news 1 Yet how could that be '? 
 Must it not rather be that this meeting with an old acquaintance 
 had recalled some painful period in that past life of which she 
 knew so little ? 
 
 ' That is my misfortune,' she thought. ' I am only half a wife 
 while I am ignorant of all his old sorrows.' 
 
 She did not disturb her husband by questions of any kind, 
 but walked quietly by his side through the wintry shrubberies, 
 where the holly berries were gleaming in the mid-day sun, and 
 the fearless robins fluttered from hawthorn to laurel. 
 
 'I won't come iu to luncheon, dear,' said John when they 
 came to the hall door. ' I feel a little dull and headachy, and I 
 think it might do me good to Me down for an hour or two.' 
 
 ' Shall I come and read you to sleep, Jack 1 : 
 
 ' No, dear, I shall be better alone.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jack, why are you not frank with me 1 ' exclaimed his 
 wife piteously. ' I know there is something on your mind. Why 
 don't you trust me 1 ' 
 
 ' Not yet, dear. You will know everything that can be known 
 Q. 
 
242 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 about me very soon, I dare say. But we need not anticipate the 
 revelation. It will not be too pleasant for either of us.' 
 
 ' Do you think that anything I can ever learn about you will 
 change me 1 ' she asked, with her hand upon his arm, looking up 
 at Virm intently. ' Have I not trusted you, and loved you, 
 blindly?' 
 
 ' Yes, dearest, blindly. But how can I tell how you may feel 
 when your eyes are opened 1 ' 
 
 She looked at him for some moments in silence, trying to read 
 his face ; and then, with most pathetic earnestness, she said : — 
 
 ' John, if there is anything to be told to your discredit, if 
 there is any act of your past life that you are ashamed to remem- ' 
 her — ashamed to acknowledge — an act known to others, for pity's 
 sake let me hear it from you, and not from the lips of an enemy. 
 Am I so severe a judge that you should fear to stand before me S 
 Have I not been weakly fond, blindly trustful 1 Can you doubt 
 my power to excuse and to pardon, where all the rest of mankind 
 might be inexorable ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he answered quickly, ' I will not doubt you. No, dear 
 love, it is not because I feared to trust you that I have tried to 
 keep my secret. I wished to spare you pain ; for I knew that it 
 would pain you to know how low I had sunk before your influence, 
 your love, came to lift me out of the slough into which I had 
 fallen. But it seems the pain must come. Good and pure as you 
 are, there are those who will not spare you that bitter knowledge. 
 Yes, dear, it is best that you should learn the truth first from my 
 lips. "Whatever garbled version of this story may be told you 
 afterwards, you shall have the truth from me.' 
 
 He put his arm round her, and they went up the broad old 
 staircase side by side to the room that had been Jasper Trever- 
 ton's study, and which Laura had beautified for her husband. 
 Here they were secure from intrusion. John Treverton drew his 
 wife's favourite chair to the fire, and sat down by her side, as 
 they had sat on the night when Laura told her husband the story 
 of Mr. ijesrolles. 
 
 They sat for some minutes in silence, John Treverton looking 
 ut the fire, meditating how best to begin his confession. 
 
 ' Oh, Laura, I wonder whether you will hate me when you 
 have heard what my past life was like 1 ' he said at last. ' I will 
 n<y» epswe myself ; but even at this last moment I shrink from 
 uttering the words that may destroy our happiness, and part us 
 for evc-r. You shall be free to decide our fate. If, when you 
 have heard all, you should say to yourself, " This man is un- 
 worthy of my love," and if you should recoil from me — as you 
 may— with disgust and abhorrence, I will bow my head to your 
 decree, and disappear out of your life for ever.' 
 
 His wife turned her suicken face to him, pale as death. 
 
Wlvy don't you trust Me ? 213 
 
 'What crime have you committed, that you can think it 
 possible that I should withdraw my love from you 1 ' she asked, 
 with tremulous lips. 
 
 1 1 have committed no crime, Laura, but I have been suspected 
 of the worst of crimes. Do you remember the story of a man 
 whose name was bandied about in the newspapers nearly a year 
 ago ; a man whose wife was murdered, and whom some of the 
 London papers plainly denounced as the murderer ; the man 
 called Chicot, whose disappearance was one of the social mysteries 
 of the year ? ' 
 
 'Yes/ she answered, looking at him wonderingly. 'What 
 can you have to do with that man 1 ' 
 
 1 1 am that man ! ' 
 
 « You ? You, John Tre verton ? ■ 
 
 ' I, John Treverton, alias Chicot.' 
 
 ' The husband of a stage dancer ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Laura. There have been two loves in my life. First, 
 my love for a woman who had nothing but her beauty to make 
 her dear to the hearts of men. Secondly, my love for you, whose 
 beauty is the lightest part in your power to win and keep my 
 affection. My history may be briefly told. I began life in a 
 cavalry regiment, with a small fortune in shares and stocks. 
 These were so handy to get rid of, that before I had been five 
 years in the army I had contrived to make away with my last 
 sixpence. I had not been particularly dissipated or extravagant ; 
 I had not vied with my captain, who was the son of a West-end 
 confectioner, and spent money like water ; or with my colonel, who 
 was a man of rank, and ,£30,000 in debt ; but I had kept good 
 horses, and mixed in the best society, and the day I got my 
 company saw me a beggar. There was nothing for it but to sell 
 out, and I sold out ; and being of a happy-go-lucky temperament, 
 and tired of the confinement of country quarters, I crossed the 
 Channel, and wandered over the loveliest half of Europe with a 
 knapsack and a sketch-book. When I had spent the price of my 
 commission I found myself in Paris, out at elbows, penniless, 
 with a taste for literature and a facile pencil. I lived in a garret 
 in the Quartier Latin, found friends in a thoroughly Bohemian 
 set, and contrived to earn just enough to keep body and soul 
 together. I began this life with the idea that I might one day 
 win distinction in art. I liad the will to work, and a good deal 
 of ambition. But the young men among whom I lived, small 
 journalists and hangers-on at the minor theatres, soon taught me 
 a different story. I learned to live as they lived, from hand to 
 mouth. All higher aspirations died out of my mind. I became 
 a hanger-on at stage doors, a scribbler of newspaper paragraphs 
 — a collaborateur in Palais Royal farces — happy when I had the 
 price of a dinner in my waistcoat pockat and a decent coat on my 
 
244 The Cbven Foot. 
 
 back. It was at this stage of my career that I fell in love with 
 Zaire Chicot, a popular dancer at the theatre most affected by 
 students in law and medicine. She was the handsomest woman 
 I had ever seen. No one had a word to say against her character. 
 She was not a lady ; I knew that, even when I was most in love 
 with her. But the vulgarities and ignorances that would have 
 revolted me in an Englishwoman amused and even pleased me in 
 this daughter of the people. She was fond of me, and I of her. 
 We married without a thought of the future : with very little 
 care even for the present. My wife — the popular dancer at a 
 popular theatre — was so much the more important person of the 
 two, that from the hour of my marriage I was known by her 
 name — first, as La Chicot's husband ; then as Jack Chicot, tout 
 court. We were reasonably happy together, till my wife began 
 to fall into those wretched habits of intemperance which finally 
 blighted both our lives. God knows I did my best to cure her. 
 I tried my uttermost to hold her back from the dreary gulf into 
 which she was descending. But I was powerless. No words of 
 mine could ever tell you the misery — the degradation — of my 
 life. I endured it. Perhaps I hardly knew the full measure of 
 my wretchedness till the day on which I heard my cousin Jasper's 
 will read, and knew the happiness which might have been mine 
 had I been free from that hateful bondage.' 
 
 Laura sat by his side in silence, her face hidden in her 
 hands, her head bowed down upon the cushion of the chair, 
 crushed by the deep shame involved in her husband's 
 •onfession. 
 
 ' There is little more to tell. When I first saw and loved 
 you I was La Chicot's husband — a man bound hand and foot. I 
 had no right to come near you, yet I came. I had a vague, 
 wicked hope that Fate would set me free somehow. Yet I tried, 
 honestly, to do my duty to that unhappy woman. When her 
 life was in peril, I helped to nurse her. I bore patiently with 
 her violent temper after she recovered. When the year was 
 nearly gone it came into my mind that my cousin's estate might 
 be secured to you by a marriage which should fulfil the terms of 
 his will without making me your husband save in name. And 
 then, if in some happier day I should be released from my 
 bonds, we could be married again — as we were.' 
 
 He paused, but there was no answer from Laura except a 
 half -stifled sob. 
 
 ' Laura, can you pity and pardon me ? For God's sake say 
 that I am not utterly despicable in your eyes ! ' 
 
 ' Despicable 1 no ! ' she said, lifting up her tear-stained face, 
 ashy pale, and drawn with pain, "' not despicable, John. You 
 could never be that, in my eyes. But wrong, oh, so deeply 
 wrong 1 See what shame and anguish you have brought upon 
 
Why don't you trust Me ? 245 
 
 both of us ! What was Jasper Treverton's fortune worth to 
 either of us, that you should be guilty of a fraud in your 
 endeavour to gain it for me 1 ' 
 
 'Afraud?' 
 
 * Yes. Do you not see that our first marriage, being really no 
 marriage, was an imposition and a sham — that neither you*nor I 
 have a right to a sixpence of Jasper, Treverton's money, or an 
 acre of his land. All is forfeited to the hospital trusts. "We 
 have no right to live in this house. "We possess nothing but my 
 income. "We can live upon that, Jack. I am not afraid to face 
 poverty with you ; but I will not live an hour under the weight 
 of this shameful secret. Mr. Clare and Mr. Sampson must know 
 the truth at once.' 
 
 Her husband was kneeling at her feet, looking up at her with 
 a radiant face. 
 
 ' My love, my dearest, you have made me too happy. You 
 do not shrink from me — you do not abandon me. Poverty 1 No, 
 Laura, I am not af raicLof that. I have feared only the loss of your 
 love. That has been my ever-present fear. That one great dread 
 has sealed my lips.' 
 
 ' You can never lose my love, dear. It was given to you without 
 the power of recall. But if you want to regain my esteem, you 
 must act bravely and honourably. You must undo the wrong 
 you have done.' 
 
 '"We will hold a council to-night, Laura. "We will take 
 Edward Clare's cards out of his hands.' 
 
 ' "What ? Does Edward kD ow ? ' 
 
 ' He knows that I and Chicot are one.' 
 
 ' Ah, then I can understand the look he gave you on the night 
 of our first dinner-party — a look full of malignity. He had just 
 been talking of Chicot.' 
 
 She shuddered as she pronounced a name associated with 
 such unspeakable horror. And that name was her husband's ; 
 the man branded with the suspicion of a hideous crime was her 
 husband. 
 
 ' I am afraid Edward is your secret enemy,' she said, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' I am sure he is — and I believe he is on the eve of becoming 
 my open enemy. It will be a triumph in a small way for me to 
 take the initiative, and resign the estate.' 
 
246 The Cloven Foot, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ON HIS DEFENCE. 
 
 A letter was brought to the Vicar just as lie was sitting 
 down to his five o'clock dinner that Sunday evening in the bosom 
 of his family. The Vicar dined at five on Sundays, giving him- 
 self an hour for his dinner, and fifty minutes for repose after it, 
 before he left home for the seven o'clock service. There were 
 those among his congregation who affirmed that the tone of the 
 Vicar's evening sermon depended very much upon his satisfaction 
 with his dinner. If he dined well he took a pleasant view of 
 human nature and human frailty, and was milder than Jeremy 
 Taylor. If his dinner had been a failure the bitterest Calvinism 
 Was not severe enough for him. 
 
 'From the Manor House, sir,' said the parlourmaid. 'An 
 answer waited for.' 
 
 ' "Why do people bring me letters just as I am sitting down to 
 my dinner ? ' ejaculated the Vicar pettishly. ' From Treverton, 
 too. "What can he have to write about 1 ' 
 
 Edward Clare looked up, with an eager face. 
 
 ' Wants to see me after church this evening — particular 
 business/ said the Vicar. 'Tell Mr. Treverton's man, yes, 
 Susan. My compliments, and I'll be at the Manor House before 
 nine.' 
 
 Edward was mystified. Was John Treverton going to throw 
 himself upon the Vicar's mercy — to win that good, easy man, over 
 to his cause — and persuade him to wink at the fraud upon the 
 trusts under Jasper's will? Edward had no opinion of his 
 father's wisdom, or his father's strength of mind. The Vicar 
 was so weakly fond of Laura. 
 
 ' I hate going out of an evening in such weather,' said Mr. 
 Clare, ' but I suppose Treverton has something important to say, 
 or he would hardly ask me to risk a bronchial attack.' 
 
 Tom Sampson, sitting by his comfortable fireside, solacing 
 himself for the Sabbath dulness with a cup of strong tea and a 
 dish of buttered toast, was also surprised by a letter from the 
 Manor House, asking him to go there between eight and nine 
 that evening. 
 
 ' I am sorry to trouble you about business on Sunday, but 
 this is a matter which will not keep,' wrote John Treverton. 
 
 * I never did ! ' exclaimed Eliza Sampson, when her brother 
 had read the brief letter aloud. 
 
 Eliza was always protesting that she never did. This frag- 
 mentary phrase was her favourite expression of astonishment. 
 
 And then Miss Sampson began to speculate upon the probable 
 
On his Defence. 247 
 
 nature of the business which required her brother's presence at 
 the Manor House. People who live in such a secluded village as 
 Hazlehurst are very glad of anything to wonder about on a 
 Sunday evening in winter. 
 
 At half -past eight precisely, Mr. Sampson presented himself 
 at the Manor House, and was shown into the library. This room 
 was rarely used, as Mr. and Mrs. Treverton kept all their 
 favourite books elsewhere. Here, on these massive oaken shelves, 
 there was no literature that was not at least a century old. It was 
 a repository for the genius of the dead. Travels, from Marco 
 Polo to Captain Cook ; histories, from Herodotus to Mrs. Catherine; 
 Macaulay ; poetry, from Chaucer to Milton ; all bound in soberest 
 brown calf, all with the dust of years thick upon their upper 
 edges. It was a long, narrow room, with three tall windows, 
 curtained with faded crimson cloth. It had an awful and almost 
 judicial look on this Sunday evening, dimly lighted by a pair of 
 moderator lamps on the centre table, making a focus of light in 
 the middle of the room, and leaving the corners in darkness. 
 There was a good fire in the- wide old basket-shaped grate, and 
 Tom Sampson sat beside it, waiting for his host to appear. 
 Trimmer had told him that Mr. Treverton would be with him 
 presently. 
 
 Presently seemed to mean half an hour, for the clock struck 
 nine while Mr. Sampson still waited. Not having any inclination 
 to dip into the literature of the past, he had allowed the fire to 
 draw him to sleep, and was slumbering placidly when the door 
 opened and Trimmer announced Mr. Clare. 
 
 Tom Sampson started up, and rubbed his eyes, thinking for 
 the moment that he had fallen asleep by the fire in his snuggery, 
 and that Eliza had come to call him to supper — supper being 
 another of those solaces which Mr. Sampson required to beguile 
 the dulness of Sunday leisure. 
 
 The Vicar was surprised to see Mr. Sampson, and Mr. 
 Sampson was equally surprised to see the Vicar. They told 
 each other how they had been summoned. 
 
 ' It must be something rather important,' said Mr. Clare. 
 
 ' It must be something connected with the estate, or he would 
 scarcely want you and me,' said Sampson. 
 
 John Treverton and his wife entered the room together. 
 Both were very pale, but Laura's countenance wore a look of 
 keen distress, which had no part in the expression of her 
 husband's face. Secure of his wife's allegiance, he was ready to 
 meet calamity, whatever shape it might assume. 
 
 ' Mr. Clare, Mr. Sampson, I have sent for you as the trustees 
 under my Gousin Jasper's will,' he began, when he had apologized 
 to the lawyer for letting him wait so long, and had placed Laura 
 in a chair near the fire. 
 
248 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' That's a misnomer,' said Sampson. ' Our trusts under 
 Jasper Treverton's will determined on your wedding day. We 
 are only trustees to the settlement made for Miss Malcolm's 
 benefit, sixteen years ago, and to your wife's marriage settlement.' 
 
 ' I have sent for you to tell you that I have been guilty of a 
 fraud upon you, and upon this lady,' answered John Treverton, 
 in a steady voice. 
 
 He was going on with his self -denunciation, when the door 
 opened, and Trimmer announced Mr. Edward Clare. 
 
 The young man came into the room quickly, looking round 
 him with a swift, viperish glance. He was surprised to see 
 Laura, still more surprised at the presence of Tom Sampson. 
 He had expected to find his father and Treverton alone. 
 
 John Treverton looked at the intruder with undisguised 
 irritation. 
 
 ' This is an unexpected pleasure,' he said ; ' but perhaps when 
 I tell you that your father and Mr. Sampson are here to discuss 
 a business of some importance to me — and to them as my wife's 
 trustees — you'll be kind enough to amuse yourself in the drawing- 
 room until we've finished our conversation.' 
 
 ' I have come to speak to Mrs. Treverton. I have something 
 to say to her which she ought to hear — which she must hear — 
 and that without an hour's delay,' said Edward. ' Accident has 
 made me acquainted with a secret which concerns her and her 
 welfare— and I am here to communicate it to her, and — in the first 
 instance — to her alone. It will be for her to act upon that 
 knowledge — for me to defer to her.' 
 
 'If your secret concerns me, it must concern my husband 
 also,' said Laura, rising and taking her stand beside John 
 Treverton. ' "Whatever touches my happiness must involve his. 
 You can speak out, Edward. Possibly your fancied secret is no 
 secret.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' stammered Edward, startled by her 
 calm look and resolute tone. 
 
 ' Have you come to tell me that my husband, John Treverton, 
 was for a short period of his lif e known by the name of Chicot ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, that, and much else,' answered Edward, deeply mortified 
 at finding himself forestalled. 
 
 ' You wish to tell me, perhaps, that he has been suspected 
 of murder.' 
 
 ' So strongly suspected, and upon such evidence, that it, will 
 need all your wifely trustfulness to believe him innocent,' retorted 
 Edward, with a malignant sneer. 
 
 ' Yet I do believe in his innocence — I am as certain of it as I 
 am that I myself am no murderess — and if the evidence against 
 him were doubly strong, my trust in him would not fail,' said 
 Laura, facing the accuser proudly. 
 
On Ms Defence. 249 
 
 * And now, Mr. Clare, since you fiud that your secret is 
 everybody's secret, and that my wife knows all you can tell her 
 about me ' 
 
 1 Your wife,' sneered Edward. ' Yes, it is as well to call her 
 by that name.' 
 
 ' She is my wife — bound to me as securely as the law and 
 the church can bind her.' 
 
 ' You had another wife living when you married her — unless 
 you have been remarried since your first wife's death " 
 
 ' We have been so married. My wife was never mine, save in 
 name, until I was a free man, — free to claim her before God and 
 the world.' 
 
 ' Then your first marriage was a deliberate felony, and a 
 deliberate fraud,' cried Edward : ' a felony because it was a 
 bigamous marriage, for which the law of the land could punish 
 you, even now ; a fraud because by it you pretended to fulfil the 
 conditions of your cousin's will, when you were not in a position 
 to comply with them.' 
 
 ' Stop, Mi*. Edward Clare,' exclaimed Tom Sampson, whose 
 quick perception had by this time made him master of the case ; 
 ' you are assuming a great deal more than you can sustain. You 
 are going very much too fast. What evidence have you that my 
 client's first marriage was a legal one ? What evidence have you 
 that he was ever married to Mademoiselle Chicot 1 We know how 
 very loosely tied such alliances are apt to be in that class of life. 
 
 "How do I know that he was married to her?' echoed 
 Edward. ' Why, by his own admission.' 
 
 ' My client admits nothing,' said Sampson with dignity. 
 
 ' He admits everything when he tells you that he was 
 remarried to Miss Malcolm after Madame Chicot's death. Had 
 he known his first marriage with Miss Malcolm to be valid 
 there would have been no occasion for a repetition of the 
 ceremony.' 
 
 1 He may have erred from excess of caution,' said Sampson. 
 
 ' John Treverton,' said the Vicar, who had been looking from 
 one speaker to the other, the facts of the case slowly dawning 
 upon him, ' this is very dreadful. Why is my son here as your 
 accuser ? What does it all mean ? ' 
 
 'It means that I have been guilty of a great wrong,' 
 answered Treverton quietly, ' and that I am ready to undo that 
 wrong, so far as it lies in my power. But I cannot discuss this 
 question in your son's presence. He has entered this room to- 
 night as my avowed enemy. To you — to Sampson — as the 
 trustees under my cousin's will, I am prepared to speak with 
 fullest confidence — as I have already spoken to my wife — but I 
 have no confession to make to your son. I recognise no right of 
 his to interfere in my affairs.' 
 
250 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 'No, Edward, really, this re no concern of yours,' said the 
 Vicar. 
 
 ' Is it not 1 ' cried his son, bitterly. ' But for my discovery, 
 but for the presence of George Gerard in the church to-day, do 
 you suppose this virtuous gentleman would have made his con- 
 fession to his wife or his wife's trustees 1 He saw himself identi- 
 fied to-day by the doctor who attended his first wife, who knows 
 the story of his late career under the alias of Chicot. Finding 
 himself face to face with an inevitable discovery, Mr. Treverton 
 very cleverly yields to the pressure of circumstances, and makes 
 a clean breast of it. Had Gerard never appeared in Hazlehurst, 
 this honourable gentleman would have gone on till doomsday, 
 untroubled by any scruples of conscience.' 
 
 The Vicar looked at his son wonderingly. Was this a loyal 
 regard for truth and justice, or was it the spirit of hatred and 
 envy which moved the youth so strongly 1 The good, easy-going 
 Vicar, full of charity for all the world, except a bad cook, could 
 not bring himself all in a moment to think evil of his son. Nor 
 was he ready to believe John Treverton the vilest of sinners. 
 Yet here was John Treverton accused by the Vicar's own son 
 of an unpardonable fraud, and suspected of the darkest crime. 
 
 'If you will tell your son to retire, we may discuss this 
 business without prejudice or passion,' said John. ' But as long 
 as he is present my lips are sealed.' 
 
 ' I have no wish to remain a moment longer,' answered 
 Edward. 'I hope Mrs. Treverton knows that I am ready to 
 serve her with zeal and devotion, should she deign to demand 
 my aid.' 
 
 ' I know that you are my husband's enemy,' answered Laura, 
 with freezing contempt, ' and that is all I know or care to know 
 about you.' 
 
 ' That's hard upon an old friend, Laura,' remonstrated the 
 Vicar, as Edward left the room. 
 
 ' Has he not dealt hardly by my husband 1 ' answered Laura, 
 with a stifled sob. 
 
 ' Now, let us try and look this business in the face,' said Mr. 
 Sampson, seating himself quietly at the table and taking out his 
 note-book. ' According to your confession, Mr. Treverton, you 
 had a wife living at the date of your first marriage with Miss 
 Malcolm, December the thirty-first of the year before last. "We 
 have nothing to do with your second marriage — except so far, of 
 course, as the lady's honour is concerned. That second marriage 
 can't touch the property. Now I am sorry to tell you that if your 
 marriage with the French dancer was a good marriage, you have 
 : no more right to be in this house, or to hold an acre of Jasper 
 ■ Treverton's land, than the meanest hind in Hazlehurst.' 
 
 1 1 am ready to deliver up all I hold to-morrow. Let the 
 
On his Defence. 251 
 
 hospital be founded. I acknowledge myself an impostor. 
 Shameful as the act appears now that I contemplate it coldly, it 
 seemed hardly a fraud when it first suggested itself to my mind. 
 I saw a way of securing the estate to my cousin's adopted 
 daughter. I knew it had been his dearest wish that she should 
 possess it. When I went through the ceremony of marriage with 
 Laura Malcolm in Hazlehurst Church, I had but the faintest 
 hope of ever being really her husband. "When I made the post- 
 nuptial settlement which was to secure to her the full enjoyment 
 of the estate, I had no hope of ever sharing that estate with her. 
 On my honour, as a man and a gentleman, it was for this dear 
 girl's sake I did these acts, and with no view to my own happiness 
 or aggrandisement.' 
 
 Laura's hand had been in his all the time he was speaking. 
 Its warm grasp at the close of this speech told him that he was 
 believed. 
 
 ' If you make these facts public, you beggar yourself and your 
 wife,' said Sampson. 
 
 1 No, we shall not be pe nnil ess/ exclaimed Laura. ' There 
 will be my income left. It is not quite three hundred a year, but 
 we can manage to live upon that, can't we, John ? ' 
 
 ' I could live contentedly on a crust a day in the dingiest 
 garret in Seven Dials if you were with me,' answered her husband, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 Mr. Clare was walking up and down the room in a state of 
 suppressed excitement. The whole business was too dreadful ; 
 he was hardly able to realize the enormity of the thing. This John 
 Treverton was a scoundrel, and the estate must all go to found a 
 hospital. Poor Laura must leave her luxurious home. The 
 parish would be a heavy loser. It was sad, and troublesome, and 
 altogether fraught with perplexity. And the Vicar had a cordiaj, 
 liking for this John Treverton. 
 
 ' "What have you to say about the murder of that poor creature 
 — your first wife?' he exclaimed presently, walking up to the 
 hearth by which Treverton and Laura were standing. 
 
 ' Only that I know no more who killed her than you do.' 
 answered John Treverton. ' I did a foolish thing, perhaps a 
 cowardly thing, when I left the house that night, with the deter- 
 mination never to return to it ; but if you could know how in- 
 tolerable my old life had become to me, you would hardly wonder 
 that I took the first opportunity of getting away from it.' 
 
 ' "We had better look at things from a business point of view,' 
 said Mr. Sampson. ' "We are not going to do anything in a hurry. 
 There will always be time enough for you to surrender the estate, 
 Mr. Treverton, and to acknowledge yourself guilty of bigamy. 
 But before you take such a step we may as well make ourselves 
 sure of our facts. You married Mademoiselle Chicot in Paris.' 
 
252 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Yes, on the eighteenth of May, sixty-eight. We were married 
 at the Maine. There was no other ceremony.' 
 
 ' Under what name were you married 1 ' 
 
 ' My own, naturally. It was only afterwards that I got to be 
 known by my wife's name.' 
 
 '"Were you known to many people in Paris by your own 
 name V 
 
 ' To very few. I had written in the newspapers under a norm 
 de plume, — my sketches at that time were all signed " Jack." I 
 was generally known as Jack, and after my marriage I became 
 Jack Chicot.' 
 
 ' How much did you know of your wife's antecedents ? ' 
 
 ' Very little, except that she had come to Paris from Auray, 
 in Brittany, about five years before I married her ; that she lived ' 
 reputably, although surrounded by much that was disreputable.' 
 
 ' But of her life in Brittany you knew nothing 1 ' 
 
 'I only knew what she told me. She was a fisherman's 
 daughter, born and reared in extreme poverty. She had grown 
 weary of the hard monotony of her life, and had come to Paris 
 alone, and for the most part of the way on foot, to make her 
 fortune. Auray is a long day's journey from Paris by rail. It 
 took her nearly a month to travel the distance.' 
 
 ' That is all you know 1 ' 
 
 ' Positively all.' 
 
 ' Then you cannot know that she was free to contract a 
 marriage — and you cannot know that you were legally married to 
 her ! ' said Tom Sampson triumphantly. 
 
 His interests as well as his client's were at stake, and he was 
 determined to make a hard fight for them. His stewardshipwas 
 worth a good five hundred a year. If the estate came to be 
 handed over for the establishment and maintenance of a hospital, 
 he would in all probability lose his position of land steward and 
 collector of rents. Some officious committee would oust him from 
 his post. His trusteeship would bring him nothing but trouble. 
 
 'That is a curious way of looking at the question,' said 
 Treverton thoughtfully. 
 
 ' It is the only right way. Why should any man be in a 
 hurry to prove himself guilty of felony 1 How do you know that 
 Mademoiselle Chicot did not leave a husband behind her at 
 Auray 1 It may have been to escape from his ill-treatment that 
 she came to Paris. That was a desperate step for a young woman 
 to take — a month's journey through a strange country, alone, and 
 on foot.' 
 
 ' She was so young,' said Treverton. 
 
 ' Not too young to have married foolishly.' 
 
 ' What would you advise me to do ? ' 
 I'll tell you to-morrow, when I've had time to think the 
 
On his Defence. 253 
 
 matter over. I can tell you in the meantime what I would advise 
 you not to do.' 
 
 ■ What is that ? ' 
 
 ' Don't surrender your estate till you — and we, as your wife's 
 trustees — are thoroughly convinced that you have no right to 
 hold it. Mr. Clare, I must ask you, as my co-trustee to Mrs. 
 Treverton's marriage settlement, to be silent as to the whole of the 
 facts that have become known to us to-night, and to request 
 your son also to keep his knowledge to himself.' 
 
 ' My son can have no motive for injuring Mr. and Mrs. 
 Treverton,' said the Vicar. 
 
 ' Of course not,' replied Sampson ; ' yet I thought his manner 
 this evening was somewhat vindictive.' 
 
 ' I believe he was only moved by his regard for Laura,' an- 
 swered the Vicar. ' He took up the matter warmly because he 
 considered that she had been deeply injured. I can but think 
 so too, and I do not wonder that my son should feel indignant. 
 As to the legal bearing of the case, Mr. Sampson, I leave you to 
 judge that, and to deal with that as you best may for the interests 
 of your client. But as to its moral aspect, I should do less than 
 my duty as a minister of the Gospel if I were not to declare that 
 Mr. Treverton has been guilty of a sin which can only be atoned 
 for by deep and honest repentance. I will say no more than that 
 now. Good-night, Treverton. Good-night, Laura.' 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her with fatherly affec- 
 tion. ' Keep up your courage, my poor girl,' he said in a low 
 voice. ' I wish your husband well out of his difficulties, for your 
 sake. Will you come home to the Vicarage with me, and talk 
 over your troubles with Celia 1 It might be a relief to you.' 
 
 ' Leave my husband ! ' exclaimed Laura. ' Leave him in 
 grief and trouble ! How could you think me capable of such a 
 thing 1 ' And then she drew the Vicar aside, and in a tremulous 
 voice, which was little more than a whisper, said to him, ' Dear 
 Mr. Clare, try not to think evil of my husband, for my sake. 1 
 know that he has sinned ; but he has been sorely tempted. He 
 could not judge the extent of the wrong he was doing. Tell me 
 that you do not suspect him as he has been suspected ; that you 
 are not influenced by Edward's cruel words. You do not believe 
 that he killed his wife 1 ' 
 
 ' No, my dear,' answered the Vicar decidedly. ' First and 
 foremost he is a Treverton, and comes of a stock I love and 
 honour ; and, secondly, I have lived in friendship with him for 
 the last six months ; and I don't think I'm such a fool that I 
 could live so long upon intimate terms with a murderer and not 
 find him out. No, my dear, I believe your husband has been 
 weak and guilty ; but I do not believe — I never will believe- 
 that he has been a cold-blooded-assassin,' 
 
254 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * God bless you for those words,' said Laura as the Vicar left 
 her. 
 
 ' If Mrs. Treverton will go to bed and get a little rest after 
 all this agitation, I shall be glad of some further conversation 
 with you before I go home,' said Sampson, when the door had 
 closed upon Mr. Clare. 
 
 Laura assented, turning her white, weary face to her husband, 
 with a look full of trust and love, as he went with her to the 
 bottom of the staircase. 
 
 'God bless and keep you, love,' he whispered. 'You have 
 shown me the way out of all my difficulties. I can afford to lose 
 everything except your affection.' 
 
 He went back to Tom Sampson, who was scribbling in his 
 note-book, in a brown study. 
 
 ' Now, Sampson, we are alone. What have you to say to me 1 ' 
 
 ' A great deal. You've got yourself into a pretty fix. Why 
 didn't you trust me from the beginning 1 What's the use of a 
 man having a lawyer if he keeps his affairs dark 1 ' 
 
 ' We won't go into that question now,' said John Treverton. 
 ' I want your advice about the future, not your lamentations over 
 the past. What do you recommend me to do 1 ' 
 
 ' Get away from this place to-night, on the best horse in your 
 stable. Take the first train at the furthest station you can reach 
 by daybreak to-morrow. Let me see. It's not much over 
 thirty miles to Exeter. You might get to Exeter on a good 
 horse.' 
 
 ' No doubt. But what would be gained by such a course ? ' 
 
 ' You would get out of the way before you could be arrested 
 on suspicion of being concerned in your first wife's murder.' 
 
 ' Who is going to arrest me ? 
 
 ' Edward Clare means mischief. I am sure of that. If he 
 has not already given information to the police, depend upon it 
 he will do so without delay.' 
 
 ' Let him,' answered Treverton. ' If he does, I must stand 
 my ground. I got out of the way once ; and I feel now that in 
 so doing I committed the greatest mistake of my life. I am not 
 going to fall into the same blunder again. If I am to be arrested 
 —if I am to be tried for murder, I will face my position. 
 Perhaps it would be the best thing that could happen to me, for 
 a trial might elicit the truth.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps you are right. Anything like running away 
 would tell against you. But I recommend you to get to the 
 other side of the Channel without an hour's loss of time. It is 
 of vital importance for you to find out your first wife's ante- 
 cedents. If you could be fortunate enough to discover that she 
 was a married woman when she left Auray, that sbe had a 
 husband living at the time jf your* marriage ' 
 
At the Morgue. 255 
 
 * Why do you harp so upon that string ? ' asked Treverton 
 impatiently. 
 
 1 Because it is the only string that can save your estate.' 
 
 ' I have no hope of such a thing.' 
 
 'Will you go to Auray and hunt up your wife's history? 
 Will you let me go with you 1 ' 
 
 ' I have no objection. A drowning man will cling to a straw 
 I may as well cling to that straw as to any other.' 
 
 ' Then we'll start by the first train to-morrow. We'll leave 
 the place in the openest manner. You can tell jaeople you are 
 going to Paris on business ; but if young Clare does set the 
 police on your track, I think they'll find it hardish work to 
 catch us.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll go to Auray,' said John Treverton, frowning medita- 
 tively at the fire. ' In my wife's antecedents there may lie the 
 clue to the secret of her miserable death. Revenge must have 
 been the motive of that murder. Who was it whom she had 
 so deeply injured, that nothing but her life could appease his 
 wrath]' 
 
 1 Who, except a deserted husband or lover ? ' urged Sampson. 
 
 ' Yet we lived together for two years in Paris, and no one ever 
 assailed us.' 
 
 ' The husband, or lover, may have been out of the way — 
 beyond seas, perhaps — a sailor, very likely. Auray is a seaport, 
 isn't it]' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 It was agreed that they should start for Exeter by the seven 
 o'clock train from Beechampton, catch the Exeter express for 
 Southampton, and cross from Southampton to St. Malo by the 
 steamer which sailed on Monday evening. Erom St. Malo to 
 Auray would be only a few hours' journey. They might reach 
 Auray almost as soon as they could have reached Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AT THE MORGUE. 
 
 It was midnight when John Treverton went upstairs to his 
 study, where there were lighted candles, and a newly replenished 
 lire ; for it was one of his habits to read or write late at night. 
 This evening he was in no mood for sleep. He lifted the curtain 
 that hung between the two rooms, and looked into the bedroom. 
 Laura had sobbed herself to sleep. The disordered hair, the hand 
 convulsively clasped upon the pillow, told how far from peace 
 her thoughts had been when she sank into the slumber of mental 
 exhaustion. John Treverton bent down and then turned from 
 the bed with a sigh. 
 
256 The Cloven Foot 
 
 ' My sins have fallen heavily upon you, my poor girl,' he said 
 to himself as he went back to his study and sat down by the fire 
 to think over his position, with all its perplexities and entangle- 
 ments. 
 
 Sleep was out of the question. He could only sit and stare at 
 the fire, and review his past life and its manifold follies. 
 
 How lightly had he flung away the treasure of liberty ! 
 "Without a thought of the future he had bound himself to a woman 
 for whom he had but the transient liking born of a young man's 
 fancy — of whom he knew so little, that looking back now, he was 
 unable to recall anything beyond the barest outline of her history. 
 Well, he was paying dearly for that brief infatuation — he was 
 paying a heavy forfeit for those careless days in which he had 
 lived among men without principle, and had sunk almost to as 
 low a level as his companions. He tried to remember anything 
 that his wife had ever told him of her childhood and youth ; but. 
 he could only remember that she had been very silent as to the 
 past. Once, and once only, on a summer Sabbath night, when 
 they two had been driving home alone together from a dinner in 
 the Bois, and when Zaire's tongue had been loosened by cham- 
 
 ?>agne and curacoa, she had talked of her journey to Paris ; that 
 ong, lonely journey, during which she had so little money in her 
 pocket that she could not even afford to give herself an occasional 
 stage in a diligence, but had been content to get a gratuitous lift 
 now and then in an empty wagon, or on the top of a load of buck- 
 wheat. She told him how she had entered Paris faint and thirsty, 
 white with dust from head to foot, as if she had come out of a 
 flour-niill ; and how the great city — with its myriad lamps and 
 voices, and the thunder of its wheels — had made her dazed and 
 giddy as she stood at the junction of two great boulevards, looking 
 down the endless vista, where the lights dwindled to a point on 
 the edge of the dark sky. She told him of her career in Paris — 
 how she had begun as a laundress on the quay, and how one Sunday 
 night at the Chateau des Fleurs a man had come up to her 
 after one of the quadrilles — a fat man with a gray moustache and 
 a large white waistcoat — and had asked her where she had learned 
 to dance ; and how she had told him, laughingly, that she had 
 never learned at all — that it came naturally to her, like eating and 
 drinking and sleeping ; and then he had asked her whether she 
 would like to be a dancer at one of the theatres, and wear a 
 petticoat of golden tissue and white satin boots embroidered with 
 gold — such as she might have seen in the last great spectacle of 
 the Hind in the Wood ; and she had told him yes, such a life 
 would suit her exactly ; whereupon the gentleman in the white 
 waistcoat told her to present herself at eleven o'clock next morning 
 at a cei*tain big theatre on the Boulevard. She obeyed, saw the 
 gentleman in his private room at the theatre, was engaged as one 
 
At the Morgue. 257 
 
 of a hundred and fifty figurantes, at a salary of twenty francs a 
 week. ' And from that to the time when I was the rage at the 
 Students' Theatre, it was easy,' said La Chicot, with an insolent 
 smile upon her full, red lips. ' If I had any other man for my 
 husband I should be the rage at one of the Boulevard Theatres, 
 and the Figaro would have an article about me every other week.' 
 
 ' You have never had any fancy for going back to Auray, to 
 see your old friends V asked the husband once, wondering at the 
 cold egotism of the creature. 
 
 'I never had a friend in Brittany for whom I cared that,', 
 answered Zaire, snapping her fingers. ' Every one ill-treated 
 me. My father was a perambulating cider- vat — my poor mother 
 — well, I can pity her, because she was so miserable — whined and 
 whimpered. It was a mercy to all of us when the good God took 
 her.' 
 
 1 And you never had any one else to care for 1 ' asked Jack, in 
 a speculative mood. ' No lover, for instance V 
 
 1 Lover ! ' cried La Chicot, her great eyes flashing upon him 
 angrily. ' What had I to do with a lover 2 I was but nineteen 
 when I left that hole,' 
 
 ' Lovers have been heard of even at that early age,' suggested 
 Jack, in his quietest tone ; and after that his wife said no more 
 about her past history. 
 
 To-night, sitting in idle despondency, looking into the fire, 
 John Treverton, master of Hazlehurst Manor, husband of a 
 wife he adored, utterly dissociated from that reckless, happy-go- 
 lucky Jack Chicot of Bohemian surroundings, for whom the 
 good and evil of each day had been all-sufficient, and who had 
 never dared to look forward to the inevitable to-morrow, let his 
 thoughts slip back to the bygone days, and saw, as in a picture, 
 those scenes of the past which had impressed themselves most 
 vividly upon his mind when they happened. 
 
 There was one incident in his married life which had made 
 him wonder, for his wife had not been a woman of a sensitive 
 temper, or easily moved to strong emotion, save when her own 
 pleasure or her own interest was at stake. Yet in this particular 
 instance she had shown herself as susceptible to pity and terror 
 as a girl of seventeen, fresh from a convent schooL 
 
 They two, husband and wife, had been strolling one summer 
 afternoon upon the quays and bridges, loitering to look at the 
 traffic on the river, sitting to rest under the trees, or turning 
 over the leaves of the old books upon the stalls, and so sauntering 
 carelessly on till they came to the Pont Neuf. 
 
 'Let us go across and look at Notre Dame,' said the 
 husband, for whom the old church had an inexhaustible charm. 
 
 1 Bah !' cried the wife. ' What a fancy you have for staring 
 at old stones V 
 
258 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 They crossed the bridge, and sauntered to the front of the 
 noble old cathedral, where already the hand of improvement was 
 beginning to clear away the houses that surrounded and over- 
 shadowed its beauty. Jack Chicot was looking up at the 
 glorious western door, built by Philip Augustus, thickly wrought 
 with fleurs-de-lys, where in days of old had appeared the 
 sculptured images of all the kings of Judah, shrined in niches of 
 stonework, as delicate as lace or spring foliage. His wife's eyes 
 roved right and left, and all around, seeking some diversion for 
 a mind prone to weariness when not stimulated by amusement 
 or dissipation. 
 
 ' See, my friend,' she cried suddenly, clutching her husband's 
 arm. ' There is something ! Look, what a crowd of people. Is 
 it a procession or an accident V 
 
 1 An accident, I think,' answered Chicot, looking down the 
 street facing them, along which a closely-packed crowd was 
 hastening, rolling towards them like a mighty wave of black 
 water. ' "We had better get^out of the way.' 
 
 ' But, no,' cried the wife eagerly. ' If there is something to 
 see, let us^see it. Life is not too full of distractions.' 
 
 ' It may be something unpleasant,' suggested Jack. ' I am 
 afraid they are carrying some poor creature to the Morgue.' 
 
 ' That matters nothing. We may as well see.' 
 
 So they waited, and fell in among the hurrying crowd, and 
 heard many voices discussing the thing that had happened, every 
 voice offering a different version of the same ghastly story. 
 
 A man had been run over on the Boulevard — a seafaring 
 man from the provinces — knocked down by the horses of a hug8 
 wagon. The horses had kicked him, the wheels had gone over 
 his body. ' He was dead when they picked him up,' said one. 
 ' No, he spoke, and hardly seemed conscious he was hurt,' said 
 Another. ' He died while they were waiting for the brancard on 
 which to carry him to the hospital,' said a third. 
 
 And now they were taking him to the Morgue, the famous 
 dead-house of the city, down by the river yonder. He was being 
 carried in the midst of that dense crowd, which had been 
 gathering ever since the bearers started with their ghastly 
 burden, from the Porte St. Denis, where the accident happened. 
 He was there in the centre of that mass of human life, an awful 
 figure, covered from head to foot, and hidden from all those 
 curious eyes. 
 
 Jack and his wife were borne along with the rest, past the 
 great cathedral, down by the river, to the doors of the dead- 
 house. 
 
 Here they all came to a stop : no one was allowed to enter 
 save the dead man and his bearers, and three or four sergents de 
 viUe. 
 
At the Morgue. 259 
 
 ' We must wait till they have made his toilet,' said La Chicot 
 to her husband, ' and then we can go in and see him.' 
 
 ' "What 1 ' cried Jack, ' surely you would not wish to look at a 
 piece of shattered humanity ? He must be a dreadful sight, poor 
 creature.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, monsieur,' said some one near them in tihfc 
 crowd. ' The poor man's face was not injured. He is a 
 handsome fellow, tanned by the sun ; a seafaring man, a fine 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' Let's go in and see him,' urged La Chicot, and when La 
 Chicot wanted to do a thing she always did it. 
 
 So they waited amongst the crowd, close-packed still, though 
 about two-thirds of the people had dropped off and gone back to 
 their business or their pleasure ; not because they shrank from 
 looking upon death in its most awful aspect, but because the toilet 
 might be long, and the spectacle was not worth the trouble of 
 waiting a weary half -hour in the su mm er sun. 
 
 La Chicot waited with a slogged patience which was a part of 
 her character when she had made up her mind about anything. 
 Jack waited patiently too ; for he was watching the faces in 
 the crowd, and had an artistic delight in studying these various 
 specimens of a somewhat debased humanity. Thus the half -hour 
 wore itself out, the doors were opened, and the crowd poured 
 into the dead-house, just as it would have poured into a theatre 
 or a circus. 
 
 There he lay, the new-comer, with the summer light shining 
 on him — a calm figure behind a sheet of glass, a brave, bronzed 
 face, bearded, with strongly-marked brows and close-cropped black 
 hair, gold rings in the ears, and on one bare arm, the arm which 
 had escaped the wagon wheel, an inscription tattooed in purple 
 and red. 
 
 Jack Chicot, after contemplating the dead man's face with 
 curious interest, fixing the well-marked features in his mind, 
 bent down to look at the tattooed device and inscription. 
 
 There was a ship, a vour? and these words, ' Dedicated to 
 Saint Anne of Auray.' 
 
 'The man was doubtless a native of Auray, La Chicot'a 
 birthplace. 
 
 Jack turned to remark this fa his wife. She was standing 
 close at his elbow, livid as the corpse behind the glass, her face 
 convulsed, big tears rolling down her cheeks. 
 
 ' Do you know him 1 ' asked Jack. ' Is it any one you 
 remember ? ' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' she sobbed ; ' but it is too dreadful Take nve 
 away — take me out of this place, or I shall drop down in a fit.' 
 
 He hurried her out through the crowd, pushing his way intg> 
 the open air. 
 
260 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' You overrated your strength of nerve,' he said, vexed at the 
 folly which had exposed her to such a shock. ' You should not 
 hive a fancy for such horrid sights.' 
 
 'I shall be better presently,' answered La Chicot. 'It is 
 nothing.' 
 
 She was not better presently. She was hysterical all the rest 
 of the day, and at night had no sooner closed her eyes than she 
 started up from her pillow, sobbing violently, and holding her 
 hands before her face. 
 
 ' Don't let me see him 1 ' she cried passionately. ' Jack, why 
 are you so cruel as to make me see him 1 You are holding me 
 against the glass — you are forcing me to look at him. Take me 
 away.' 
 
 Pondering to-night upon this strange scene of five years ago, 
 John Treverton asked himself if there might not have been some 
 kind of link between this man and Zaire Chicot. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 GEORGE GERAED IN DANGER. 
 
 Although George Gerard had made up his mind to leave 
 Beechampton by the first train on Monday morning, and although 
 he began to feel doubtful as to the purity of Edward Clare's in- 
 tentions, and altogether uncomfortable in the society of that 
 young man, when Monday came and showed him a dark sky, and 
 a world almost blotted out by rain, he yielded, more weakly than 
 it was his nature to yield, to the friendly persuasion of Mrs. 
 Clare and her daughter, who had come down to the breakfast 
 troom at an early hour to pour out the departing guest's tea. 
 
 ' You really must not travel on such a wretched morning,' 
 said the Vicar's wife, with maternal kindness. ' I wouldn't let 
 Edward start on a long journey in such weather.' 
 
 George Gerard thought of the discomforts of a third-class 
 carriage, the currents of icy air creeping in at every crack, the 
 incursion of damp passengers at every station, breathing frostily, 
 and flapping their muddy garments against his knees, the 
 streaming umbrellas in the corners, the all-pervading wretched- 
 ness : and then his thoughtful eyes roamed round the pretty 
 little breakfast room, where the furniture would hardly have 
 fetched twenty pounds at an auction, but where the snugness and 
 cosiness and homelike air were above price ; and from the room 
 he glanced at its occupants, Celia in her dark winter gown, of 
 coarse blue serge, fitting to perfection, and set off by the last 
 fashion in collar and cuffs. 
 
 ' Why do you worry Mr. Gerard, mother 1 ' asked Celia, 
 looking up from her tea-making. ' Don't you see that we are so 
 
George Gerard in Danger. 261 
 
 horribly dull here, and he is so anxious to get away from us, that 
 he would go through a much worse ordeal than a wet journey in 
 order to make his escape 1 ' 
 
 ' I almost wish you knew what a cruel speech that is, Miss 
 Clare,' said Gerard, looking down at her with a grave smile from 
 his station in front of the fire. 
 
 < Why cruel ? ' 
 
 ' Because you unconsciously taunt me with my poverty. The 
 eight or ten patients I ought to see to-morrow morning are 
 ••vorth a hundred pounds a year to me at most, and yet I can 
 nardly venture to jeopardise that insignificant income.' 
 
 ' How you will look back and laugh at these days years hence 
 when you are being driven in your brougham from Savile-row to 
 the railway station, to start for Windsor Castle, at the command 
 of a telegram from royalty.' 
 
 'Leaving royal telegrams and Windsor Castle out of the 
 question, there is such a distance between my present abode and 
 Savile-row that I doubt my ever being able to traverse it,' said 
 Gerard ; ' but in the meantime my few paying patients are of 
 vital importance to me, and I have some rather critical cases 
 among my poor people.' 
 
 ' Poor dear things, I am sure they can alf wait,' said Celia. 
 ' Perhaps it will do them good to suspend their treatment for a 
 day or two. Physic seems at best such a doubtful advantage.' 
 
 'I have a friend who looks after anything serious,' said 
 Gerard dubiously. 'If I were to follow my own inclination I 
 should most assuredly stay.' 
 
 ' Then follow it,' cried Celia. ' I always do. Mamma, give 
 Mr. Gerard some bacon and potatoes, while I run and tell Peter 
 to go to the George, and let them know that the omnibus need 
 not call here.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I am imposing upon your kind hospitality, and 
 giving you a great deal of trouble,' said Gerard, when Celia had 
 slipped out of the room to give her orders. 
 
 ' You are giving us no trouble ; and you must know that I 
 should be happy to receive any friend of my son's.' 
 
 Gerard's sallow cheek flushed faintly at this speech. He felt 
 that there was a kind of imposture in his position at the Vicarage. 
 Every one insisted upon regarding him as an intimate friend of 
 Edward Clare ; and already it had been made clear to him that 
 Edward was a man whom he could never make his friend. But 
 for Edward Clare's mother and sister he had a much more cordial 
 feeling. 
 
 He sat down to breakfast with the two ladies. The Vicar 
 would breakfast later, and one of Edward's privileges as a poet 
 of the future was to lie in bed until ten o'clock every morning in 
 the present. Never, perhaps, was a merrier breakfast eaten. 
 
262 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Gerard, having made up his mind to stay, abandoned himself 
 unreservedly to the pleasure of the moment. Celia questioned 
 him about his life, and drew from him a lively description of 
 some of the more curious incidents in his career. He had but 
 rarely joined in the wilder amusements of his fellow students, 
 but he had joined them often enough to see all that was strange 
 and interesting in Loudon life. Celia listened open-eyed, with 
 rosy lips apart in wonder. 
 
 ' Ah, that is what I call living,' she exclaimed. ' How differ- 
 ent from our system of vegetation here. I'm sure if Harvey had 
 lived all his life at Hazlehurst he would never have found out 
 anything about the circulation of the blood. I don't believe ours 
 does circulate.' 
 
 'If you could only know how sweet your rural stagnation 
 seems to a dweller in cities,' said Gerard. 
 
 ' Let the dweller in cities try it for a month or six weeks,' 
 said Celia. ' He will be weary enough by the end of that time ; 
 unless he is one of those sporting creatures who are always happy 
 as long as they can go about with a gun or a fishing rod murder- 
 ing something.' 
 
 f I should want neither gun nor rod,' said Gerard. ' I think 
 I could find complete happiness among these hills.' 
 
 ' What, away from all your hospitals ? ' 
 
 * I am speaking of my holiday life. I could not afford to live 
 always away from the hospitals. I have to learn my profession.' 
 
 ' I thought you had done with all that when you passed your 
 examination.' " 
 
 ' A medical man has never done learning. Medical science is 
 progressive. The tyro of to-day knows more than the adept of a 
 century ago.' 
 
 As Mr. Gerard had only one day to spend at the Vicarage, 
 Celia gave herself up to the task of making that one day agree- 
 able to him, with the utmost benevolence and amiability. Her 
 brother seemed dull and morose, and shut himself in his den 
 all day, upon the pretence of polishing a lyric he had fiung off, 
 in a moment of inspiration, for one of the magazines ; so 
 Celia had the visitor thrown altogether on her hands, as she 
 complained afterwards rather plaintively, though she bore the 
 infliction pretty cheerfully at the time. 
 
 The two young people spent the morning in conversation 
 beside the breakfast-room fire, Celia pretending to work very hard 
 at an antimacassar in crewels ; while Gerard paced the room, and 
 Stared out of the window, and fidgeted on his chair, after the 
 manner of a young man, not belonging to the tame cat species, 
 frhen he finds himself shut up in a country house with a young 
 woman. In spite of this restlessness, however, the surgeon 
 jeemed particularly well pleased with his idle morning. He 
 
George Gerard in Danger. 2G3 
 
 found a great deal to talk about — people — places — books — life in 
 the abstract — and, finally, his own youth and boyhood in 
 particular. He told Celia much more than it was his habit to 
 tell an acquaintance. Those blue eyes of hers expressed such 
 gentle sympathy ; the pretty, pouting, under lip had a tender 
 look that tempted him to trust her. As a physiognomist he was 
 inclined to think well of Celia, despite her frivolity. As a young 
 man he was inclined to admire her. 
 
 ' You must have had a very hard youth,' she said compas- 
 sionately, when he had given her a sketch, half sad, half humor- 
 ous, of his life at the Marischal College, Aberdeen. 
 
 ' Yes, and I am likely to have a hard manhood,' he answered 
 gravely. ' How can I ever dare ask a woman to share a life which 
 has at present so little promise of sunshine 1 ' 
 
 1 But do not all your great men begin in that kind of way 1 ' 
 interrogated Celia ; ' Sir Astley Cooper, for instance, and that 
 poor dear who found out the separate functions of the nerves that 
 direct our thoughts and movements — though goodness knows 
 what actual use that discovery could have been to anybody ' 
 
 ' I think you must mean Sir Charles Bell,' suggested Gerard, 
 rather disgusted at this flippant mention of genius. 
 
 ' I suppose I do,' said Celia. ' He wrote a book about hands, I 
 believe. I only wish he had written a book about gloves ; for 
 your glove-maker's idea of anatomy is simply absurd. I never 
 yet could find a maker who understands my thumb.' 
 
 'What an advantage my sex has over yours in that respect ! 
 remarked Gerard. 
 
 1 How so 1 ' 
 
 I We never need wear gloves, except when we dance or when 
 we drive.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' sighed Celia, with her wondering look. ' I suppose 
 there are sane men in big places like London and Manchester, 
 who walk about without gloves. They wouldn't do it here, where 
 everybody knows everybody else.' 
 
 ' I think I have bought about two pairs of gloves since I at- 
 tained to man's estate,' said Gerard. 
 
 ' But your dances 1 How do you manage for those 1 * 
 
 * Easily. I never dance.' 
 
 ' What, are you never tired of playing the wallflower ? Do 
 not German waltzes inspire you ? ' 
 
 I I never go in the way of being inspired. I have never been 
 to a party since I came to London.' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! Why don't you go to parties ? ' 
 
 ' I could give you fifty reasons, but perhaps one will do as 
 
 well. Nobody ever asks me.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! ' cried Celia, with intense compassion. Nothing 
 
 he had told her of his early struggles had touched her like this. 
 
264 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Here was the acme of desolation. ' What, you live in London all 
 the season, and nobody asks you to dances and things 1 ' 
 
 1 In that part of London I inhabit there is no season. Life 
 there runs on the same monotonous wheels all the year round — 
 poverty all the year round — hard work all the year round — debt, 
 and difficulty, and sickness, and sorrow all the year round.' 
 
 ' You are making my heart bleed,' said Celia ; ' at least I sup- 
 pose that's anatomically impossible, and I ought not to mention 
 such an absurdity to a doctor ; but you are making me feel quite 
 too unhappy.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to do that,' returned Gerard gently, ' and 
 it would be a very bad return for your kindness to me. Do not 
 imagine that the kind of life I lead is a silent martyrdom. I am 
 happy in my profession. I am getting on quite as fast as I ever 
 expected to get on. I believe — yes, I do honestly believe, that I 
 xhall make name and fortune sooner or later, if I five long enough, 
 [t is only when I reflect how long it must be before I can con- 
 quer a position good enough for a wife to share, that I am in- 
 clined to feel impatient.' 
 
 Celia became suddenly interested in the shading of a vine leaf, 
 and bent her face so low over her work, that a flood of crimson 
 rushed into her cheeks, and she felt disinclined to look up again. 
 
 She gave a little, nervous cough presently, and, as Gerard was 
 pacing the room in silence, felt herself constrained to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' I dare say the young lady to whom you are engaged will not 
 mind how long she has to wait,' Celia suggested ; ' or, if she is 
 very brave, she will not shrink from sharing your early struggles.' 
 
 ' There is no such young lady in question,' answered Gerald. 
 1 1 am not engaged.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. Ah, I forgot you had said you didn't 
 go to parties.' 
 
 ' Do you think a man should choose a wife at a dance 1 ' 
 
 C I don't know. Such things do happen at dances, don't 
 they ? ' 
 
 ' Possibly. For my own part, I would rather see my future 
 wife at home, by her father's fireside.' 
 
 ' Darning stockings,' suggested Celia. ' I believe that is the 
 real test of feminine virtue. A woman may be allowed to play 
 and sing ; she may even speak a couple of modern languages ; 
 but her chief merit is supposed to lie in her ability to darn 
 stockings and make a pudding. Now, Mr. Gerard, is not that 
 the old-established idea of perfection in womankind V 
 
 ' I believe that the darning and pudding-making are vaguely 
 supposed to include all the domestic virtues. It may seem sordid 
 in a lover to consider such details, but the happiness of a 
 husband depends somewhat upon his wife's housekeeping. 
 
George Gerard in Danger. 265 
 
 Oould any home be Eden in which the cook gave warning once 
 a month, and the policeman ate up all the cold meat ? ' 
 
 Celia laughed, but the laugh ended with a sigh. She had 
 made up her mind that if ever she married, her husband must be 
 rich enough to be above the petty struggles of household 
 economy, the cheese-parings of a limited income. He must be 
 able to keep at least a pony carriage, and the pony carriage must 
 be perfect in all its appointments. A footman Celia might 
 forego, but she must have the neatest of parlour-maids. She did 
 not aspire to get her gowns from Worth : but she must not be 
 circumscribed as to collars and cuffs, and must be able to employ 
 the best dressmaker in Exeter or Plymouth. 
 
 But here was a young man who must wait for years before he 
 could many ; or must drag some poor young woman down into 
 the dismal swamp of genteel poverty. Celia felt honestly sorry 
 for him. Of all the men she had ever met he seemed to her the 
 most manly, the brightest, the bravest — perhaps altogether. the 
 best. If not exactly handsome, there was that in his marked 
 features and vivid expression which Celia thought more attrac- 
 tive than absolute regularity of line, or splendour of colour. 
 
 Mrs. Clare had been absent all the morning, engaged in small 
 domestic duties which she considered important, but which Celia 
 described sweepingly as ' muddling.' She appeared by-and-by 
 at luncheon — a meal which the Vicar never ate — and entertained 
 her guest with a dissertation on the tiresomeness of servants, and 
 the various difficulties of housekeeping, until Edward — who 
 honoured the family circle with his society while he refreshed his 
 exhausted muse with cold roast beef and pickles — ruthlessly cut 
 short his mother's sermonising, and entered upon a critical 
 discussion with George Gerard as to the relative merits of 
 Browning and Swinburne. 
 
 Celia was surprised to discover how widely the young 
 surgeon had read. She had expected to find him ignorant of 
 almost everything outside his own particular domain. 
 
 1 How can you find time for light literature V she asked. 
 
 ' Light literature is my only relaxation.' 
 
 ' You go to the theatres now and then, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 'I like to go when there is something good to be seen, 
 answered Gerard, flushing at the recollection of the time when he 
 had gone three nights a week to feast his eyes upon La Chicot's 
 florid loveliness. 
 
 He felt ashamed of an infatuation which at the time had 
 seemed to him as noble as the Greek's worship of abstract 
 beauty. 
 
 By the time luncheon was finished the rain had ceased, and 
 the gray, wintry sky, though sunless, looked no longer threatening. 
 
 'Not a bad afternoon for a ramble on yonder moor.,' said 
 
266 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Gerard, standing in the bay window, looking out at the landscape. 
 ' Would you have the courage to be my pioneer, Miss Clare 1 ' 
 
 Celia looked at her brother interrogatively. 
 
 'I'm not in the humour for any more scribbling to-day,' 
 said Edward, ' so perhaps a good long walk would be the easiest 
 way of getting rid of the afternoon. Put on your waterproof 
 and clump soles, Celia, and show us the way.' 
 
 Celia ran off, delighted at the opportunity. A moorland 
 ramble with a conversable young man was at least a novelty. 
 
 In the hall the damsel met her mother, and, in a sudden 
 overflow of spirits, stopped to give her a filial hug. 
 
 'Let us have something nice for dinner, mother dear,' she 
 pleaded. ' It's his last evening.' 
 
 The tone of the request inspired Mrs. Clare with vague fears. 
 A girl could hardly have said more had the visitor been her 
 plighted lover. 
 
 ' What an idea ! ' she exclaimed good-humouredly. ' Of 
 course I shall do the best I can, but Monday is such an 
 awkward day.' 
 
 'Of course, dear. We all know that, but don't let it be 
 quite a Monday dinner,' urged Celia. 
 
 ' As for that young man, I don't believe he knows what he is 
 eating.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid that he should be like my father, and his 
 dinner the most important event in his day ! ' retorted Celia, 
 whereat Mrs. Clare murmured mildly, — 
 
 'My love, your father has a very peculiar constitution. 
 There are things which he can eat, and things which he cannot eat.' 
 
 ' Of course, you dear deluded mater. Cold mutton is 
 poisonous to his constitution ; but I never heard of his being 
 the worse for truffled turkey.' 
 
 And then Celia skipped off, to attire herself, not un- 
 becomingly, in a dark gray ulster, and the most impertinent of 
 billycock hats. 
 
 The ramble on the moor was a success. Edward held 
 himself aloof, and smoked his cigar in gloomy silence, but the 
 two others were as merry as a brace of schoolboys taking a 
 stolen holiday. They clambered the steepest paths, crossed the 
 wildest bits of hill and hollow, narrowly escaped coming to grief 
 in boggy ground, and laughed and talked with inexhaustible 
 spirits all the time. George Gerard hardly knew himself, and 
 was struck with wonder at finding that life could be so pleasant. 
 The wintry air was fresh and clear, the wind whistled gaily over 
 the vast sweep of undulating turf and heather. Just at sunset 
 there came a flood of yellow light over the low western sky ; a 
 farewell smile from a sun that had hidden himself all day. 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' cried Celia, ' we shall barely have time to 
 
George Gerard in Danger. 267 
 
 scamper home to dinner ; and if there is one thing that irritates 
 papa more than another, it is to wait five minutes for his 
 dinner. He never waits more than five minutes. If he did, 
 believe lunacy would ensue before the tenth, You ought not to 
 have led me astray so far, Mr. Gerard.' 
 
 ' I think it is you who have been leading me astray,' said 
 Gerard, half grave, half gay. ' I never felt so far from my 
 work-a-day self in my life. You have a great deal to answer 
 for, Miss Clare.' 
 
 Celia blushed at the charge, but did not reply to it. She 
 turned and surveyed the ground over which they had travelled. 
 
 'I can't see Edward anywhere,' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Do you know, I have an idea that he left us about an hour 
 ago,' said Gerard. 
 
 ' What a ridiculous young man ! And now he will be home 
 ever so long before us, and will make capital out of his 
 punctuality with my father.' 
 
 ' Could you imagine him capable of such meanness V 
 
 ' He is a brother,' answered Celia, ' and in that capacity 
 capable of anything. Come along, pray, Mr. Gerard. We must 
 scamper home awfully fast.' 
 
 ' Won't you take my arm ? ' asked Gerard. 
 
 'Walk arm in arm over the moor! That would be too 
 iridiculous,' exclaimed Celia, tripping on lightly over hillock and 
 Ihollow. 'Do make haste, Mr. Gerard, or we shall be lost in the 
 ( darkness.' 
 
 George Gerard thought it would be rather nice to be 
 benighted on the moor with Celia, or at any rate to go astray for 
 an hour or so and lengthen their ramble. Happily, however, 
 the lights of the village, gl im mering in the valley below, were a 
 safe guide to their footsteps, and Celia knew the pathway that 
 descended the moor as well as she knew her father's garden. 
 The only peril was the risk of getting into some boggy patch of 
 the common at the bottom of the moor, and even here Celia's 
 knowledge availed to keep them out of mischief. They arrived 
 at the Yicarage breathless, with glowing cheeks, just in time to 
 make a hurried toilet for dinner. 
 
 Oh, how much too short that winter evening, though one of 
 the longest in the year, seemed to George Gerard ! And yet its 
 pleasures were of the simplest. Three of Celia's particular 
 friends — the one eligible youth of Hazlehurst and his two 
 sisters — dropped in to spend the evening, and the Vicarage 
 drawing-room resounded with youthful voices and youthful 
 laughter. Celia and the two young ladies played and sang ; and 
 though neither playing nor singing was above the average young 
 lady power, the voices were tuneful and fresh, and the fingers 
 were equal to doing justice to a German waltz. The eligible 
 
268 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 young man was capable of joining in a glee, and George Gerard 
 consented to try the bass part, and proved himself the possessor 
 of a fine bass voice and a correct ear, so they asked each other, 
 * Who would o'er the downs so free 1 ' and they requested every 
 one to ' See our oars with feathered spray,' and they made 
 valorous attempts at Bishop's famous ' Stay, pr'ythee, stay,' in 
 which they did not break down more than fifteen times, and they 
 altogether enjoyed themselves immensely, while the Vicar read 
 John Bull and the Guardian from end to end, and good Mrs. 
 Clare nodded comfortably over a crochet comforter, giving her 
 ivory hook a vague dig into the woolly mass every now and then 
 with an idea that she was working diligently. 
 
 Edward sat aloof reading Browning's" Paracelsus," and hardly 
 understanding a word he read. His mind was full of perplexity 
 and darkest thoughts were brooding there. 
 
 Thus the evening ran its course, till the appearance of a tray 
 of sandwiches and a tankard of claret negus warned the revellers 
 that it was time to disperse. The church clock chimed the half- 
 hour after eleven as George Gerard went up to his room. 
 
 'And to-morrow night I shall be alone in my Cibber Street 
 parlour/ he said to himself, ' and I may never see Celia Clare 
 again. Better so, perhaps. What should a piece of pretty 
 frivolity like that have to do in so hard a life as mine ? ' 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXV. 
 
 ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERT. 
 
 After pitching and tossing all night in a manner painfully 
 suggestive of shipwreck, John Treverton and his faithful 
 solicitor arrived at St. Malo early in the afternoon, where the 
 comforts and luxuries of that most comfortable hotel, the * Erank- 
 lm,' were peculiarly grateful after their cold and dreary passage. 
 
 There was no train to carry them to Auray that afternoon, 
 so they dined snugly by a glorious wood fire in a private 
 sitting-room, and discussed the difficulties and dangers of John 
 Treverton's position over a bottle of Chambertin with the true 
 violet bouquet. 
 
 Throughout this long conversation, Tom Sampson showed 
 himself as shrewd as he was devoted. He seized the salient points 
 of the case ; fully measured all its difficulties ; saw that sooner 
 or later John Treverton might be arrested on suspicion of his 
 wife's murder, and would have to prove himself innocent. 
 Sampson, as well as Treverton, had seen how much malice there 
 was in Edward Clare's mind, and both foresaw the probability of 
 that malice being pushed still further. 
 
On a Voyage of Discovery. 269 
 
 ' If we could only prove that your first marriage was invalid, 
 we should get rid at once of any motive on your part for the 
 murder,' said Sampson. 
 
 ' You could not prove that I knew my first marriage to be 
 invalid,' answered Treverton, ' unless you are going to try to 
 prove a lie.' 
 
 ' I don't know what I might not try to do, if your neck were 
 in danger,' retorted Sampson. ' I shouldn't stick at trifles, you 
 may depend upon it. The grand thing will be to find out if 
 there was a previous marriage. After your story about the 
 sailor at the Morgue, I am inclined to hope for success.' 
 
 ' Are you ? Poor Sampson ! I strongly suspect we are 
 going in search of a mare's nest.' 
 
 They left St. Malo next morning, and arrived at Auray early 
 in the afternoon. They were jolted down a long boulevard from 
 the station to the town in an omnibus, which finally deposited 
 them at the Pavilion d'en haut, a very comfortable hotel, where 
 they were received by a smiling landlady, and a pretty chamber- 
 maid in a neat black gown, trimmed with velvet, a cambric 
 cap as quaint as a nun's headgear, and apron, collar, and cuffs of 
 the same spotless fabric. 
 
 As Tom Sampson's knowledge of the French language was 
 that of the average British schoolboy, he naturally found 
 himself unable to understand the natives of an obscure port in 
 Brittany. He was with his client in the capacity of adviser ; 
 but it behoved his client to do all the work. 
 
 'Well, my dear fellow,' said Treverton, when they had 
 deposited their travelling bags at the hotel, and were standing in 
 the empty market-place, looking round them somewhat vaguely, 
 'here we are, and what is to be our first move now we are here? 3 
 
 ' I should think about the best plan would be to go to the 
 churches and examine the registers,' suggested Sampson. 'I 
 suppose you know your first wife's real name 1 ' 
 
 ' Not unless it was Chicot — I married her under that name.' 
 
 ' Chicot,' repeated Sampson dubiously. ' It sounds rather 
 barbarous, but it's nothing to the names over the shops here. 
 I never saw such crack-jaw cognomens. "Well, we'd better go 
 and look up all the registers for the name of Chicot.' 
 
 ' That would be slow work,' said Treverton, t hinkin g of the 
 sweet young wife at home, full of fear and trouble, left to brood 
 ' jpon her sorrows at that very time when life ought to have been 
 made bright and happy for her, a time when her mind might be 
 most prone to despondency. 
 
 He had written Laura a consoling letter from St. Malo, 
 affecting hopefulness he did not feel ; but he knew how poor 
 a consolation any letter must be, and he was longing to finish 
 his business and turn his face homewards. 
 
270 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Can you suggest a quicker way ? ' asked Sampson. 
 
 ' I think it might be a better plan to find out the oldest priest 
 in the parish, and question him. A priest in such a place as 
 this ought to be a living chronicle of the lives of its inhabitants.' 
 
 ' Not half a bad idea,' said Sampson approvingly. ' The 
 sooner you find your priest the better, say I.' 
 
 ' Come along, then,' said Treverton, and they went up the 
 steps of a church near at hand, and into the dusky aisle, where a 
 few scattered old women were kneeling in the winter gloom, and 
 where the sanctuary lamp shone like a red star in the distance. 
 
 ' What would they say at Hazlehurst if they could see me in 
 a Eoman Catholic church 1 ' thought Sampson. ' They'd give me 
 over for lost.' 
 
 John Treverton walked softly round the church, till he met 
 with a priest who was just shutting up his confessional, prepara- 
 tory to departure. He was a youngish man, with a good-natured 
 countenance, and acknowledged the stranger's salutation with a 
 friendly smile. John Treverton followed him out of the church 
 before he ventured to ask for the information he wanted, and 
 then he explained himself as briefly as possible. 
 
 ' I have come from England to obtain information about a 
 native of this town,' he said. ' Do you think that among the 
 priests connected with your church there is any gentleman who 
 can remember the events of the last twenty years, and who would 1 
 be obliging enough to answer my questions 1 ' 
 
 ' Most certainly, monsieur, since I apprehend your inquiries 
 are to a good end.' 
 
 ' I can give you my own word for tli&fc. This gentleman is my 
 solicitor, and if he cotild speak French, or if you could speak 
 English, he would be able to vouch for my respectability. Un- 
 happily he cannot put half-a-dozen words together in your charm- 
 ing language. At least I'm afraid he can't. Do you think you 
 could tell this gentleman who I am, Sampson ? ' John Treverton 
 asked, turning to his ally. 
 
 Mr. Sampson became furiously red in the face, and blew out 
 his cheeks like a turkey-cock. 
 
 •' Man ami, monsieur,' he began with a desperate plunge. ' Er, 
 mon ami est bien riche homme, bisn. a faire, le plus fort riche 
 homme dans notre part de la campagne. II aun grand 4iat, tres 
 grar i. Je suis son la.wyer — comprenney, monsieur ? — son avocat.' 
 he priest expressed himself deeply convinced of the honour- 
 sC > position of both travellers, though he was inwardly at a loss 
 to understand why a man should go wandering about the country 
 with his advocate. 
 
 He then went on to tell John Treverton that his superior, 
 Father le Mescam, the cure of the parish, had been attached to 
 that church for the last thirty years^ and could doubtless recall 
 
On a Voyage of Discovery. 271 
 
 every event of importance that had happened in the town during 
 that period. He was likely to know much of the private history 
 of his congregation ; and as he was the most amiable of men, he 
 would doubtless be willing to communicate anything which a 
 stranger could have the right to know. 
 
 ' Sir, you are most obliging/ said John Treverton. ' Extend 
 your courtesy still further, and bring Father le Mescam to dine 
 with me and my friend at six o'clock this evening, and you will 
 weigh me down with obligations.' 
 
 ' You are very kind, sir,' murmured the priest. ' "We have 
 vespers at five — yes, at six we shall be free. I shall feel much 
 pleasure in persuading Father le Mescam to accept your very 
 gracious invitation.' 
 
 ' A thousand thanks. I consider it settled. We are staying 
 at the Pavilion d'en haut, where I suppose that if a man cannot 
 dine, he can at least eat.' 
 
 ' Sir, I take it upon myself to answer for the hotel. As a type 
 of the provincial cuisine the Pavilion d'en haut will prove itself 
 worthy of your praise. You shall not be discontented with your 
 dinner. I pledge myself to that. Till six o'clock, sir.' 
 
 The Vicaire lifted his biretta, and left them. 
 
 ' It will go hard if I cannot find out something about my wife's 
 antecedents from a man who has lived thirty years in Auray,' said 
 John Treverton, as he and his companion walked down the narrow 
 stony street leading to the river. ' So beautiful a woman must 
 have been remarkable in a place like this.' 
 
 ' Judging from the specimens of female loveliness I have met 
 with so far, I should say very remarkable,' retorted Sampson ; 
 ' for, with the exception of that pretty chambermaid at the 
 Paviliong dong Haw, I haven't seen a decent-looking woman 
 since we left St. Mallow.' 
 
 They went down to the bridge, Sampson hobbling over the 
 stony pathway, and vehemently abusing the vestry and local 
 board of Auray, which settlement he appeared to t hin k was 
 governed exactly after the manner of our English country towns. 
 
 They crossed the bridge and went to look at an old church on 
 the other side of the river, where the fisher folk had hung models of 
 three-masters and screw steamers as votary offerings to their guar- 
 dian saints ; then theyre-crossedthe bridge and wentupto an obser- 
 vatory on a hill above the little town, and surveyed as much as 
 they could see of the landscape in the gathering winter gloom ; 
 and then Mr. Sampson, who might possibly have been impressed. 
 hy\Yesuvius in a state of eruption, but who had not a keen eye 
 ior the quaint and picturesque on a small scale, proposed that 
 Jhey should go back to their hotel and make themselves comfort- 
 able for dinner. 
 
 ' I should like a wash if there's such a thing as a cake of suap 
 
272 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 in the place,' said the lawyer, ' but from the appearance of the 
 inhabitants I should rather suspect there wasn't. Soap would 
 be a mockery for some of them. Nothing less than scraping 
 would be any real benefit.' 
 
 They found their sitting-room at the hotel bright with wax 
 candles and a wood fire. Mr. Sampson nearly came to grief upon 
 the beeswaxed floor, and protested against polished floors as a 
 remnant of barbarism. Otherwise he found things more civilized 
 than he had expected, never before having trusted himself across 
 the Channel, and being strictly insular in his conception of foreign 
 manners and customs. 
 
 ' I should hope the old gentleman who is to dine with us can 
 Bpeak English,' he said ; ' he ought at his time of life.' 
 
 ' But if he has lived all his lif e at Auray ? ' 
 
 ' Well, no doubt this is a sink of ignorance,' asserted Sampson. 
 1 1 dare say the stupid old man won't be able to understand a 
 word I say.' 
 
 The two priests were announced as the great clock in the 
 market-place struck six, town time, while the clock on the mantel- 
 piece followed with its shriller chime. ' Father le Mescam, 
 Father Gedain,' said the pretty chambermaid in most respectful 
 tones, and thereupon the two gentlemen entered, neatly dressed, 
 clean shaven, smiling, and having nothing of that dark and sinister 
 air which Tom Sampson expected to discover in every Popish 
 priest. 
 
 Father le Mescam was a little old man, with a quaint, comical 
 face, which would have done admirably for the first gravedigger 
 in 'Hamlet' ; small, twinkling eyes, full of sly humour ; a mobile 
 mouth, and a pert little nose, cocked up in the air, as if in good- 
 humoured contempt at the f oMy of human nature in general. 
 
 ' I am extremely obliged to you for the kindness of this visit, 
 Father le Mescam,' said John Treverton, when the Vicaire had 
 presented him to his superior. 
 
 ' My dear sir, when a pleasant-mannered traveller asks me to 
 dinner, I am only too glad to accept the invitation,' answered the 
 priest heartily. ' A whiff of air from the outside world gives an 
 agreeable flavour to life in this quiet little corner of the universe.' 
 
 ' Lord have mercy on us, how fast the old chap talks ! ' ex- 
 claimed Sampson inwardly. 'Thank goodness, we Englishmen 
 never gabble like that.' 
 
 And then, determined not to be left altogether out of the 
 conversation, Mr. Sampson pulled himself together for a bold 
 attempt. He gazed benignantly at Father le Mescam, and 
 shouted at the top of his voice, — 
 
 ' Fraw, Mossoo, horriblemong /raw.' 
 
 The little priest smiled blandly, but shrugged his shoulders 
 with serio-comic helplessness. 
 
On a Voyage of Discovery. 273 
 
 ' Noiimoing dest saisonable temps pour le tempdeVong,' pur- 
 sued Sampson, waxing bolder, and feeling as if all the French he 
 had acquired in his school days was pouring in upon him like a 
 flood of light. 
 
 Father le Mescam still looked dubious. 
 
 1 Well,' exclaimed Sampson, turning to John Treverton, ' I've 
 always heard that Frenchmen were slow at learning foreign 
 languages ; but I could not have believed they'd be so disgustingly 
 stupid as not to understand their own. Upon my word, Trever- 
 ton, I don't see any reason why you should explode in that 
 fashion,' he remonstrated, as Treverton fell back in his chair in a 
 fit of irrepressible laughter. ' Allong? cried Sampson. ' Voyci 
 le pottage ; and I'm blessed if they haven't emptied the bread 
 basket into it ! ' he exclaimed, contemplating with ineffable dis- 
 gust the contents of the soup tureen, in which he beheld lumps 
 of bread floating on the surface of a thin broth. ' Venez dong, 
 Treverton, si vous avezfinni de faire un sot de voter mime, nous 
 pouvons aussi bien commencer.' 
 
 'Mais, oui, monsieur,' cried the cure\ enchanted at under- 
 standing about two words of this last speech, and beaming at the 
 Englishman in a paroxysm of good nature. ' Oui, oui, oui, 
 monsieur, commengons, commengons. Cest tres-bien dit.' 
 
 I Ah,' grunted Sampson, ' the old idiot is inspired when one 
 talks about his dinner. If that bread-and-waterish broth is a 
 specimen of the kewsine of this hotel, I don't think much of it,' 
 he added. 
 
 Poor as the soup was in appearance, Mr. Sampson found it 
 was not amiss in flavour, and when a savoury preparation of some 
 unknown fish had followed the soup tureen, and a fricassee of fowl 
 and mushroom had replaced the fish, he began to feel at peace 
 with the Pavilion d'en haut. A leg of mutton from the salt 
 marshes completed his reconciliation to provincial cookery, and a 
 dish of vanilla cream a la Chateaubriand raised his spirits to 
 enthusiasm. The two priests enjoyed their dinner thoroughly, and 
 chatted gaily as they ate, but it was not till the dessert had been 
 handed round by the brisk serving maid, and a bottle of Pomard 
 had been placed on the table, that John Treverton approached the 
 serious business of the evening. He waited till the chambermaid 
 had left the room, and then, wheeling his chair round to the fire, 
 piled with chestnut logs, invited Father le Mescam to do the 
 same. Mr. Sampson and Father Gedain followed their example, 
 and the four made a cosy circle round the hearth, each nursing 
 his glass of red wine. 
 
 I I am going to ask you a good many questions, Father le 
 Mescam,' began John Treverton. ' I hope you won't think me 
 troublesome or impertinently inquisitive. However trivial 
 my inquiries may seem, the result is a matter of life and 
 death to me.' a 
 
274 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Ask what you will, sir/ answered the curd ' So long as you 
 ask no question which a priest ought not to answer, you may 
 command me,' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 KERGAEIOU'S WIFE. 
 
 'Father le Mescam;,' said John Treverton, r do you ever 
 ffemember hearing of a girl who left this town a laundress to 
 become afterwards a celebrity in Paris, as a stage dancer ? ' 
 
 ' I ought to remember her, 5 answered the cure, looking some- 
 what astonished at the question, ' for I baptized her ; I prepared 
 her for her first communion, poor soul ; and I married her.' 
 
 John Treverton started from his chair, and then sat down 
 again profoundly agitated. Sampson was right. Yes ; there 
 had been a previous marriage. Yet it might be too soon for 
 exultation. The first husband might have died before La Chicot 
 came to Paris. 
 
 'Are we talking of the same woman V he asked; 'a girl who 
 was known as Mademoiselle Chicot V 
 
 1 Yes/ answered Father le Mescam, ' that was the only 
 woman who ever left Auray to blossom into a stage dancer. 
 Ours is not a soil which freely produces that kind of flower. I 
 have good reason to remember that girl, for I was interested by 
 her singular beauty, and I felt anxious for the safety of her soul 
 amidst the snares and temptations to which such remarkable 
 beauty is subject. I did my best to teach her — to fortify her 
 against all future dangers ; but she was as empty within as 
 she was lovely without. I hardly know whether one ought to 
 consider such a creature responsible for all her errors. Hers was 
 a case of invincible ignorance. The Church has to deal with 
 many such characters — the heart hard as stone, the intellect 
 a blank. 5 
 
 ' What's he jabbering about ? ' said Tom Sampson to his 
 client. 'You look as if you had found out something.' 
 
 'Wait, my dear fellow. I am on the point of making a 
 discovery. You were right in your guess, Sampson ; there was 
 a previous husband.' 
 
 ' Of course,' cried Sampson triumphantly. ' My surprise in 
 Jhe case of a woman of that kind would be to discover only one 
 previous husband ; I should sooner expect to hear of six.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue,' said John Treverton authoritatively, and 
 then he refilled Father le Mescam's glass before he proceeded 
 with his inquiry. ' You say you married La Chicot ? ' 
 
Kergariou's Wife. 275 
 
 She was not La Chicot when I married her, but plain Marie 
 Pomellec, the eldest daughter of a drunken old fisherman down 
 by the quay. Drink was hereditary in her family. Grand- 
 father and great-grandfather, they had all been drunkards 
 from generation to generation. The children had to shift for 
 themselves from the time they could run. I think that may 
 have helped to make them hard and cruel, though some sweet 
 souls educate themselves for heaven in just as hard a life. Aa 
 Marie grew up to a fine tall slip of a girl her handsome face 
 attracted notice. She got to know that she was the prettiest 
 woman in Auray, and the knowledge soon spoiled whatever good 
 there was in her. I saw all the perils of her position — 
 dissolute parents — utter want of guidance from without — a 
 mind too frivolous to be a guide to itself. In my idea her only 
 chance of salvation lay in an early marriage, and although she 
 was but seventeen when Jean Kergariou asked her to be his 
 wife, I did not hesitate in advising her to marry him.' 
 
 ' Who was Kergariou 1 ' 
 
 * A sailor, and as good a fellow as ever went to sea. He and 
 Marie had been playfellows. They had attended the same 
 class for instruction. Jean was intelligent, Marie was dull. 
 Jean was frank and good-humoured, Marie was reserved and 
 self-willed. But the poor fellow was dazzled by the gild's beauty, 
 and she was endeared to him by old associations. He told me 
 that she was the only woman he ever had cared for, the only 
 woman he ever should care for. He had saved a little money, 
 and could afford to furnish one of the cottages in the street by 
 the quay. He would have to go to sea, of course, and Marie 
 would stop at home and keep house, and perhaps earn a little 
 money by washing linen, having the river so convenient. I 
 would rather have had a home-staying husband for her, but 
 Jean was a thoroughly good fellow, and I thought such a husband 
 must keep her out of harm's way. He was not the kind of man 
 that any woman could attempt to trifle with.' 
 
 ' And he married her 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, they were married in the church yonder, one Easter 
 Monday.' 
 
 ' Can you tell me the date 1 ' 
 
 ' I can find it for you in the book where such events are 
 registered. I could not say at this moment how many years ago 
 it may hav<» been. I could tell you the year of poor Kergariou's 
 death.' 
 
 ' Oh, he is dead, then ? ' asked Treverton, with a dreadful 
 sinking of the heart. 
 
 'Yes, poor fellow. Let me see ; it must have been three 
 years ago last s umm er that Kergariou met with his melancholy 
 death.' 
 
276 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * His melancholy death,' repeated Treverton. ' "Why melan- 
 choly?' 
 
 'He was killed — run over by a waggon, on the Boulevard 
 St. Denis, in Paris.' i 
 
 ' Run over by a waggon, three summers ago, on the Boulevard,' 
 echoed John Treverton. ' Yes, I recollect.' 
 
 ' What — you knew him ? ' 
 
 * No, but I was in Paris at the time of the accident.' 
 
 John Treverton recalled that scene at the Morgue, and his 
 wife's ghastly face when she entreated him to take her away. 
 Yes, that one page which had stood boldly out from the book of 
 memory, with a lurid light upon it, was indeed a page of 
 momentous meaning. 
 
 ' Tell me all about Jean Kergariou and his wife,' he said to the 
 cur6. ' It is a matter of vital importance for me to know. You 
 are doing me a service which will make me grateful to you for 
 the rest of my life.' 
 
 ' Not quite so long, I hope,' retorted the priest, with a sly 
 smile. ' A man would be but short-lived if his life were to be 
 measured by the endurance of his gratitude. That is a delight- 
 ful virtue, but not a lasting one.' 
 
 ' Try me,' exclaimed John Treverton. ' Give me legal proof 
 that Marie Pomellec and the dancer called Chicot were one, and 
 that the man killed on the Boulevard three su mm ers ago was 
 Marie Pomellec's husband, and you may put me to the hardest 
 proof you choose, but you shall never find me ungrateful.' 
 
 'There are noble exceptions, doubtless,' said the priest, 
 shrugging his shoulders, ' just as there is now and then a baby 
 born with two heads. As for the story of Marie Pomellec and 
 her marriage, it is simple enough, and common enough, and the 
 proof of it is to be found in the registers at the Mairie, while the 
 fact is known to all the inhabitants of the quay, where Jean's 
 wife lived. That the man killed in Paris was Jean Kergariou is 
 also certain ; he was recognised by a fellow-sailor while he was 
 lying in the Morgue, and the account appeared in several of the 
 Paris newspapers under the heading of Faits divers. The only 
 point open to question might be the identity of the dancer, 
 Mademoiselle Chicot, with Kergariou's wife, but even that was 
 pretty well known to several people in Auray, who saw the 
 woman dance in Paris, and brought back the news of her success 
 ■ — to say nothing of her photographs, which are unmistakable.' 
 
 ' How did Marie Kergariou come to leave Auray 1 ' 
 
 ' Who knows ? Not I. What man can explain a woman's 
 caprice 1 She lived steadily enough for the first year after her 
 marriage. Kergariou was away the greater part of the time, on 
 board a whaler in Greenland. When he came home he and hia 
 wetty wife seemed monstrously fond of each other. But in the 
 
Kergariou's Wifa. 277 
 
 second year things were not so pleasant. Kergariou complained 
 to me of his wife's temper. Marie avoided the confessional, and 
 grew lax in her attendance at the services of the church. The 
 neighbours told me there were quarrels — neighbours will talk of 
 each other, you see, sir, and a priest must not always shut his ears, 
 for the more he knows of his parishioners the better he can help v 
 them. I had some serious talk with Marie, but found her sadly 
 impenetrable. She complained of her hard life. She had to work 
 as hard as the ugliest woman in Auray. I reminded her that 
 the blessed Virgin, who was portrayed in all our churches as the 
 highest type of human loveliness, had led a humble and toilsome 
 life on earth, before she ascended to be the queen of heaven. Was 
 beauty to give exception from toil and hardship 1 If she had 
 been feeble and deformed, I told her, she might plead her infir- 
 mity as an excuse for idleness ; but God had given her health 
 and strength, and she ought to be proud to think that her 
 labour could help to keep a decent home for her husband, whose 
 career was one of continual peril. I might as well have talked to 
 a stone. Marie told me she was very sorry she had married a 
 sailor. If she had waited a little she had no doubt she might 
 have had a rich young farmer for her husband — a man who could 
 have stayed at home and kept her company, and given her fine 
 clothes to wear. When that year was half gone I heard that 
 there had been a desperate quarrel between Kergariou and his 
 wife the night before he left home for his Greenland voyage ; and 
 before he had been gone a week Marie disappeared. At first 
 there was an idea that she had made away with herself ; and 
 some of the good-natured fisher folk, who had known her from 
 childhood, set to work to drag the river. But when the neigh- 
 bours came to examine her cottage they found that she had taken 
 all her clothes, and the few trinkets that Jean had given her in 
 his courting days, and soon after that a waggoner told how he 
 had met her on the road to Eennes ; and then every one knew 
 that Kergariou's wife had run away because she was tired of her 
 toilsome, honest lif e at Auray. She had let drop many a hint, it 
 seemed, when she was washing linen among her companions down 
 by the river ; and it was pretty clear to them all that she had gone 
 to Paris to make her fortune, and that if she could not make it in a 
 good way she would make it in a bad one. She was only nine- 
 teen years of age, but as old in perversity as if she had been fifty. 
 
 ' When did her husband come back 1 ' 
 
 ' Not till late in the following year. He had been through 
 all kinds of misfortune in the North Seas, and came back looking 
 like the ghost of the fine, handsome young fellow I had married 
 two years before. When he found out what had happened he 
 wanted to set out for Paris in search of his wife ; but he fell ill 
 of fever and ague, and lay for months at a friend's house, between 
 
278 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 life and death. As soon as he was able to move about he went 
 to Paris, and spent the remnant of his savings in hunting for his 
 wife without success. She had not yet made herself notorious as 
 a dancer, you must understand, and there were no photographs 
 of her to be seen in the shops. She was only one among many 
 foolish creatures painting their faces, and dancing before the 
 foolish crowd. Kergariou came back to Auray in despair, and 
 then went off to the North Seas again, caring very little whether 
 he ever returned to his native place any more. He did come 
 back, however, after an absence of more than three years. By 
 that time Marie Pomellec had become notorious in Paris, under 
 the name of Zaire Chicot, and a Parisian photographer travelling 
 through Brittany had left half-a-dozen of her photographs in 
 Auray. They were to be seen at the bookseller's shop when Jean 
 Kergariou came home from his last voyage, and no sooner did he 
 comprehend what had happened than he started off again for 
 Paris on foot this time, for the poor fellow had spent all his money 
 during his former search for his wife. He left Auray about the 
 middle of June, and in the second week of July I read of his 
 death in the Monitew Universel, which a friend sends me every 
 week from Orleans. Whether he had found his wife or not, I 
 never knew. No one ever heard any more about his fate than 
 that he had reached Paris, and met his death there.' 
 
 * A melancholy end,' said John Treverton. 
 
 ' Not more melancholy than that of his wife,' replied Father 
 le Mescam, * if there was any truth in a story I read last year, 
 copied from an English newspaper. The poor creature seems to 
 have been murdered by the man with whom she was Uving— 
 possibly her husband.' 
 
 John Treverton's heart sank. Every one, even this unworldly 
 old priest, looked upon the husband's guilt as a matter of course. 
 And, if his innocence should ever be put to the proof, how was he 
 to prove it 1 It was much to have made this discovery about his 
 first wife, and to know that his second marriage had been valid. 
 He stood possessed of Jasper Treverton's estate without a shadow 
 of fraud. Although guilty in intention, he had been innocent in 
 fact. But beyond this there remained that still darker peril, the 
 possibility that he might have to stand in the dock, charged with 
 La Chicot's murder. 
 
 The two priests helped to discuss a second bottle of Pomard, 
 and then took their departure, after Father le Mescam had pro- 
 mised to introduce Mr. Treverton to a respectable notary, who 
 would procure for him the legal evidence of Marie Pomellec's 
 marriage. "While this was being done at Auray, John Treverton 
 and his companion would travel without loss of time to Paris, 
 and there search out the details of Jean Kergariou's death and 
 buriaL 
 
Eergariou's Wife. 279 
 
 The appointment with the notary was made for nine o'clock 
 :3ext morning, so eager was John Treverton to push on the 
 .business. 
 
 ' Well,' gasped Sampson, when the two priests had gone, ' if 
 ever a man played patience on a monument for a long winter 
 evening, I think I am that individual. Now they've gone, per- 
 haps you'll tell me what that ridiculous old Jack-in-the-box, 
 .Father le Whatshisname, has been saying to you. I never saw 
 an old fellow gesticulate in such a frantic way. If I hadn't been 
 bursting with curiosity, I should have rather enjoyed the perform- ! 
 ance, as a piece of dumb show.' 
 
 John Treverton told his legal adviser the gist of all he had i 
 heard from the priest. 
 
 ' Didn't I say so V exclaimed Sampson. ' Didn't I say that it 
 was more than likely there was a former husband in the back- 
 ground 1 It was a desperate guess, of course, and I don't know 
 that I quite thought it when I made the suggestion. But any- 
 thing was better than relinquishing the estate, as you would have 
 been fool enough to do, if you hadn't had a shrewdish young man 
 for your legal adviser. One of those tip-top firms in the City 
 would have gone straight off to take counsel's opinion ; and, 
 before you knew where you were, you'd have been counselled 
 and opinioned out of your property.' | 
 
 Sampson was in a state of intense exultation at a result which 
 he considered entirely due to his own acumen. He walked up 
 and down the room, chuckling inwardly, in a burst of self- 
 approval. His overstrung feelings at last sought relief in some 
 kind of refreshment. He asked John Treverton to order him a 
 glass of hot gin and water, and he was quite indignant when he 
 was informed that the Pavilion d'en haut could not furnish that 
 truly British luxury. 
 
 ' I dare say if I order you " a grog " you will get something in 
 the shape of hot brandy and water,' said Treverton. 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't do anything of the kind. Ask that black- 
 eyed girl to bring a jug — oh ! here she is.' 
 
 And thereupon Mr. Sampson turned himself to the pretty 
 waiting maid, gave a loud preliminary ' hem,' and thus addressed 
 her : — 
 
 ' Mada-moysette, voulez vous avez le bonty de — bringez — ong 
 joug — ong too petty joug — boyllong, prenez vous garde que 
 dest too boyllong, aveo une demi pint de di vi, et ong bossing de 
 sooher, et, pardonnez, aussi ong quitter, n'oubliez pas le quuler} 
 Here the girl's vacant stare arrested him, and he saw that no ray 
 of British light could pierce an intellect of such Gallic density. 
 'Here Treverton,' he cried, impatiently. 'You tell her. The 
 girl's a fool.' 
 
 John Treverton gave the order, and Mr. Sampson had tfca 
 
280 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 pleasure of mixing for himself a strong jorum of thoioughly 
 English brandy and water, and went to bed happy after drinking 
 it. 
 
 As soon as the office was open next morning, John Treverton 
 despatched the following telegram to his wife : — 
 
 ' Good news for you. All particulars to follow in to-day'a 
 letter.' 
 
 At eleven, railroad time, Mr. Treverton and his lawyer were 
 on their way to Rennes, en route for Paris, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE TENANT EROM BEECHAMPTON. 
 
 While John Treverton was in Paris, waiting to obtain proof 
 of Jean Kergariou's identity with the sailor whose corpse he 
 had seen carried to the Morgue, Laura was sitting alone in her 
 husband's study, full of anxious thoughts. The telegram from 
 Auray had been delivered at the Manor House early in the 
 afternoon, and had given comfort to the weary heart of John 
 Treverton's wife ; but even this assurance of good news could 
 not silence her fears. One horrible idea pursued her wherever 
 she turned her thoughts, an ever-present source of terror. Her 
 husband, the man for whom she would have given her life, 
 had been suspected — even broadly accused — of murder. Let him 
 go where he would, change his name and surroundings as often 
 as he would, that hideous suspicion would follow him like his 
 shadow. She recalled much that she had read about La Chicot's 
 murder in the daily papers. She remembered how even she her- 
 self had been impressed with an idea of the husband's guilt. 
 Every circumstance had seemed to point at him. And who else 
 was there to be suspected ? 
 
 Strong in her faith in the man she loved, Laura Treverton 
 was as fully convinced of her husband's innocence as if she had 
 been by his side when he came home on the night of the murder, 
 and stood aghast on the threshold of his wife's chamber, gazing 
 at the horrid crimson stream that had slowly oozed from under 
 the door, dreadful evidence of the deed that had been done. 
 There was no doubt in her mind, no uncertainty in her 
 thoughts : but she knew that as she had thought in the past, 
 when she had read of the man called Chicot, so others would 
 think in the future, if John Treverton, alias Chicot, were to 
 stand at the bar accused of his wife's murder. 
 
 An awful possibility to face, alone, with the husband she loved 
 far away, perhaps secretly watched and followed by the police who 
 might distort his most innocent acts into new evidences of guilt, 
 
Z7w Tenant from Beechampton. 281 
 
 ' If he were at home, here at my side, I should not suffer this 
 agony,' she thought. ' It is here that he ought to be.' 
 
 Celia had been at the Manor House twice since Mr. Trever- 
 ton's departure, but on both occasions Laura had refused to see 
 her, excusing herself on the ground that she was too ill to see any 
 one. Edward Clare's conduct had filled her mind with loathing, 
 arid with fear. She had felt the hidden tooth of the cobra, and 
 she knew that here was a foe whose hatred was fierce enough to 
 mean death. She could not clasp hands with this man's sister, 
 kiss as they two had been wont to kiss. She could not confide 
 in Celia's sisterly love. Brother and sister were of the same 
 blocd. Could she be true when he was so profoundly false 1 
 
 'From this day forth I shall feel afraid of Celia,' she told 
 herself. 
 
 When the good-natured Vicar himself came on the day after 
 the arrival of the telegram, anxious to comfort and cheer her in 
 this period of distress, Laura was not able to harden her heart 
 against him, even though he was of the traitor's blood. She 
 could not think evil of him, upon whose knees she had often sat 
 in the early years of her happy life at Hazlehurst Manor ; she 
 could not believe that he was her husband's enemy. He had 
 behaved with exemplary gentleness when John Treverton stood 
 before him accused of falsehood and fraud. Even his rebuke 
 had been full of mercy. He was not perhaps a high-minded 
 man, nor even a large-minded man. There was very little of 
 the Apostle about him, though he honestly tried to do his duty 
 according to his lights. But he was a thoroughly good-hearted 
 man, who would have gone a long way out of his straight path 
 to avoid treading on those human worms over whose vile bodies 
 a loftier type of Christian will sometimes tramp rather ruthlessly. 
 
 Laura feared no reproaches from this old friend in her hour 
 of misery. He might be prosy, perhaps, and show himself in- 
 capable of grappling a difficulty ; but he would shoot no barbed 
 arrow of scorn or contumely against that wounded heart She 
 felt secure in the assurance of his compassion. 
 
 ' My dear, this is a very sad case,' he said, after he had seated 
 himself by her side, and patted her hand, and hummed and 
 hawed gently for a minute or so. ' You mustn't be downhearted, 
 my dear Laura ; you mustn't give way ; but it really is a very 
 sad affair ; such complications — such difficulties on every side — 
 one scarcely knows how to contemplate such a position. Imagine 
 such a gentlemanly young fellow as John Treverton married to a 
 French ballet-dancer — a — French — dancer ! ' repeated the Vicar, 
 dwelling on the lady's nationality, as if that deepened the 
 degradation. ' If my poor old friend could have known I am 
 sure he would have made a very different will. He would have 
 left everything to you, no doubt.' 
 
282 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Indeed, he would not ! ' cried Laura, almost indignantly. 
 ' You forget that he had made a vow against that.' 
 
 ' My dear, a vow of that kind could have been evaded without 
 being broken. My dear old friend would never have bequeathed 
 his fortune to a young man capable of marrying a French opera- 
 dancer.' 
 
 ' Why should we dwell upon that hateful marriage 1 ' said 
 Laura. 'If — if — my husband was not free to marry me at the 
 time of our first marriage — in Hazlehurst Church — we mast 
 surrender the estate. That is only common honesty. "We are 
 both quite willing to do it. You and Mr. Sampson have only to 
 take up your trusts for the hospital.' 
 
 ' My dear, you talk as lightly of surrendering fourteen thou- 
 sand a year as if it were nothing. You have no power to realize 
 your loss. You have lived in this house ever since you can re- 
 member — mistress of all its comforts and luxuries. You have no 
 idea what life is like on the outside of it.' 
 
 ' I know that I could live with my husband happily in any 
 house, so long as we had clear consciences.' 
 
 ' My love, have you considered what a pittance your poor 
 little income would be 1 Two hundred and sixty pounds a year 
 for two people, at the present price of provisions ; and one of the 
 two an extravagant young man.' 
 
 ' My husband is not extravagant. He has known poverty, 
 and can live on very little. Besides, he has talents, and will earn 
 money. He is not going to fold his hands, and bewail his loss of 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' My dearest Laura, I shudder at the thought of your facing 
 life upon a pittance, you who have never known the want of money.' 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Clare, you must think me very weak — cowardly, 
 even — if you suppose that I can fear to face a little poverty with 
 the husband I love. I can bear anything except his disgrace.' 
 
 ' My poor child, God grant you may be spared that bitter trial. 
 If your husband is innocent of all part in his first wife's death, 
 as you and I believe, let us hope that the world will never know 
 him as the man who has been suspected of such an awful crime.' 
 
 ' Your son knows,' said Laura. 
 
 ' My son knows. Yes, Laura, but you cannot for a moment 
 suppose that Edward would make any use of his knowledge 
 wcramst your interest. It was his regard for you that prompted 
 hi on to the course he took last Sunday night.' 
 
 ' Is it regard for me that makes him hate my husband ] 
 Forgive rae for speaking plainly, dear Mr. Clare. You have been 
 all goodness to me — always — ever since I can remember. My 
 heart is full of affection for you and your kind wife ; but I know 
 that your son is my husband's enemy, and I tremble at the 
 thought of his power to do us harm.' 
 
The Tenant from Beechampton. 283 
 
 The Vicar heard her with some apprehension. He, too, had 
 perceived the malignity of Edward's feelings towards John Tre- 
 verton. He ascribed the young man's malice to the jealousy of 
 a rejected suitor ; and he knew that from jealousy to hatred 
 wa3 but a step. But he could not believe that his son — his own 
 flesh and blood — could be capable of doing a great wrong to a 
 man who had never consciously injured him. That Edward 
 should make any evil use of his knowledge of John Treverton's 
 identity with the suspected Chicot was to the Vicar's mind 
 incredible — nay, impossible. 
 
 1 You have nothing to fear from Edward, my dear,' he said, 
 gently patting the young wife's hand as it lay despondingly in 
 his ; ' make your mind easy on that score.' 
 
 ' There is Mr. Gerard. He, too, knows my husband's secret.' 
 
 ' He, too, will respect it. No one can look in John Treverton's 
 face and believe him a murderer.' 
 
 ' No,' cried Laura, naively ; ' those cruel people who wrote in 
 the newspapers had never seen him.' 
 
 ' My dear Laura, you must not distress yourself about news- 
 paper people. They are obliged to write about something. They 
 could put themselves in a passion about the man in the moon if 
 there were nobody else for them to abuse.' 
 
 Laura told the Vicar about the telegram received from Auray, 
 with its promise of good news. 
 
 'What can be better than that ? my dear,' he cried, delightedly. 
 ' And now I want you to come to the Vicarage with me. Celia 
 is most anxious to have you there, as she says you won't have 
 her here.' 
 
 ' Does Celia know ! ' Laura began to ask faltering. 
 
 ' Not a syllable. Neither Celia nor her mother has any idea 
 of what has happened. They know that Treverton is away on 
 business. That is alL' 
 
 ' Do you think Edward has said nothing 1 ' 
 
 ' I am perfectly sure that Edward has been as silent as the 
 Sphinx. My wife would not have held her tongue about this 
 sad business for five minutes, if she had had an inkling of it, or 
 2elia either. They would have been exploding in notes of 
 admiration, and would have pestered me to death with questions, 
 ^o, my dear Laura, you may feel quite comfortable in coming to 
 the Vicarage. Your husband's secret is only known to Edward 
 and me.' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said Laura gently, ' I know how kindly 
 your invitation is meant. But I cannot leave home. John may 
 come back at any hour. I am continually expecting him.' 
 
 'My poor child, is that reasonable? Think how far it is 
 from here to Auray.' 
 
 ' Think how fast he will travel, when once he is free to return. 
 
284 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Very well, Laura, you must have your own way. I'll send 
 Celia to keep you company.' 
 
 ' Please don't,' said Laura, quickly. ' You know how fond I 
 have always been of Celia — but just now I had rather be quite 
 alone. She is so gay and light-hearted. I could hardly bear it. 
 Don't think me ungrateful, dear Mr. Clare ; but I would rather 
 face my trouble alone.' 
 
 ' I shall never think you anything but the most admirable of 
 women,' answered the Vicar ; ' and now put on your hat and 
 walk as far as the gate with me. You are looking wretchedly 
 pale.' 
 
 Laura obeyed, and walked through the grounds with her old 
 friend. She had not been outside the house since her husband's 
 departure, and the keen wintry air revived her jaded spirits. It 
 was along this chestnut avenue that she and John Treverton had 
 walked on that summer evening when he for the first time 
 avowed Ms love. There was the good old tree beneath whose 
 shaded branches they had sealed the bond of an undying affec- 
 tion. How much of uncertainty, how much of sorrow, she had 
 suffered since that thrilling moment, which had seemed the 
 assurance of enduring happiness ! She walked by the Vicar's 
 side in silence, thinking of that curious leave-taking with her 
 lover a year and a half ago. 
 
 ' If he had only trusted me,' she thought, with the deepest 
 regret. ' If he had only been frank and straightforward, how 
 much misery might have been saved to both of us ! But he was 
 sorely tempted. Can I blame him if he yielded too weakly to 
 the temptation ? ' 
 
 She could not find it in her heart to blame him — though her 
 nobler nature was full of scorn for falsehood — for it had been his 
 love for her that made him weak, his desire to secure to her the 
 possession of the house she loved that had made him false. 
 
 Half-way between the house and the road they met a stranger 
 — a middle-aged man, of respectable appearance — a man who 
 might be a clerk, or a builder's foreman, a railway official in plain 
 clothes, anything practical and business-like. He looked 
 scrutinisingly at Laura as he approached, and then stopped short 
 and addressed her, touching his hat : — 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, madam, but may I ask if Mr. Treverton 
 is at home 1 ' 
 
 1 No ; he is away from home.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that, as I've particular business with him. 
 Will he be long away, do you think, madam 1 ' 
 
 'I expect him home daily,' answered Laura. 'Are you one 
 }f his tenants 1 I don't remember to have seen you before.' 
 
 ' No, madam. But I am a tenant for all that. Mr. Treverton 
 is ground landlord of a block of houses I own in BeechamptoUi 
 
Celia's Lovers. 285 
 
 and there is a question about drainage, and I can't move a step 
 without reference to him. I shall be very glad to have a few 
 words with him as soon as possible. Drainage is a business that 
 won't wait, you see, sir,' the man added, turning to the Vicar. 
 
 He was a man of peculiarly polite address, with something of 
 old-fashioned ceremoniousness which rather pleased Mr. Clare. 
 
 ' I'm afraid you'll have to wait till the end of the week,' said 
 the Vicar. ' Mr. Treverton has left home upon important 
 business, and I don't think he can be back sooner than that.' 
 
 The stranger was too polite to press the matter further. 
 
 ' I thank you very much, sir,' he said ; ' I must make it 
 convenient to call again.' 
 
 * You had better leave your name,' said Laura, ( and I will 
 tell my husband of your visit directly he comes home.' 
 
 ' I thank you, madam, there is no occasion to trouble you 
 with any message. I am staying with a friend in the village, 
 and shall call directly I hear Mr. Treverton has returned.' 
 
 ' A very superior man,' remarked the Vicar, when the stranger 
 had raised his hat and walked on briskly enough to be speedily 
 out of earshot. ' The owner of some of those smart new shops 
 in Beechampton High Street, no doubt. Odd that I should 
 never have seen him before. I thought I knew every one in the 
 town.' 
 
 It was a small thing, proving the nervous state into which 
 Laura had been thrown by the troubles of the last few days — 
 even the appearance of this courteous stranger discomposed her, 
 and seemed a presage of evil. 
 
 CHAPTEB XXXVIIL 
 
 celia's lovers. 
 
 The day after Mr. Clare's visit brought Laura the expected 
 letter from her husband, a long letter telling her his adventures 
 at Auray. 
 
 ' So you see, dearest,' he wrote, after he had related all that 
 Father le Mescam had told him, ' come what may, our position 
 as regards my cousin Jasper's estate is secure. Malice cannot 
 touch us there. From the hour I knelt beside you before the 
 altar in Hazlehurst Church, I have been your husband. That 
 unhappy Frenchwoman was never legally my wife. Whether she 
 wilfully deceived me, or whether she had reasons of her own for 
 supposing Jean Kergariou to be dead, I know not. It is quite 
 possible that she honestly believed herself to be a widow. She 
 might have heard that Kergariou had been lost at sea. Ship- 
 wreck and death are too common among those Breton sailors 
 
286 The Cloven Foot, 
 
 i 
 
 ■ who go to the North Seas. The little seaports in Brittany are 
 populated with widows and orphans. I am quite willing to 
 believe that poor Zaire thought herself free to marry. This would 
 account for her terrible agitation when she recognised her husband's 
 body in the Morgue. And now, dear love, I shall but stay 
 in Paris long enough to procure all documents necessary to prove 
 Jean Kergariou's death ; and then I shall hasten home to comfort 
 my sweet wife, and to face any new trouble that may arise from 
 Edward Clare's enmity. I feel that it is he only whom we have 
 to fear in the future ; and it will go hard if I am not equal to 
 the struggle with so despicable a foe. The omnibus is waiting 
 to take us to the station. God bless you, love, and reward you 
 for your generous devotion to your unworthy husband, — John 
 Treverton.' 
 
 This letter brought unspeakable comfort to Laura's mind. 
 The knowledge that her first marriage was valid was much. It 
 was still more to know that her husband was exempted from the 
 charge of having possessed himself of his cousin's estate by 
 treachery and fraud. The moral wrong in his conduct was not 
 lessened ; but he had no longer to fear the disgrace which must 
 have attached to his resignation of the estate. 
 
 ' Dear old house, dear old home, thank God we shall never be 
 driven from you ! ' said Laura, looking round the study in which 
 so many eventful scenes of her life had been passed, the room 
 where she and John Treverton had first met. 
 
 While Laura was sitting by the fire with her husband's letter 
 in her hand, musing upon its contents, the door was suddenly 
 flung open, and Celia rushed into the room and dropped on her 
 knees by her friend's chair. 
 
 ' Laura, what has come between us 1 ' she exclaimed. ' Why 
 do you shut me out of your heart 1 I know there is some- 
 thing wrong. I can see it in papa's manner. Have I been so 
 false a friend that you are afraid to trust me 1 ' 
 
 The brightly earnest face was so full of warm and truthful 
 feeling that Laura had not the heart to resent this impetuous in- 
 trusion. She had told Trimmer that she would see no one, but 
 Celia had set Trimmer at defiance, and had insisted on coming 
 unannounced to the study. 
 
 ' You are not false, Celia,' Laura answered gravely, ' but I have 
 good reason to know that your brother is my husband's enemy.' 
 
 ' Poor Edward,' sighed Celia. ' It's very cruel of you to say 
 such a thing, Laura. You know how devotedly he loved you, 
 and what a blow your marriage was to him.' 
 
 ' Was it really, Celia ? He did not take much trouble to 
 avert the blow.' 
 
 'You mean that he never proposed,' said Celia. 'My dear 
 Laura, what would have been the use of his asking you to marry 
 
~ Celias Lovers. 287 
 
 him when he was without the mean8 of keeping a wife ? It ia 
 quite as much as he can do to clothe himself decently by the 
 uttermost exertion of his genius, though he is really second only 
 to Swinburne, as you know. He has too much of the poetic 
 temperament to face the horrors of poverty,' concluded Celia, 
 quoting her brother's own account of himself. 
 
 ' I think a few poets — and some of the first quality — have 
 faced those horrors, Celia.' 
 
 ' Because they were obliged, dear. They were in the quag- 
 mire, and couldn't get out ; like Chatterton and Burns, and ever 
 so many poor dears. But surely those were not of the highest 
 order. Great poets are like Byron and Shelley. They require 
 yachts and Italian villas, and thoroughbred horses, and New- 
 foundland dogs, and things,' said Celia with conviction. 
 
 ' Well, dearest, I bear Edward no ill-will for not having pro- 
 posed to me, because if he had I could have only refused him ; 
 but don't you think there is an extremity of folly and weakness 
 in his affecting to feel injured by my marrying some one else 1 ' 
 
 ' It isn't affectation,' protested Celia. ' It's reality. He does 
 feel deeply, cruelly injured by your marriage with Mr. Treverton. 
 You can't be angry with him, Laura, for a prejudice that re- 
 sults from his affection for you.' 
 
 ' I am very angry with him for his unjust and unreasonable 
 hatred of my husband. I believe, Celia, if you knew the extent 
 of his enmity, you too would feel indignant at such injustice.' 
 
 ' I don't know anything, Laura, except that poor Edward is 
 very unhappy. He mopes in his den all day, pretending to be 
 hard at work ; but I believe he sits brooding over the fire half 
 the time — and he smokes like 1 really can't find a compari- 
 son. Locomotives are nothing to him.' 
 
 'I am glad he is not without a conscience,' said Laura, 
 gloomily. 
 
 ' That means you are glad he is unhappy,' retorted Celia, ' for 
 it seems to me that the chief function of conscience is to make 
 people miserable. Conscience never stops us when we are going 
 to do anything wrong. It only torments us afterwards. But 
 now don't let's talk any more about disagreeable things. Mother 
 told me I was to do all I could to cheer and enliven you. She is 
 quite anxious about you, thinking you will get low-spirited while 
 your husband is away.' 
 
 ' Life is not very bright for me without him, Celia ; but I 
 have had a cheering letter this morning, and I expect him home 
 very soon, so I will be as hopeful as you like. Take off your hat 
 and jacket, dear, and make up your mind to stay with me. I 
 have been very bearish and ungrateful in shutting the door 
 against my faithful little friend. I shall write your mother a 
 few lines to say I am going to keep you till Saturday.' 
 
288 Thz Cloven Foot. 
 
 'You may, if you like,' said Celia. 'It won't break my 
 heart to be away from home for a day or two ; though of course 
 I fully concur with that drowsy old song about pleasures and 
 palaces, and little dicky-birds, and all that kind of thing.' 
 
 Celia threw off her hat, and slipped herself out of her seal- 
 skin jacket as gracefully as Lamia, the serpent woman, escaped 
 from her scaly covering. Laura rang the bell for afternoon tea. 
 The sky was darkening outside the window, the rooks were 
 sailing westwards with a mighty clamour, and the shadows were 
 gathering in the corners of the room. It was that hour in a 
 winter afternoon when the firelight is pleasantest, the hearth 
 cosiest, and when one thinks half regretfully that the days are 
 lengthening, and that this friendly fireside season is passing away. 
 
 The tea-table was drawn up to the hearth, and Celia poured 
 out the tea. Laura had eaten nothing with any appetite since 
 that fatal Sunday, but her heart was lighter this evening, and 
 she sat back in her chair, restful and placid, sipping her tea, and 
 enjoying the delicate home-made bread and butter. Celia was 
 unusually quiet during the next ten minutes. 
 
 ' You say your mother gave you particular instructions about 
 being cheerful, Celia,' said Laura presently ; ' you are certainly 
 not obeying her. I don't think I ever knew you hold your 
 tongue for ten consecutive minutes before this evening.' 
 
 'Let's talk,' exclaimed Celia, jerking herself out of a reverie. 
 1 I'm ready.' 
 
 ' What shall we talk about ? ' 
 
 ' Well, if you wouldn't object, I think I should like to talk 
 about a young man.' 
 
 ' Celia ! ' 
 
 ' It sounds rather dreadful, doesn't it 1 ' asked Celia naively ; 
 ' but, to tell you the truth, there's nothing else that particularly 
 interests me just now. I've had a young man on my mind for 
 the last three days.' 
 
 Laura's face grew graver. She sat looking at the fire for a 
 minute or so in gloomy silence. 
 
 ' Mr. Gerard, I suppose 1 ' she said at last. 
 
 ' How did you guess ] ' 
 
 'Very easily. There are only two eligible young men in 
 Hazlehurst, and you have told me a hundred times that you 
 don't care about either of them. Mr. Gerard is the only stranger 
 who has appeared at the Vicarage. You might easily arrange 
 that as a syllogism.' 
 
 ' Laura, do you think I am the kind of girl to marry a poor 
 man? ' asked Celia, with sudden intensity. 
 
 ' I think it is a thing you are very likely to do ; because you 
 have always protested most vehemently that nothing could induce 
 you to do it,' answered Laura, smiling at her friend's earnestneaa. 
 
Cclia's Lovers. 289 
 
 ' Nothing could induce me,' said Celia. 
 
 ' Really.' 
 
 ' Except being desperately in love with a pauper.' 
 
 ' What, Celia, has it gone so far already V 
 
 I It has gone very far, as far as my heart. Oh, Laura, if you 
 only knew how good he is, how bravely he has struggled, his 
 cleverness and enthusiasm, his ardent love of his profession, you 
 could not help admiring him. Upon my word, I think there is 
 more genius in such a career as his than in all Edward's poetic 
 efforts. I feel quite sure that he will be a great man by-and-by, 
 and that he will live in abeautiful house at the West-end, and keep 
 a carriage and pair.' 
 
 ' Are you going to marry him on the strength of that 
 conviction '? ' 
 
 ' He has not even asked me yet ; though I must say he was 
 on the brink of a declaration ever so many times when we were 
 on the moor. We had a long walk on the moor, you know, -on 
 Monday afternoon. Edward was supposed to be with us, but 
 somehow we were alone most of the time. He is so modest, poor 
 fellow, and he feels his poverty so keenly. He lives in a dingy 
 street, in a dingy part of London. He is earning about a 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year. His lodgings cost him thirty. 
 Quite too dreadful to contemplate, isn't it, Laura, for a girl who 
 is as particular as I am about collars and cuffs 1 ' 
 
 ' Very dreadful, my pet, if one considers elegance in dress 
 and luxurious living as the chief good in life,' answered Laura. 
 
 I I don't consider them the chief good, dear, but I think the 
 want of them must be a great eviL Aud yet, I assure you, when 
 that poor young fellow and I were rambhug on the moor, J felt 
 as if money were hardly worth consideration, and that I could 
 endure the sharpest poverty with him. I felt lifted above the 
 pettiness of life. I suppose it was the altitude we were at, 
 and the purity of the air. But of course that was only a moment 
 of enthusiasm.' 
 
 'I would not marry upon the strength of an enthusiastic 
 moment, Celia, lest a lifelong repentance should follow. You can 
 know so little of this Mr. Gerard. It is hardly possible you can 
 care for him.' 
 
 ' " Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ?" ' quoted 
 Oelia, laughing. ' I am not quite so foolish as to love at first 
 sight ; but in three days I seemed to know Mr. Gerard as well 
 as if we had been friends as many years.' 
 
 ' Your brother and he are intimate friends, are they not ?' 
 
 ' I cannot make out the history of their friendship. Edward 
 is disgustingly reserved about Mr. Gerard, and I don't like to 
 seem curious, for fear he should suppose I take too much 
 interest in the young man.' 
 
290 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Mr. Gerard has gone back to London, has he not ?' 
 
 1 Yes,' sighed Celia. ' He went early on Tuesday morning, by 
 the parliamentary train. Fancy theSir William Jenner of the future 
 travelling by ahorrid slow train, in a carriage like a cattle truck. ' 
 
 ' He will be amply rewarded by-and-by, if he is really the 
 Jenner of the future.' 
 
 ' Yes, but it's a long time to wait,' said Celia dolefully. 
 
 1 No doubt,' assented Laura, ' and the time would seem longer 
 to the wife sitting at home by a shabby fireside.' 
 
 ' Sitting,' echoed Celia ; ' she would never be able to sit. She 
 would have no time for moping over the fire. She would always 
 be dusting or sweeping, or making apudding, or sewing on buttons.' 
 
 'I think you had better abandon the idea,' said Laura. 
 'You could never bear a life of deprivation. Your home-nest 
 has been too soft and comfortable. You had much better think 
 of Mr. Sampson, who admires you very sincerely, and who has a 
 nice house, and a good income.' 
 
 ' A nice house ! ' exclaimed Celia, with unqualified contempt. 
 1 The quintessence of middle-class commonness. I would rather 
 endure George Gerard's shabby lodgings. A nice house ! Oh, 
 Laura, how can you, living in these fine old rooms, call that 
 stucco abomination of a modern villa, those dreadful walnut- 
 wood chairs and sofas and chiffonnier, all decorated with horrid 
 wriggling scroll-work, badly glued on ; that sticky-looking ma- 
 hogany sideboard, those all-pervading crochet antimacassars ' 
 
 ' My dearest, the antimacassars are not fixtures. You could 
 do away with them. Indeed, I dare say if Mr. Sampson thought 
 his furniture was the only obstacle to his happiness, he would not 
 mind refurnishing his house altogether.' 
 
 ' His furniture the only obstacle !' echoed Celia indignantly, 
 What have you ever seen in my conduct or character, Laura, 
 that can justify you in supposing I could marry a stumpy little 
 man with sandy hair ? ' 
 
 ' In that case we will waive the marriage question altogether. 
 You say you won't marry Mr. Sampson, and I am sure you ought 
 .Sot to marry Mr. Gerard.' 
 
 ' There is no fear of my doing anything so foolish,' Celia 
 replied, with a resigned air. ' He has gone back to London, and 
 heaven knows if I shall ever see him again. But I am certain if 
 you saw more of him, you would Like him very much.' 
 
 Laura shuddered, remembering that it was by means of 
 George Gerard that her husband had been identified with the 
 missing Chicot. She could not have a very friendly feeling 
 towards Mr. Gerard, knowing this, but she listened with ad- 
 mirable patience while Celia descanted upon the young man's 
 noble qualities, and repeated all he had said upon the moor, 
 where he really seemed to have recited his entire biography for 
 Celia's edification. 
 
Celia's Lovers. 291 
 
 Comforted by her husband's letter, Laura was able to support 
 Celia's liveliness, and so the long winter evening wore itself away 
 pleasantly enough. The next day was Saturday. Laura had 
 calculated that, if things went easily with him in Paris, it would 
 be just possible for John Treverton to be home on. Saturday 
 night. This possibility kept her in a flutter all day. it was in 
 vain that Celia proposed a drive to Beechampton, or a walk on 
 the moor. Laura would not go a step beyond the gardens of the 
 Manor House. She could not be persuaded even to go as far as 
 the orchard, for there she could not have seen the fly that brought 
 her husband to the door, and she had an ever-present expectation 
 of his return. > 
 
 ' Don't you know that vulgar old proverb which says that " a 
 watched pot never boils," Laura 1 ' remonstrated Miss Clare, 
 1 Depend upon it, your husband will never come while you are 
 worrying yourself about him. You should try to get him out of 
 your thoughts.' 
 
 ' I can't,' answered Laura. * All my thoughts are of him. 
 He is a part of my mind.' 
 
 Celia sighed, and felt more sympathetic than usual. She had 
 been thinking about George Gerard for the last four days more 
 than seemed at all reasonable ; and it occurred to her that if she 
 were ever to be seriously in love, she might be quite as foolish as 
 her friend. 
 
 The day wore on very slowly for both women. Laura 
 watched the clock, and gave herself up to the study of railway 
 time-tables, in order to calculate the probabilities as to Johe 
 Treverton's return. She sent the carriage to meet an afternoon 
 train, and the carriage came back empty. This was a disappoint- 
 ment, though she argued with herself afterwards that she had 
 not been justified in expecting her husband by that train. 
 
 An especially excellent dinner had been ordered, in the hope 
 that the master of the house would be at home to eat it. Seven 
 o'clock came, but no John Treverton, and so the dinner was 
 deferred till eight ; and at eight Laura would have had it kept 
 back till nine if Celia had not protested against such cruelty. 
 
 ' I don't suppose you asked me to stay here with the deliberate 
 intention of starving me,' she said, ' but that is exactly what you 
 are doing. I feel as if it were weeks since I had eaten anything. 
 There is no possibility — at least so far as the railway goes — of 
 Mr. Treverton's being here before half -past ten; so you really 
 may as well let me have a little food, even if you are too muoh 
 in the clouds to eat your dinner.' 
 
 1 1 am not in the clouds, dear, I am only anxious.' 
 They went into the dining-room and sat down to the table, 
 which seemed so empty and dismal without the master of the 
 house. The carriage was ordered to meet the last train. Celii 
 
292 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ate an excellent dinner, talking more or less all the time. Laura 
 was too agitated to eat anything. She was glad to get back to 
 the drawing-room, where she could walk up and down, and lift 
 the curtain from one of the windows every now and then to look 
 out and listen for wheels that were not likely to be heard within 
 an hour. 
 
 ' Laura, you are making me positively miserable,' Celia cried 
 at last. ' You are as monotonous in your movements as a 
 squirrel in his cage, and don't seem half so happy as a squirrel. 
 It's a fine, dry night. We had better wrap ourselves up and 
 walk to the gate to meet the carriage. Anything will be better 
 than this.' 
 
 ' I should enjoy it above all things,' said Laura. 
 
 Five minutes later they were both clad in fur jackets and 
 hats, and were walking briskly towards the avenue. 
 
 The night was fine, and lit with wintry stars. There was no 
 moon, but that clear sky, with its pale radiance of stars, gave 
 quite enough light to direct the footsteps of the two girls, who 
 knew every inch of the way. 
 
 They had not gone far before Celia, whose tongue ran on 
 gaily, and whose eyes roamed in every direction, espied a man 
 walking a little way in front of them. 
 
 ' A strange man,' she cried. ' Look, Laura ! I hope he's not 
 a burglar ! ' 
 
 ' Why should he be a burglar ? No doubt he is some trades- 
 man who has been delivering goods at the kitchen door.' 
 
 ' At ten o'clock 1 ' cried Celia. ' Most irregular. Why, every 
 respectable tradesman in the village is in bed and asleep by this 
 time.' 
 
 Laura made no further suggestion. The subject had no 
 interest for her. She was straining her ears to catch the first 
 sound of wheels on the frost-bound high-road Celia quickened 
 her pace. 
 
 ' Let's try and overtake him,' she said ; ' I think it's our duty. 
 You ought not to allow suspicious-looking strangers to hang 
 about your grounds without at least trying to find out who they 
 are. He may have a revolver, but I'll risk it.' 
 
 With thia heroic determination Celia went off at a run, and 
 presently came up with the man, who was walking steadily on in 
 front of her. At the sound of her footsteps he stopped and 
 looked round. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' gasped Celia, in a breathless condition, 
 and looking anxiously for the expected revolver. 'Have you 
 been leaving anything at the Manor House 1 ' 
 
 ' No, madam. I've only been making an inquiry,' the man 
 replied quietly. 
 
 'It is one of John's ter ants, Celia,' said La-.va overtaking 
 
Celiacs Lovers. 293 
 
 theia. ' You have been to inquire about Mr. Treverton's return, 
 I suppose,' she added, to the stranger. 
 
 'Yes, madam. My visit is to come to an end on Monday 
 morning, and I am getting anxious. I want to see Mr. Trever- 
 ton before I go back. It will save me a journey to and fro, you 
 see, madam, and time is money to a man in my position.' 
 
 1 1 expect him home this evening,' Laura answered kindly ; 
 'and if he does come to-night, as I hope he will, I have no doubt 
 he will see you as early as you like on Monday morning. At 
 nine, if that will not be too early for you.' 
 
 ' I thank you, madam. That will suit me admirably. 1 
 
 ' Good evening,' said Laura. 
 
 The man lifted his hat and walked away. 
 
 * A very decent person,' remarked Celia ; ' not a bit like the 
 popular notion of a burglar, but perhaps not altogether unlike 
 the real thing. A respectable appearance must be a great 
 advantage to a criminal.' 
 
 • There it is,' cried Laura joyfully. 
 'What?' 
 
 ' The carriage. Yes, I am sure. Yes — he is coming. Let's 
 run on to the gate, Celia.' 
 
 They ran as fast as a brace of school-girls, and arrived at the 
 gate in a flutter of excitement, just in time to see the neat little 
 brougham turn into the avenue. 
 
 ' Jack,' cried Laura. 
 
 ' Stop,' cried Jack, with his head out of the window, and the 
 coachman pulled up his horses, as his master jumped out of the 
 carriage. 
 
 ' Come out, Sampson,' said Mr. Treverton. ' "Well walk to 
 the house with the ladies.' 
 
 He put his wife's hand through his arm and walked on, 
 leaving Celia to Mr. Sampson's escort. 
 
 They had much to say to each other, husband and wife, in 
 this happy meeting. John Treverton was in high spirits, full 
 of delight at returning to his wife, full of triumph in the 
 thought that no one could oust him from the home they botfh. 
 loved. 
 
 Tom Sampson walked in the rear with Miss Clare. She was 
 dying to question him as to where he and his client had been, 
 and what they had been doing, but felt that to do so would be 
 bad manners, and knew that it would be useless. So she confined 
 herself to general remarks of a polite nature. 
 
 ' I hope you have had what the Yankees call a good time, 
 Mr. Sampson,' she said. 
 
 ' Very much so, thanks, Miss Clare,' answered Sampson, 
 recalling a dinner eaten at Vefour's just before leaving Paris on 
 ♦he previous evening. * The kewsine is really first-class.' 
 
294 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 If there was one word Celia hated more than another it was 
 this last odious adjective. 
 
 'You came by the four o'clock express from Waterloo, I sup 
 pose,' hazarded Celia. 
 
 ' Yes, and a capital train it is ! 
 
 'Ah ! ' sighed Celia, ' I wish I had a little more experience of 
 trains. I stick in my native soil till I feel myself fast becoming 
 a vegetable.' 
 
 ' No fear of that,' exclaimed Mr. Sampson. ' Such a girl as 
 you — all life and spirit and cleverness — no fear of your ever 
 assimilating to the vegetable tribe. There's my poor sister Eliza, 
 now, there's a good deal of the vegetable about her. Her ideas 
 run in such a narrow groove. I know before I go down to 
 breakfast of a morning exactly what she'll say to me, and I get 
 to answer her mechanically. And at dinner again we sit opposite 
 each other like a couple of talking automatons. It's a dismal 
 life, Miss Clare, for a man with any pretence to mind. If you 
 only knew how I sometimes sigh for a more congenial com- 
 panion ! ' 
 
 ' But I don't know anything about it, Mr. Sampson,' answered 
 Celia tartly. ' How should IV 
 
 'You might,' murmured Sampson tenderly, 'if you had as 
 much sympathy with my ideas as I have with yours.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' cried Celia. ' "What sympathy can there be 
 between you and me ? "We haven't am idea im common. A 
 business man like you, with his mind wholly occupied by leases 
 and draft agreements and wills and writs and things, and a girl 
 who doesn't know an iota of law.' 
 
 ' That's just it ! ' exclaimed Sampson. ' A man in my position 
 wants a green spot in his life — a haven from the ocean of business 
 — an o — what's its name — in the barren desert of legal transac- 
 tions. I want a home, Miss Clare — a home ! ' 
 
 ' How can you say so, Mr. Sampson 1 I am sure you have 
 a very comfortable house, and a model housekeeper in your 
 sister.' 
 
 * A young woman may be too good a housekeeper, Miss Clare,' 
 answered Sampson seriously. 'My sister is a little over-con- 
 scientious in her housekeeping. In her desire to keep down 
 expenses she sometimes cuts things a little too fine. I don't hold 
 with waste or extravagance — I shudder at the thought of it — but 
 I don't like to be asked to eat rank salt butter on a Saturday 
 morning because the regulation amount of fresh has run out, and 
 Eliza won't allow another half-pound to be had in till Saturday 
 afternoon. That's letting a virtue merge into a vice, Miss 
 Clare.' 
 
 ' Poor Miss Sampson. It is quite too good of her in study 
 your purse so carefully. 
 
Celiacs Lovers} 295 
 
 * So it is, Miss Clare,' answered the solicitor doubtfully, ' but 
 I see ribbons round Eliza's neck, and bonnets upon Eliza's head, 
 that I can't always account for satisfactorily to myself. She haa 
 a little income of her own, as you no doubt know, since every- 
 body knows everything at Hazlehurst, and she has made her 
 little investments in cottage property out of her little income, 
 which, as you may also know, is derived from cottage property, 
 and she has added a cottage here and a cottage there, till she is 
 swelling out into a little town, as you may say — well, I should 
 think she must have five-and-twenty tenements in all — and I 
 sometimes ask myself how she manages to invest so much of her 
 little income, and yet to dress so smart. There isn't a better- 
 dressed young lady in Hazlehurst — present company, of course, 
 excepted — than my sister. You may have noticed the fact.' 
 
 'I have,' replied Celia, convulsed with inward laughter. 
 'Her bonnets have been my admiration and my envy.' 
 
 'No, Miss Clare, not your envy,' protested Sampson, with 
 exceeding tenderness. ' You can envy no one. Perfection has 
 no need to envy. It must feel its own superiority. Put I was 
 about to observe, in confidence, that I would rather the house- 
 keeping money was spent on butter than on bonnets ; and that 
 when I feel myself deprived of any little luxury, it is a poor 
 consolation to know that my self-denial will provide Eliza with 
 a neck ribbon. No, my dear Miss Clare, the hour must come 
 when my sister will have to give up the keys of her cupboards at 
 The Laurels, and retire to a home of her own. She is amply 
 provided for. There will be no unkindness in such a severance. 
 You know the old proverb, " Two is company, three is none." 
 It doesn't sound gr ammat ical) b^t it's very time. When 1 marry, 
 Eliza will have to go.' 
 
 ' Put you are not thinking of matrimony yet awhile, I hope, 
 Mr. Sampson 1 ' 
 
 ' Yet awhile,' echoed Sampson ; ' I'm three-and-thirty. If I 
 don't take the business in hand now, Miss Clare, it will be too ■ 
 late. I am thinking of matrimony, and have been thinking of 
 it very constantly for the last six months. Put there is only one 
 girl in the world that I would care to marry, and if she won't 
 have me I shall go down to my grave a bachelor.' 
 
 1 Don't say that,' cried Celia. ' That is deciding things much 
 too hastily. You haven't seen all the girls in the world. How 
 can you know anything about it 1 Hazlehurst is such a narrow 
 sphere. A man might as well live in a nutshell, and call that life. 
 You ought to travel. You ought to see the world of fashion. 
 There are charming boarding-houses at Brighton, now, wher6 
 you would meet very stylish girls. Why don't you try 
 Brighton 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't want to try Brighton, or anywhere else,' exclaimed 
 
296 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Mr. Sampson, with a wounded air. ' I tell you I am fixed, fixed 
 as fate. There is only one girl in this magnificent universe I 
 want for my wife. Celia, you must feel it, you must know it — 
 you are that girL' 
 
 ' Oh, I am so sorry,' cried Celia. ' This is quite too dreadful 
 'It is not dreadful at all. Don't be carried away by the 
 first shock of the thing. I may have been too sudden, perhaps. 
 Oh, Celia, I have worshipped too long in silence, and I may, 
 perchance' — Mr. Sampson rather dwelt on the perchance, 
 which seemed to him a word of peculiar appropriateness, 
 almost a lapse into poetry — 'I may, perchance, have been too 
 sudden in my avowal. But when a man is as much in earnest 
 as I am, he does not study details. Celia, you must not say 
 
 DO.' 
 
 'But I do say no,' protested Celia. 
 
 'Not an irrevocable no?' 
 
 ' Yes, a most irrevocable no. I am very much flattered, of 
 course, and I really like you very much — as we all do — because 
 you are good and true and honest. But I never, never, never 
 could think of you in any other character than that of a trust- 
 worthy friend.' 
 
 ' Do you really mean it ? ' asked poor Sampson, aghast. 
 
 He was altogether crushed by this unexpected blow. That 
 any young lady in Hazlehurst could refuse the honour of an 
 alliance with him had never occurred to him as within the range 
 of possibility. He had taken plenty of time in making up his 
 mind upon the matrimonial question. He had been careful and 
 deliberate, and had waited till he was thoroughly convinced that 
 Celia Clare was precisely the kind of wife he wanted, before 
 committing himself by a serious declaration. He had been 
 careful that his polite attentions should not be too significant, 
 until the final die was cast. His journey to Brittany had given 
 him ample leisure for reflection. Prostrate in his comfortable 
 berth on board the St. Malo steamer, in the dim light of the 
 cabin lamp, lulled by the monotonous oscillation of the steamer, 
 he had been able to contemplate the question of marriage from 
 every standpoint, and this offer of to-night was the result of those 
 meditations. 
 
 Celia told him, with all due courtesy, that she really did mean 
 to refuse him. 
 
 'You might do worse,' he said, dolefully. 
 
 'No doubt I might. Some rather vulgar person has com- 
 pared matrimony to a bag of snakes, in which there is only one 
 eel. Perhaps you are the one eel. But then you see I am not 
 obliged to marry anybody. I can go on like Queen Elizabeth, 
 
 * " In maiden meditation, faney free." * 
 
Celia's Lovers. 297 
 
 'That's not likely,' said Mr. Sampson moodily. 'A young 
 lady of your stamp won't remain single. You're too attractive 
 and too lively. No, you'll marry some scamp for the sake of his 
 good looks ; and perhaps the day will come when you'll remem- 
 ber this evening, and feel sorry that you rejected an honest man's 
 offer.' 
 
 They were at the house by this time, much to Celia's relief, 
 as she felt that the conversation could hardly be carried on fur- 
 ther without unpleasantness. 
 
 She stopped in the hall, and offered her hand to her dejected 
 admirer. 
 
 ' Shake hands, Mr. Sampson, to show that you bear no malice,' 
 she said. ' Be assured I shall always like and respect you as a 
 friend of our family.' 
 
 She did not wait for his answer, bat tripped lightly upstairs, 
 determined not to make her appearance again that evening. 
 
 Tom Sampson was inclined to return to his own house, with- 
 out waitiriiJ en say good night to his client, but while he stood in 
 the hall making up his mind on this point, John Treverton came 
 out of the dining-room to look for him. 
 
 ' Why, Sampson, what are you doing out there 1 ' he cried. 
 ' Come in and have some supper. You haven't eaten much since 
 we left Paris.' 
 
 1 Much,' echoed Sampson dismally. ' A segment of hard 
 biscuit on board the boat, and a cup of weak tea at Dover, have 
 been my only sustenance. But I don't feel that I care about 
 supper,' he added, surveying the table with a melancholy eye. 
 ' I ought to be hungry, but I'm not.' 
 
 'Why, you seem quite low-spirited, Mr. Sampson,' said 
 Laura, kindly. 
 
 'I am feeling a little low to-night, Mrs. Treverton.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, man ! Low-spirited on such a night as this, after 
 the triumph you achieved at Auray I Wasn't it wonderful, 
 Laura, that Sampson's acumen should have hit upon the idea of 
 my first marriage being invalid 1 It was the only chance we 
 had — the only thing that could have saved the estate.' 
 
 ' Of course it was,' replied Sampson, ' and that was why I 
 thought of it. A lawyer is bound to see every chance, however 
 remote. I don't know that in my own mind I thought it really 
 likely that your first wife had been encumbered with a living 
 husband when you married her ; but I saw that it was just the 
 one loophole for your escape from a most confounded fix.' 
 
 Cheered by the idea that he had saved his client's fortune, 
 and comforted by a tumbler or two of irreproachable champagne, 
 Mr. Sampson managed to eat a very good supper, and he trudged 
 briskly homewards on the stroke of midnight, tolerably content 
 with himself and life in genera]. 
 
"298 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Ptrhaps after all I may be better off as a bachelor than witi 
 the most fascinating of wives,' he reflected. ' But I must come 
 to an understanding with Eliza. Cheeseparing is all very well 
 as long as my cheese is not pared. I must let Eliza know that 
 I'm master, and that my tastes are to be consulted in every par- 
 ticular. When I think of the melted butter they gave me last 
 night at Veefoor's, and the sauce with that sole normong, I 
 shudder at the recollection of the bill-sticker's paste I've been 
 asked to eat at my own table. If Eliza is to go on keeping house 
 for me, there must be a revolution in the cookery.' 
 
 John Treverton and his wife spent a Sabbath of exceeding 
 peacefulness. They appeared at church together morning and 
 evening, much to the discomfiture of Edward Clare, who was 
 surprised to see them looking so happy. 
 
 ' Does he think the storm has blown over?' Edward said to 
 himself. 'Poor wretch. He will discover his mistake before 
 long.' 
 
 The Vicar went to the Manor House after the evening ser- 
 vice, and he and John Treverton were closeted together in 
 the library for an hour or more, during which time John told his 
 wife's trustee all that had happened at Auray, and showed him 
 documents which proved Marie Pomellec's marriage with Jean 
 Kergariou, and Kergariou's death two years after her second 
 marriage. 
 
 'Providence has been very good to you, John Treverton,' 
 said the Vicar when he had heard everything. ' You cannot be 
 too grateful for your escape from disgrace and difficulty. But I 
 hope you will always remember that your own sin is not lessened 
 by this discovery. I hope that you honestly and truly repent 
 that sin.' 
 
 ' Can I do otherwise 1 ' asked John Treverton sadly. ' Has it 
 not brought fear and sorrow upon one I love better than myself ? 
 The thing was done to benefit her, but I feel now that it was not 
 the less dishonourable.' 
 
 ' Well, we will try to forget all about it,' said the good-natured 
 Vicar, who, in exhorting a sinner to repentance, never wished to 
 make the burden of remorse too heavy. ' I only desired that 
 you should see your conduct in a proper light, as a Christian and 
 a gentleman. God knows how grateful I am to Him for His 
 mercy to you and my dear Laura. It would have almost broken 
 my heart to see you turned out of this house.' 
 
 ' Like Adam and Eve out of Paradise,' said Treverton, smiling, 
 * and my poor Eve a sinless sufferer.' 
 
 After this serious talk the Vicar and his host went back to the 
 drawing-room, where Laura and Celia were sitting by a glorious 
 wood fire reading Robertson's sermons. 
 
 i What a darling he was 1' cried Celia, with a gush. * And how 
 
CeMa's Lovers. '299 
 
 desperately in love with Mm I should have been if I had lived at 
 Brighton in his time and heard him preach ! His are the only 
 sermons I can read without f eeling bored. If that dear prosy 
 old father of mine would only take a lesson ' 
 
 Her father's entrance silenced her just as she was about to 
 criticise his capabilities as a preacher. The Vicar went straight 
 to Laura, and took both her hands in his hearty grasp. , 
 
 1 My dear, dear girl,' he said, ' Providence has ordered all 
 things well for you. You have no more trouble to fear ! ' 
 
 It was not till the next morning that Laura remembered her 
 husband's anxious tenant from Beechampton. Husband and wife 
 were breakfasting together tite-a-tete in the book-room at half- 
 past seven, John Treverton dressed in his hunting gear, ready to 
 start for a six-mile ride to the meet of staghounds among the 
 pasture-clad hills. Celia, who did not consider that her obliga- 
 tions as a guest included early rising, was still luxuriating in 
 morning dreams. 
 
 ' Oh, by-the-bye,' exclaimed Laura, when she and her husband 
 had talked about many things, ' I quite forgot to tell you about 
 your tenant at Beechampton. He is coming to see you at nine 
 o'clock this morning. It is a rather important matter he wants 
 to see you about, he says. He has been extremely anxious for 
 your return.' 
 
 'My tenant at Beechampton, dear?' said John Treverton, 
 with a puzzled air. ' Who can that be ? I have no property at 
 Beechampton except ground rents, and Sampson collects those. 
 I have nothing to do with the tenants.' 
 
 ' Yes, but this is something about drainage, and your tenant 
 wants to see you. He said you were the ground landlord of 
 some houses which he holds.' 
 
 John Treverton shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 
 
 ' Bather a bore,' he said, ' But if he is here at nine o'clock 
 I don't mind seeing him — I shan't wait for him. I've ordered 
 my horse at nine sharp. And I've ordered the pony carriage for 
 you and Celia to drive to the meet. If s a fine morning, and the 
 fresh air will do you good.' 
 
 ' Then I'd better send a message to Celia,' said Laura. ' She 
 is given to late hours in wintry weather.' 
 
 She rang the bell and told Trimmer to send one of the maids 
 to Miss Clare to say that she was to be ready for a drive at nine 
 o'clock ; and then John and his wife dawdled over their talk 
 and breakfast till half -past eight, by which time the January 
 sun was bright enough to invite them into the garden. 
 
 ' Bun and put on your sealskin, Laura, and come for a turn 
 in the grounds/ said Mr. Treverton. 
 
 The obedient wife departed, and came back in five min ute^ 
 in a brown cloth dress, with jacket, hat, and muff of darkest 
 sealskin. 
 
800 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 * What a delightful study in brown ! ' said John. 
 
 They went out into the Dutch garden — that garden where 
 John Treverton had walked alone on the morning after his first 
 arrival at Hazlehurst — the garden where he had seen Laura 
 standing under the yew-tree arch, in the glad April sunshine. 
 They passed under the arch to-day, and made the circuit of the 
 orchard, and speculated as to how long it would be before the 
 primroses would brighten the grassy banks, and the wild purple 
 crocuses break through the sod, like imprisoned souls rising from 
 a wintry grave. Never had they been happier together — perhaps 
 never so happy, for John Tr ever ton's mind was no longer 
 burdened with the secret of an unhappy past. To-day it seemed 
 to both as if there was not a cloud on their horizon. They 
 strolled about orchard and garden until the church clock struck 
 nine, and then John went straight to the hall door, where his 
 handsome bay stood waiting for him, and where Laura's poniea 
 were rattling their bits, and shaking their pretty little thorough- 
 bred heads, in a general impatience to be doing something, were 
 it only running away with the light basket carriage to which 
 they were harnessed. 
 
 'Oh, there is your tenant,' said Laura, as she and her 
 husband came round the gravel drive from the adjacent garden, 
 standing at the hall door waiting for you.' 
 
 ' Is that he ? ' exclaimed Treverton. ' He looks uncommonly 
 like a Londoner. — Well, my good fellow,' he began, going up to 
 the man, hunting-crop in hand, ready to mount his horse, ' what 
 is your business with me 1 Please make it as short as you can, 
 for I've six miles to ride before I begin my day's work.' 
 
 ' I shall be very brief, Mr. Treverton,' answered the stranger, 
 coming close up to the master of Hazlehurst Manor, and 
 speaking in a low and serious tone, ' for I want to catch the 
 up train at 11.30, and I must take you with me. I'm a police 
 officer from Scotland Yard, and I am here to arrest you on 
 suspicion of having murdered your wife, known as Mademoiselle 
 Chicot, at Cibber Street, Leicester Square, on the 19th of 
 February, 187—.' 
 
 John Treverton turned deadly pale, but he faced the man 
 without flinching. 
 
 ' I'll come with you immediately,' he said ; 'but you can do 
 me one favour. Don't let my wife know the nature of the 
 business that takes me to London. I can get it broken to her 
 gsntly after I am gone.' 
 
 'Don't you think you'd better tell her yourself?' suggested 
 the detective, in a friendly tone. ' She'll take it better from you 
 than from any one else. I've always found it so. Tell her the 
 truth, and let her come to London with us, if she likes.' 
 
 ' You are right,' said Treverton ; ' she'll be happier near me 
 than eating her heart out down here. You've got some on? with 
 
On Suspicion, 801 
 
 yon, f suppose. You didn't reckon upon taking me single- 
 handed V 
 
 ' I didn't reckon upon your making any resistance. You're 
 too muck a gentleman and a man of the world. I've no doubt 
 you can clear yourself when you come before a magistrate, and 
 that the business will go no further. It was your being absent 
 from the inquest, you know, that made things look bad against 
 you.' 
 
 ' Yes, that was a mistake,' answered Treverton. > 
 
 ' I've got a man inside,' said the detective. ' If you'll step 
 nto the parlour, and have it out with your wife, he can wait in 
 the hall. Perhaps you wouldn't mind ordering a trap of some 
 kind to take us to the station. It might look better for you to 
 go in your own trap.' 
 
 'Yes, I'll see to it,' assented John Treverton absently. 
 ' Answer me one question, there's a good fellow. Who set 
 Scotland Yard on my heels ? Who put you tip to the fact that 
 I am the man who called himself Chicot ] ' 
 
 'Never you mind how we got at that, sir,' replied the 
 detective sagely. * That's a kind of thing we never tell. We 
 got the straight tip ; that's all you need know. It don't make 
 no difference to you how we got it, does it, now 1 ' 
 
 'Yes,' said John Treverton, 'it makes a great difference. 
 But I dare say I shall know all about it before long.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 ON SUSPICION. 
 
 Mr. Treverton's hunter was taken back to his loose-box, 
 where he executed an energetic pas seul with his hind legs, in the 
 exuberance of his feelings at being let off his day's work. 
 Mr. Treverton bimself was closeted with his wife in the book- 
 room, but not alone. The man from Scotland Yard was present 
 throughout the interview, while his subordinate, a respectable- 
 looking young man in plain clothes, paced quietly up and down 
 the corridor outside. 
 
 Laura bore this last crushing blow as she had borne the first — 
 with a noble heroism. She neither wept nor trembled, but stood 
 by her husband's side, pale and steadfast, ready to sustain and 
 comfort him, rather than to add to his burden with the weight 
 of her own grief. 
 
 ,, ' 1 am not afraid, John,' she said. ' I am almost glad that 
 you should face this hideous charge. Better to be put upon your 
 trial, and prove yourself innocent, as I know you can, than to 
 live all your life under the shadow of a groundless suspicion.' 
 
302 Th& Cloven Foot. 
 
 She spoke boldly, yet her heart sickened at the thought that 
 it might not be easy, perhaps not even possible, for her husband 
 to prove himself guiltless. She remembered what had been said 
 at the time of the murder, and how every circumstance had 
 seemed to point at him as the murderer. 
 
 ' My dearest, I shall be able to confront this charge,' answered 
 John Treverton. ' I have no fear of that. I made a miserable 
 mistake in not facing the difficulty at the time. The business 
 may be a little more troublesome now than it would have been 
 then, but I am not afraid. I would not ask you to go to London 
 with me, darling, if I feared the result of my journey.' 
 
 ' Do you think I would let you go alone in any case ? ' asked 
 Laura. 
 
 She was thinking that even if this trouble were to end in the 
 scaffold, she would be with him to the last, clinging to him and 
 holding by him as other brave women had held by their loved 
 ones, face to face with death. But no, it would not come to that. 
 She was so convinced, in her own mind, of his innocence, that 
 she could not suppose there would be much difficulty in proving 
 the fact in a court of law. 
 
 ' You will take your maid with you, of course V said Treverton. 
 
 ' Yes, I should like to take Mary.' 
 
 1 Where am I to be during this inquiry 1 ' asked Treverton, 
 turning to the detective. 
 
 ' At the House of Detention, Clerkenwell.' 
 
 'Not the most desirable neighbourhood, but it might be 
 worse,' said Treverton. 
 
 ' They are surely not going to put you in prison, John, before 
 they have proved anything against you ? ' cried his wife, with a 
 look of horror. 
 
 ' It's only a form, dear. We needn't call it prison ; but I 
 shan't be exactly at large. I think, perhaps, the best plan would 
 be for you to take quiet lodgings at Islington, say in Colebrook 
 Row, for instance. That's a decent place. You'd prefer that to 
 an hotel, wouldn't you ? ' 
 
 ' Infinitely.' 
 
 * Very well. You had better put up at the Midland Hotel 
 to-night, and to-morrow morning you and Mary can drive about 
 in a cab till you find a nice lodging. I shall write a lina to 
 Sampson, asking him to follow us as soon as he can. He may 
 be of use to us in London.' 
 
 Everything was settled as quietly as if they had been starting 
 on a pleasure trip. The brougham was at the door in time to 
 take them to the station. Celia, who was ready dressed to drive 
 to the meet, was the only person who appeared excited or 
 Bewildered. ' 
 
 1 'What does it all mean, Laura ? ' she asked. ' Have you and 
 
On Suspicion. 303 
 
 Mr. Treverton gone suddenly mad ? At eight o'crock you send 
 up to tell me you are going to take me to the meet ; and at nine 
 I find you are starting for London, with two strange men. What 
 can you mean by it?' 
 
 /It means very serious business, Celia,' Laura answered 
 quietly. 'Do not worry yourself about it. You will know 
 everything by-and-by.' 
 
 ' By-and-by,' echoed Celia scornfully. « I suppose you mean 
 when I go to heaven, and look down upon you with a new pair 
 of eyes ? I want to know now. By-and-by will not be the 
 least use. I remember when I was a child, if people told me I 
 should have anything by-and-by, I never got it.' 
 
 * Good-bye, Celia dearest. John will write to your father ' 
 _ Yes, and my father will keep the letter all to himself 
 When will you be back ? ' 
 
 'Soon, I hope ; but I cannot say how soon. 
 ' Now, madam,' said the police officer, ' the time is up ' 
 Laura embraced her friend and stepped into the carriage 
 Her husband followed, then the detective, and lastly the faithful 
 Mary who had had hard work to get a couple of portmanteaus 
 packed tor her master and mistress, and a few thino-s huddled 
 into a carpet bag for herself. She had no idea where°they were 
 going, or the motive of this sudden journey. A few hasty words 
 had been said to Trimmer, as to the conduct of the household 
 and that was all. ' 
 
 At the station Mr. Palby, the detective, contrived to secure 
 a compartment for Mr. and Mrs. Treverton and himself His 
 subordinate was to travel with Mary in a second-cla^s 
 carriage. 
 
 . " You needn't be afraid of his talking,' said Mr. Palby to his 
 prisoner. Grummles is as close as wax.' 
 
 'It can matter very little whether he talks or not,' answered 
 Treverton indifferently. ' Everybody will know everything in a 
 day or two. The newspapers will make my story public' 
 
 He thought with supreme bitterness how much easier it 
 would have been for him to face this accusation as Jack Chicot 
 than as John Treverton, alias Chicot ; how much less there would 
 have been for the newspapers to say about him, had he stood 
 boldly forward at the inquest and faced his difficulty. About 
 Jack Chicot, the literary Bohemian, the world would have been 
 little curious. How much greater was the scandal now that the 
 
 ^d oldlSneT* 11 f0rtUlle, * C0Untry Squire ' the bearer of a 
 „r £\ fiv ! •°' cl °^ k th , at winter ^moon the doors of the House 
 dpfSS T *? d JT n John treverton. There was some 
 
 £ K rt. i 0Wn i t0 the a ° C ? Sed 6Ven here ' and muck considers 
 bon for the lovely young wife, who remained quietly with her 
 
804 The Cbven Foot. 
 
 husband to the last moment, and gave vent to none of the lamen. 
 tations which were wont to disturb the orderly silence ot those 
 stony halls. Laura made herself acquainted with the rules and 
 regulations to which her husband would be subject— the hours 
 at which she would be allowed to see him, and then bade him 
 good-bye without a tear. It was only when she and Mary were 
 alone in the cab, on their way to the Midland Hotel, that her 
 fortitude broke down, and she burst into convulsive soLs. 
 
 ' Oh, please don't,' cried Mary, putting her friendly arms 
 round her mistress. ' You mustn't give way, indeed you mustn t. 
 It's so dreadful bad for you. Everything's bound to come right, 
 ma'am. Look at master, how cheerful he is, and how brave and 
 handsome he looked in that horrid place.' 
 
 'Yes Mary, he pretended to be cheerful and confidentfor my 
 sake, just as I try to keep myself calm in order to sustain him. 
 But it is a mere pretence on both sides. I shall be a miserable 
 woman until this inquiry is over.' 
 
 1 Well, ma'am, of course it's an anxious time. 
 'We have hardly a friend who can help us. What does 
 Mr Sampson know of criminal law? What does my husband 
 know as to what he ought to do to protect himself in his present 
 position? We are like children lost in a dark wood— a wood 
 where there are beasts of prey that may devour us.' 
 
 'Mr Sampson seems very clever, ma'am. Depend upon it, 
 he'U know what to do. Lor', what a ugly place this London is ! 
 exclaimed Mary, looking with astonished eyes at the architectural 
 beauties of the Gray's InnEoad, ' everything so dark and smoky. 
 Beechampton is ever so much grander.' 
 
 Here the cab turned into the Euston Eoad, and the palatial 
 
 front of the Midland Hotel revealed itself in a burst of splendour 
 
 to Mary's astonished eyes. x>„i„«, 
 
 'My!' she exclaimed, 'it must be Buckingham Palace, 
 
 SUr< Her astonishment became stupefaction when the cab drove 
 under the Italian-Gothic portico, and a liveried page sprang 
 forward to open the door, and relieve the bewildered Abigail of 
 her mistress's travelling bag. Her surprise and admiration went 
 on increasing, like a geometrical progression, commencing above 
 unitv as she followed her mistress across the pillared hall and up 
 the marble staircase, to a corridor, whose remote perspective 
 ended far away in a twinkling speck of gaslight. 
 
 ' Gracious, what a place V she cried. ' If all the hotels in 
 London are like this, what must the Queen's palace be i 
 
 The polite German attendant opened the door of a sitting- 
 room, where a bright fire burned as if to welcome expected 
 guests. He had softly murmured the words < sitting-room into 
 Laura's ear as she crossed the hall, and she bowed gently in assent, 
 
On Suspicion. 803 
 
 No more was needed. He felt that she was the right sort of 
 customer for the Grand Midland. 
 
 ' Die pettroom is vithin,' he said, indicating a door of com* 
 munication. ' Dere is also tressing-room. Dere vill pe a room 
 ranted for die mait, matam, I subbose. I vill sent die champer^ 
 mait. Matam vill vish to tine ? ' 
 
 • No, thanks. Yon can bring some tea,' answered Laura, sink- 
 ing wearily into a chair. She kept her veil down to hide her 
 tear-stained cheeks. 'If a gentleman called Sampson should 
 inquire for me in the course of the evening, please send him 
 here.' 
 
 ' Tes, matame. Vat name V 
 
 ' What man ? Oh, you mean my own name. Treverton, 
 Mrs. Treverton.' 
 
 She shuddered at the thought that in a few days the name 
 might be notorious. 
 
 Mary ordered a dish of cutlets to be sent up with the tea, and 
 presently she and the chambermaid were arranging Mrs. Trever- 
 ton's bedroom, opening the portmanteau, setting out the ivory 
 brashes and silver-topped bottles from the travelling bag, and 
 giving a look of comfort and homeliness to the strange apartment. 
 
 Fires were lighted in the bedroom and dressing-room, and 
 there was that all-pervading air of luxury, which, to the traveller 
 of limited means, suggests the idea that, for the time being, he is 
 living at the rate of ten thousand a year. 
 
 The evening was sad and weary for Laura Treverton. Now 
 only was she beginning to realize the catastrophe that had befallen 
 her. Now only, as she walked up and down the strange sitting- 
 room, alone, friendless, in the big world of London, did all the 
 horror of her position come home to her. 
 
 Her husband a prisoner, charged with the most direful offence 
 man can commit against his fellow-man, to be brought, perhaps 
 to-morrow, to face his accusers, and to have the details of his 
 supposed guilt bandied from lip to lip to-morrow night, the 
 subject of idle wonder and foolish speculations. He, her darling, 
 degraded to the lowest depth to which h uma nity can fall ! It 
 was too horrible. She clasped her hands before her eyes, as if to 
 shut out an actual scene of horror — the dock, the judgment-seat, 
 the hangman, and the scaffold. 
 
 ' My husband suspected of such a crime,' she said to hersell 
 ' My husband, whose inmost thoughts are known to me ; a man 
 incapable of cruelty to the meanest thing that crawls.' 
 
 Sometimes, in the course of those slow hours, a sudden excite- 
 ment took hold of her. She forgot everything except the one 
 fact of her husband's position. 
 
 'Let us go to him, Mary,' she cried. 'Get me my hat and 
 jacket, and let us go to him directly.' 
 
 V 
 
306 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' Indeed, ma'am, we can't get in,' remonstrated Mary. * Don't 
 you remember what they told us about the hours of admission 1 
 You were only to see him at a particular time. Why, they're all 
 abed by this time, poor things, I make no doubt.' 
 
 ' How cruel 1 ' cried Laura ; ' how cruel it is that I can't be 
 
 With him J ' 
 
 ' If you go on worrying yourself like this, ma'am, you'll be ill. 
 You haven't eaten a bit since you left home, though I'm sure the 
 cutlets was done lovely. Shall I order some arrowroot for your 
 supper ? Or a basin of soup, now ? That would be more 
 nourishing.' 
 
 ' No, Mary, it's no use. I can't eat anything. How I wish 
 Mr. Sampson would come ! ' 
 
 ' It's almost too late to expect him, ma'am. I don't suppose 
 he's left Hazlehurst. Perhaps he couldn't get away to-day.' 
 
 ' Not get away ! ' echoed Laura. ' Nonsense ! He would 
 never abandon my husband in the hour of difficulty.' 
 
 The German waiter at this very moment announced, 'Mr. 
 Sambzon.' 
 
 'I'm awfully late, Mrs. Treverton,' said the little man, 
 bustling in, ' but I thought you'd like to see me, so I came in. 
 I've engaged a room in the hotel, and I shall stay as long as I'm 
 wanted, even if my Hazlehurst business goes to pot.' 
 
 ' How good you are ! You have only just come to London 1 ' 
 
 ' Only just come, indeed ! I came by the train after yours. I 
 was in London at seven o'clock. I've been with Mr. Leopold, 
 the well-known solicitor — the man who's so great in criminal 
 cases, you know, — and I've got him for our side. And I've been 
 down to Cibber Street with him, and we've picked up all the infor- 
 mation we can. The landlady's laid up with low fever, and so we 
 couldn't get much out of her ; but we've seen Mr. Gerard, and we 
 know pretty well what he has to bring forward against us, and I 
 think he'll be rather a reluctant witness. It's a pity that Mi*. 
 Desrolles is out of the way. We might have made something 
 out of him.' 
 
 Laura turned to him with a startled look. Desrolles ! That 
 was the name by which her husband had known her father, 
 He, to whom an alias seemed so easy, had been known in his 
 London lodgings as Mr. Desrolles. And he had been in the 
 house at the time of the murder. 
 
 ' You have no fear as to the result, have you ? ' Laura asked 
 Sampson, with intense anxiety. ' My husband will be able to 
 prove himself innocent of this terrible crime.' 
 
 ' I don't believe the other side will be able to prove him 
 guilty,' said Sampson thoughtfully. 
 
 ' But he may remain all his life under the stigma of this 
 hideous suspicion. The world will believe him guilty, though 
 
Mr. Leopold asks Irrelevant Questions. 307 
 
 the crime cannot be brought home to him. Is that what you 
 mean 1 ' 
 
 'My dear Mrs. Treverton, I am not clever enough or ex- 
 perienced enough to offer an opinion in such a case as this. "We 
 are only at the outset of things. Besides, I am no criminal 
 lawyer.' 
 
 ' What does Mr. Leopold say 1 ' asked Laura, looking at him 
 intently. 
 
 ' I am not at liberty to tell you that. It would be a breach 
 of confidence,' answered Sampson. 
 
 ' I see. Mr. Leopold things there is a strong case against my 
 husband.' 
 
 ' Mr. Leopold thinks nothing at present. He has no data to 
 go upon.' 
 
 * He must remember the report of the inquest, and aH that 
 was said in the newspapers.' 
 
 'Mr. Leopold thinks that of the newspapers,' exclaimed 
 Sampson, snapping his fingers. ' Mr. Leopold is not led by the 
 nose by the newspapers. He would not be where he is if he 
 were that kind of man.' 
 
 ' Well, we must wait and hope,' said Laura, with a sigh. ' It 
 is a hard trial, but it must be borne. Will anything be done to- 
 morrow ? ' 
 
 ' There will be an inquiry at Bow Street.' 
 
 ' Will Mr. Leopold be present 1 ' 
 
 ' Of course. He will watch the case as a cat watches a mouse.' 
 
 'Tell him that I should think half my fortune too little to 
 reward him if he can prove — clearly and plainly prove — my 
 husband's innocence.' 
 
 ' Mr. Leopold won't ask for your fortune. He's as rich as 
 
 well, rolling in money. He'll do his duty, you may depend upon 
 it, without any prompting from me.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XL, 
 
 MR. LEOPOLD ASKS IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS. 
 
 An inquiry was held at Bow Street next day. Several of the 
 witnesses who had appeared nearly a year ago at the inquest 
 were present, and much of the evidence that had been then given 
 was now repeated. The policeman who had been called in by 
 Desrolles, the doctor who had first examined the dead woman's 
 wound, and the detective who examined the pre mis es — all these 
 gave their evidence exactly as they had given it at the inquest. 
 Mrs. Evitt was too ill to appear, but her previous statements were 
 read. There was one witness present on this occasion who had not 
 appeared at the inquest. This was George Gerard, who had been 
 
308 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Bubpoenaed by the prosecution, and who described, with a some- 
 what reluctant air, his discovery of the dagger in Jack Chicot's 
 colour-box. 
 
 'This was a curious discovery of yours, Mr. Gerard,' said 
 Mr. Leopold, after the witness had been examined, ' and comes 
 to light at a curious time. Why did you not inform the police 
 of this discovery when you made it J ' 
 
 * I was not called- as a witness.' 
 
 'No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any 
 importance, it was your duty to make it known immediately. 
 You make your way into the house of the accused without any- 
 body's authorization ; you go prying and peering into rooms that 
 have already been examined by the police ; and you come forward 
 a year afterwards with this extraordinary discovery of a tarnished 
 dagger. What evidence have we that this dagger ever belonged 
 %o the accused ? ' 
 
 ' There need be no difficulty about that,' said John Treverton, 
 ' the dagger is mine.' 
 
 Mr. Leopold rewarded his client's candour with a ferocious 
 scowl. Was there ever such a man — a man who was legally 
 dumb, whose lips the law had sealed, and who had the folly to 
 blurt out such an admission as this ? 
 
 The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. 
 The police had taken possession of all Jack Chicot's chattels. 
 The dagger was no doubt among them. 
 
 1 Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be 
 examined,' said the magistrate. 
 
 The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, 
 who wanted time to meet the evidence against his client. The 
 magistrate, who felt that the case was hardly strong enough for 
 committal, granted this respite. An hour later John Treverton 
 was closeted with Mr. Leopold and Mr. Sampson in his room at 
 Clerkenwell. 
 
 'The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been 
 committed at one o'clock,' said Mr. Leopold. 'You only dis- 
 covered it at five minutes before three. What were you doing 
 with yourself during those hours ? At the worst we ought to be 
 able to prove an alibi.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid that would be difficult,' answered Treverton 
 thoughtfully. * I was very unhappy at that period of my lif e, and 
 had acquired a habit of roaming about the streets of London 
 between midnight and morning. I had suffered from a painful 
 attack of sleeplessness, and this night-roving was the only thing 
 that gave me relief. I was at a literary club near the Strand on 
 the night of the murder. I left a few minutes after twelve. It 
 was a fine, mild night — wonderfully mild for the time of year ? — 
 and I walked to Hampstead Heaf-h and back.' 
 
Mr. Leopold asks Irrelevant Questions. 309 
 
 1 Humph ! ' muttered Mr. Leopold, * you couldn't have 
 managed things better, if you wanted to put the rope round your 
 neck. You left your club a few minutes after twelve, you say — 
 in comfortable tune for the murder. You were seen to leave, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I left with another member, a water-colour painter, 
 who lives at Haverstock Hill.' 
 
 ' Good — and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, 
 I suppose?' 
 
 ' No, he didn't. "We walked to St. Martin's Church together, 
 and there he took a hansom. He had no latch-key, and wanted 
 to get home in decent time.' 
 
 ' Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I had no definite purpose. I walked as far, and in what- 
 ever direction my fancy took me.' 
 
 'Precisely. Then your friend, the water-colour painter, 
 parted from you at about a quarter-past twelve ? ' 
 
 'It struck the quarter while we were wishing each other 
 good-night.' 
 
 ' "Within five minutes' walk of your lodging. No chance of 
 an alibi here, I fear, Mr. Treverton ; unless you met any one on 
 Hampstead Heath, which in the middle of the night was not 
 very likely.' 
 
 ' I neither met nor spoke to a mortal, except a man at a coffee- 
 stall near the Mother Eedcap, on my way back.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you talked to a man at a coffee-stall, did you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I stopped to take a cup of coffee at ten minutes past 
 two. H the same man is to be found there he ought to remember 
 me. He was a loquacious fellow, something of a wag, and we 
 had quite a political discussion. There had been an important 
 division in the House the night before, and my friend at the 
 coffee-stall was well posted in his Daily Telegraph.' 
 
 Mr. Leopold made a note of the circumstance while John 
 Treverton was talking. 
 
 ' So far so good. Now we come to another point. Is there 
 inybody whom you suspect as implicated in this murder ? Can 
 } ou trace a motive anywhere for such an act 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' answered Treverton decidedly. 
 
 4 Yet you see the murder must have been done by some one, 
 and that some one must have had a motive. It was not a case 
 of suicide. The medical evidence at the inquest clearly demon- 
 strated that.' 
 
 ' You remember the inquest ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, I was present.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' exclaimed Treverton, surprised. 
 
 1 Yes, I was there. Now to continue my argument ; you, as 
 the husband of the victim, must have been f amiliar with all her 
 
310 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 surroundings. You must know better than any one else whether 
 there was any one connected with her who could have a motive 
 for this crime.' 
 
 ' I cannot conceive any reason for the act. I cannot suspect 
 any one person more than another.' 
 
 ' Are you positive that your wife had no valuables in her pos- 
 session — money, for instance ? ' 
 
 ' She spent her money faster than she earned it. We were 
 always in debt. The little jewellery she had ever possessed hial 
 been pledged.' 
 
 ' Are you sure that she had no valuable jewellery in her pos- 
 session at the time of her death 1 ' 
 
 ' To my knowledge she had none.' 
 
 ' That's curious,' said Mr. Leopold. ' I heard a rumour at tha 
 time of a diamond necklace, which had been seen round her 
 throat two or three evenings before the murder, by the dresser 
 at the theatre. Your wife wore a broad band of black velvet 
 round her neck when she was dressed for the stage, which en- 
 tirely concealed the diamonds, and it was only by accident the 
 dresser saw them.' 
 
 ' This must be a fable,' said Treverton. ' My wife never pos- 
 sessed a diamond necklace. She was never in a position to buy 
 one.' 
 
 ' She may have been in a position to receive one as a gift,' 
 suggested Mr. Leopold quietly. 
 
 ' She was an honest woman.' 
 
 ' Granted. Such gifts are given to honest women. Not often, 
 perhaps, but the thing is possible. Her possession of that dia- 
 mond necklace may have become known to the murderer, and 
 may have tempted him to the crime.' 
 
 Treverton was silent. He remembered his wife's anonymous 
 admirer, the giver of the bracelet. He had dismissed the man 
 from his thoughts after his interview with the jeweller. No 
 other gifts had appeared, and he had felt no further uneasiness 
 on the subject. 
 
 ' Have you thought of all the people in the house ? ' asked 
 Mr. Leopold. 
 
 John Treverton shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' What can I think about them 1 No one in the house could 
 have had any motive for murdering my wife.' 
 
 ' It is pretty clear that the murder was not done by any one 
 outside the house,' said Mr. Leopold, ' unless, indeed, the street 
 door had been left open in the course of the evening, so as to 
 enable the murderer to slip in quietly, and hide himself until 
 every one had gone to bed. At what time did your wife generally 
 return from the theatre ? ' 
 
 ' About twelve o'clock ; oftener before twelve than after,' 
 
Mr. Leopold asks Irrelevant Questions. 311 
 
 1 The murderer may have followed her into the house. She 
 lwd a latch-key, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' She may have been careless in closing the door, and left it 
 unfastened. It is quite possible that some one may have entered 
 the house after her, and left it quietly when his work was done.' 
 
 'Quite/ answered Treverton, with a bitter smile. 'But if 
 we do not know who that some one was, the fact won't help us.' 
 
 'How about this man who occupied the second floor — this 
 Desrolles 1 What is he 1 ' 
 
 ' A broken-down gentleman,' answered Treverton, with a 
 troubled look. 
 
 He had a peculiar reluctance in speaking of Desrolles. 
 
 'He could not be anything worse,' said Mr. Leopold 
 sententiously. ' This Desrolles was in the house at the time of 
 the murder. Strange that he should have heard nothing of -the 
 struggle.'' 
 
 ' Mrs. Eawber heard nothing, yet she was on the floor below, 
 and was more likely to hear any movement in my wife's room.' 
 
 ' I should like to know all you can tell me about Desrolles,' 
 said Mr. Leopold, frowning over his pocket-book. 
 
 Honest Tom Sampson sat and listened, open-eyed and silent. 
 To him the famous criminal lawyer was as a god, a being made 
 up of wisdom and knowledge. 
 
 ' I can tell you very little,' answered John Treverton. ' I 
 know nothing to his discredit, except that he was poor, and too 
 fond of brandy for his own welfare.' 
 
 ' I see,' answered Leopold quickly. ' The kind of man who 
 would do anything for money.' 
 
 Treverton started. He could not deny that this was in 
 some wise true of Mr. Desrolles, alias Mansfield, alias Malcolm. 
 It horrified him to remember that this man was Laura's father, 
 and that at any moment the disgrace of that relationship might 
 be made known, should Desrolles' presence at the police court be 
 insisted upon. Happily Desrolles was on the other side of the 
 Channel, where only the sohcitor who received his income knew 
 where to find him. 
 
 Mr. Leopold asked a good many more questions, some of 
 which seemed frivolous and irrelevant, but all of which John 
 Treverton answered as well as he was able. 
 
 ' I hope you beHeve in me, Mr. Leopold,' he said, when his 
 solicitor held out his hand at parting. 
 
 ' From my soul,' answered the other earnestly. 'And, whaf s 
 more, I mean to pull you through this. It's a troublesome 
 business, but I think I can see my way to the end of it. I wis?- 
 you could help me to find Desrolles.' 
 
 • That I cannot do,' said Treverton decidedly. 
 
312 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 It's a pity. "Well, good-day. The inquiry is adjourned till 
 next Tuesday, so we have a week before us. It will be hard if 
 we don't do something in that time.' 
 
 'The police have done very little in a twelvemonth,' said 
 Treverton. 
 
 'The police have not a monopoly of human intelligence,' 
 answered Mr. Leopold. ' We may do better than the police.' 
 
 Two advertisements appeared in the Times, Telegraph, and 
 Standard, next morning : — 
 
 « DESROLLES— TEN POUNDS Reward will be given to anybody 
 furnishing the PRESENT ADDRESS of Mr. DESROLLES, 
 late of Oibber Street, Leicester Square.' 
 » TO JEWELLERS, PAWNBROKERS, &c— LOST, in February, 
 187—, a COLLET NECKLACE of IMITATION DIAMONDS.— 
 Anybody giving information about the same will be liberally 
 rewarded.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XLL 
 
 MRS. EVITT MAKES A REVELATION. 
 
 Mrs. Evitt was very ill. It may be that a prolonged resi- 
 dence on a level with the sewers, and remote from the direct rays 
 of the sun, is not conducive to health or good spirits. 
 
 Mi's. Evitt had long suffered from a gentle melancholy, an 
 all-pervading dolefulness, which impelled her to hang her head 
 on one side, and to sigh faintly, at intervals, without any 
 apparent motive. She had been also prone to see all the affairs 
 of life in their darkest aspect, as one living remote from the sun 
 might naturally do. She had been given to prophesy death and 
 doom to her acquaintance, to give a sick friend over directly the 
 doctor was called in, to foresee sheriff's officers and ruin at the 
 slightest indication of extravagance in the management of a 
 neighbour's household, to augur bad things of babies, and worse 
 things of husbands, to mistrust all mankind, and to perform 
 under her human aspect that ungenial office which the screech- 
 owl was supposed to fulfil in a more romantic age. 
 
 She had always been ailing. She suffered from vague pains 
 and stitches, and undefinable aches, which took her at awkward 
 angles of her bony frame, or which wracked the innermost 
 recesses of that edifice. She knew a great deal more about her 
 internal economy than is consistent with happiness, and was 
 wont to talk about her liver and other organs with an almost 
 professional technicality. She was not an agreeable companion, 
 but a long succession of lodgers had borne with her, because she 
 was tolerably clean and unscrupulously honest. Upon this last 
 point she prided herself immensely. She knew that she belonged 
 to a maligned and suspected race ; nay, that the very name of her 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Bevelation. 313 
 
 calling was synonymous with peculation ; and her soul swelled 
 with pride as she declared that she had never wronged a lodger 
 by so much as a crust of bread. She would let a mutton bone 
 rot in her larder rather than appropriate the barest shank 
 without express permission. Rashers of bacon, half-pounds of 
 Dorset, lard, flour, eggs, were as safe in her care as bullion in the 
 Bank of England. 
 
 George Gerard, to whom every penny was of consequence, 
 had discovered this sovereign virtue in his landlady, and honoured 
 her for it. He had suffered much from the harpies with whom 
 he had dwelt in the City. He found his half-pound of tea or 
 coffee last twice as long as in former lodgings ; his rasher of 
 bacon less costly ; his mutton chop better cooked ; his loaf re- 
 spected. For him Mrs. Evitt was a model landlady ; and he 
 rewarded her integrity by such small civilities as lay in his power. 
 What gratified her most was his readiness to prescribe for those 
 ailments which were the most salient feature of her life. Her 
 mind had a natural bent towards medicine, and she loved to 
 talk to the good-natured surgeon of her disorders, or even to 
 question him about his patients. 
 
 ' That's a bad case of small-pox you've got in Green Street, 
 isn't it, Mr. Gerard 1 ' she would say to him, with a dismal relish, 
 when she came in after his day's work to ask what she ought to 
 do for that ' grumbling ' pain in her back. 
 
 ' "Who told you it was small-pox 1 ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' Well, I had it from very good authority. The charwoman 
 that works at number seven in this street is own sister to Mrs. 
 Jewell's Mary Ann, and Mrs. Jewell and Mrs. Peacock in Green 
 Street is bosom friends, and the house where you're attending is 
 exackerly opposite Mr. Peacock's.' 
 
 ' Excellent authority,' answered Gerard, smiling, ' but I am 
 happy to tell you I haven't a case of small-pox on my list Did 
 you ever hear of such a thing as rheumatic fever 1 ' 
 
 ' Hear of it,' echoed Mrs. Evitt rapturously. ' I've been 
 down with it seven times.' 
 
 She looked very hard at him as she made the assertion, as if 
 not expecting to be believed. 
 
 1 Have you 1 ' said Gerard. ' Then I wonder you're alive.' 
 
 ' That's what I wonder at myself,' answered Mrs. Evitt, witn 
 subdued pride. ' I must have had a splendid constitution to go 
 through all I've gone through, and to be here to tell it. The 
 quinsies I've had. Why, the mustard that's been put to my 
 throat in the form of poultices would stock a first-rate tea-grocer 
 with the article. As to fever, I don't think you could name the 
 kind I haven't had since I had the scarlatina at five months 
 old and the whooping-cough atop of the measles before I'd got 
 over it. I've been a martyr. 
 
814 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' I'm afraid that damp kitchen of yours has had something to 
 do with it,' suggested Gerard. 
 
 ' Damp ? ' cried Mrs. Evitt, casting up her hands. ' You never 
 made a greater mistake in your life, Mr. Gerard, than when you 
 threw out such a remark. There ain't a dryer room in London. 
 No, Mr. Gerard, it ain't damp, it's sensitiveness. I'm a regular 
 sensitive plant ; and if there's disease going about I take it. 
 That's why I asked you if the small-pox was in Green Street. I 
 don't want to be disfigurated in my old age.' 
 
 Mr. Gerard looked upon Mrs. Evitt's ailments as in a large 
 degree imaginary, but he found her weak and overworked, and 
 gave her a gentle course of quinine, ill as he could afford to supply 
 her with so expensive a tonic. For some time the quinine had a 
 restorative effect, and Mrs. Evitt thought her lodger the first man 
 in his profession. That young man understood her constitution 
 as nobody else had ever understood it, she told her gossips, and 
 that young man would make his way. A doctor who had under- 
 stood a constitution which had hitherto baffled the faculty was 
 bound to achieve greatness. Unfortunately, the good effect of 
 Gerard's prescription was not lasting. There was a good deal of 
 wet and foggy weather at the close of the old year and at the 
 beginning of the new year ; and the damp and fog crept into 
 Mrs. Evitt's kitchen, and seemed to take hold of her hard- 
 worked old bones. She exhibited some very fine examples of 
 shivering — her teeth chattered, her complexion turned blue with 
 cold. Even three-pennyworth of best unsweetened gin, taken 
 in half a tumbler of boiling water, failed to comfort or ex- 
 hilarate her. 
 
 'I'm afraid I'm in for it,' Mrs. Evitt exclaimed to a neigh- 
 bour, who had dropped in to pass the time of day and borrow 
 an Italian iron. 'And this time it's ague.' 
 
 And then, forcing the attack a little for the benefit of the 
 neighbour, she set up one of those dreadful shivering fits, which 
 rattled all the teeth in her head. 
 
 ' If s ague this time/ she repeated, when the shivering had 
 abated. ' I never had ague until now.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried the neighbour, with an assumption of cheer- 
 fulness. ' It ain't ague. Lord bless you, people don't have ague 
 in the heart of London, in a warm, comfortable kitchen like this. 
 It's only in marshes and such like places that you hear of ague.' 
 
 ' Never you mind,' retorted Mrs. Evitt solemnly. ' I've got 
 the ague, and if Mr. Gerard doesn't say as much when he comes 
 home, he isn't the clever man I think him.' 
 
 Mr. Gerard came home in due course, letting himself in 
 quietly with his latch-key, soon after dark. Mrs. Evitt man- 
 aged to crawl upstairs with a tray, carrying a mutton chop, a 
 loaf, and a pat of butter. To cook the chop had cost her an 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Bevelation. 315 
 
 effort, and it was as much as she could do to drag her weary 
 limbs upstairs. 
 
 ' Why, what's the matter with you to-night, Mrs. Bouncer V 
 asked Gerard, who had given his landlady that classic name. 
 'You're looking very queer.' 
 
 ' I know I am,' answered Mrs. Evitt, with gloomy resig- 
 nation. 'I've got the ague.' 
 
 ' Ague 1 nonsense ! ' cried Gerard, rising and feeling her pulse. 
 
 I Let's look at your tongue, old lady. That'll do. I'll soon set 
 you on your legs again, if you do what I tell you. ; 
 
 1 What is that 1 ' 
 
 ' Get to bed, and stay there till you're well. You're not fit to 
 be slaving about the house, my good soul. You must get to bed 
 and keep yourself warm, and have some one to feed you with 
 good soup and arrowroot, and such like.' 
 
 ' Who's to look after the house 1 ' asked Mrs. Evitt dismally. 
 
 I I shall be ruined.' 
 
 ' No, you won't. I'm your only lodger just now.' Mrs. Evitt 
 sighed dolefully. 'And I want very little waiting upon. You'll 
 want some one to wait upon you, though. You'd better get a 
 charwoman.' 
 
 ' Eighteenpence a day, three substantial meals, and a pint of 
 beer,' sighed Mrs. Evitt. 'I should be eat out of house and home. 
 If I must lay up, Mr. Gerard, I'll get a girl. I know of a decent 
 girl that woidd come for her vittles, and a trifle at the end of the 
 week.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Gerard, c there are a good many decent young men 
 walking the streets of London, who would go anywhere for their 
 victuals. Life's a harder problem than any proposition in Euclid, 
 my worthy Bouncer.' 
 
 The landlady shook her head in melancholy assent. 
 
 ' Now look here, my good soul,' said Gerard seriously. ' If 
 you want to get well, you mustn't sleep in that kennel of yours 
 down below.' 
 
 1 Kennel ! ' cried the outraged matron, ' kennel, Mr. Gerard ! 
 Why, you might eat your dinner off the floor.' 
 
 ' I dare say you might ; but every breath you draw there is 
 tainted more or less with sewer gas. That furred tongue of 
 yours looks rather like blood-poisoning. You must make your- 
 self up a comfortable bed on the first floor, and keep a nice little 
 bit of fire in your room day and night.' 
 
 ' Not in her room, Mr. Gerard,' exclaimed Mi's. Evitt, with a 
 shudder. ' I couldn't do it, sir. It isn't like as if I was a 
 stranger. Strangers wouldn't feel it. But I knew her. I should 
 see her beautiful eyes glaring at me all night long. It would be 
 the death of me.' 
 
 'Well, then, there's Desrolles' room. You 'can't have any 
 objection to that.' 
 
316 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 Mrs. Evitt shuddered again. 
 
 ' I'm that nervous/ she said, ' that my mind's set against those 
 \-pstairs rooms.' 
 
 ' You'll never get well downstairs. If you don't fancy that 
 first-floor bedroom you can make yourself up a bed in the sitting- 
 room. There's plenty of light and air there.' 
 
 ' I might do that,' said Mrs. Evitt, ' though it goes against 
 me to 'ack my beautiful drawring-room ' 
 
 ' You won't hurt your drawing-room. You have to recover 
 your health.' 
 
 "Ealth is a blessed privilege. "Well, I'll put up a truckle bed 
 in the first-floor front. The girl could sleep on a mattress on the 
 floor at the bottom of my bed. She'd be company.' 
 
 ' Of course she would. Make yourself comfortable mentally 
 and bodily, and you'll soon get well. Now, how about this girl ? 
 You must get her immediately.' 
 
 ' I've got a neighbour coming in presently. I'll get her to 
 step round and tell Jemima to come.' 
 
 ' Is Jemima the girl 1 ' 
 
 'Yes. She's step-daughter to the tailor at the corner of 
 Cricket's Eow. He's got a fine family of his own, and Jemima 
 feels herself one too many. She's a hard-working, honest-minded 
 girl, though she isn't much to look at. Her father was in the 
 public line ; he was barman at the Prince of Wales, and the step- 
 father throws it at her sometimes when he's in drink.' 
 
 ' Never mind Jemima's biography,' said Gerard. ' Get your 
 neighbour to fetch her, and in the meantime I'll help you to 
 make up the bed.' 
 
 ' Lor,' Mr. Gerard, you haven't had your tea. Your chop 
 will be stone cold.' 
 
 ' My chop must wait,' said Gerard cheerily. And then, with 
 all the handiness of a woman, and more than the kindness of an 
 ordinary woman, the young surgeon helped to transform the 
 first-floor sitting-room into a comfortable bedchamber. 
 
 By the time this was done Jemima had arrived upon the 
 scene, carrying all her worldly goods tied up in a cotton hand- 
 kerchief. She was a raw-boned, angular girl, deeply marked 
 with the small-pox. Her scanty hair was twisted into a knot 
 like a ball of cotton at the back of her head ; her elbows were 
 preternaturally red, her wrists were bound up with rusty black 
 ribbon ; but she had a good-natured grin that atoned for every- 
 thing. She was as patient as a beast of burden, contented with 
 the scantiest fare, invariably cheerful. She was so accustomed 
 to harsh words and hard usage that she thought people who did 
 not bully or maltreat her the quintessence of kindnesp. 
 
 It was on the evening when Mrs. Evitt took to her bed, and 
 the house was entrusted to the care of Jemima, that Mr. Leopold 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Bevelation. 317 
 
 ana Mr. Sampson came to make their inquiries at the house in 
 Cibber Street. George Gerard saw them, and heard of John 
 Treverton's arrest, with considerable surprise and some indigna- 
 tion. He felt assured that Edward Clare must have given the 
 information upon which the police had acted ; and he felt angry 
 with himself for having been in some wise a cat's-paw to serve the 
 young man's malice. He remembered Laura's lovely face, with 
 its expression of perfect purity and truth ; and he hated himself 
 for having helped to bring this terrible grief upon her. 
 
 'There was a time when I believed John Treverton guilty, 
 he told Mr. Leopold, ' but I have wavered in my opinion ever 
 since last Sunday week, when he and I talked together.' 
 
 'You never would have thought badly of him if you had 
 known him as well as I do,' said the faithful Sampson. ' He has 
 stayed for a week at a stretch in my house, you know. We have 
 been like brothers. This is an awkward business, and of course 
 it's very painful for that sweet young wife of his. But 
 Mr. Leopold means to pull him through.' 
 
 ' I do,' assented the famous lawyer. 
 
 ' Mr. Leopold has pulled a great many through, innocent and 
 guilty.' 
 
 ' And guilty,' assented the lawyer, with quiet self -approval. 
 
 He was disappointed at not being able to see Mrs. Evitt. 
 
 ' I should like to have asked her a few questions,' he said. 
 
 ' She is much too ill to-night for that kind of thing,' answered 
 Gerard. ' Her only chance of recovery is to be kept quiet ; and 
 I don't think she can tell you any more about the murder than 
 she stated at the inquest.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, she could,' said Mr. Leopold. ' She would tell me 
 a great deal more.' 
 
 ' Do you think she kept anything back ? ' 
 
 ' Not intentionally perhaps, but there is always something 
 untold ; some small detail, which to your mind might mean 
 nothing, but which might mean a great deal to me. Please let 
 me know directly I can see your landlady.' 
 
 Gerard promised, and then Mr. Leopold, instead of taking 
 his departure, made himself quite at home in the surgeon's arm- 
 chair, and stirred the small fire with so reckless a hand that 
 poor Gerard trembled for his weekly hundred of coals. The 
 solicitor seemed in an idle humour, and inclined to waste time. 
 Honest Tom Sampson wondered at his frivolity. 
 
 The conversation naturally turned upon the deed which had 
 given that house a sinister notoriety. Gerard found himself 
 talking freely of Madame Chicot and her husband • and it was 
 only after Mr. Leopold and his companion had gOj;e that he per- 
 ceived how cleverly the experienced lawyer had contrived to 
 cross question him, without his being aware of the process. 
 
318 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 After this evening Gerard watched the newspapers for any 
 report of the Chicot case. He read of John Treverton's ap- 
 pearance at Bow Street, and saw that the inquiry had been ad- 
 journed for a week. At Mrs. Evitt's particular request he read 
 the report of the case in the evening papers on the night after 
 the inquiry. She seemed full of anxiety about the business. 
 
 ' Do you think they'll hang him ? ' she asked eagerly. 
 
 ' My good soul, they've a long way to go before they get to 
 hanging. He is not even committed for trial' 
 
 ' But it looks black against him, doesn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Circumstances certainly appear to point to him as the mur- 
 derer. You see there seems to be no one else who could have 
 had any motive for such an act.' 
 
 ' And you say he has got a sweet young wife ? ' 
 
 1 One of the loveliest women I ever saw ; I feel very sorry for 
 her, poor soul.' 
 
 ' If you was on the jury, would you bring him in guilty ? ' 
 asked Mrs. Evitt. 
 
 ' I should be sorely perplexed. You see I should be called 
 upon to find my verdict according to the evidence, and the evi- 
 dence against him is very strong.' 
 
 Mrs. Evitt sighed, and turned her weary head upon her pillow. 
 
 ' Poor young man,' she murmured, ' he was always affable — 
 not very free-spoken, but always affable. I should feel sorry if 
 it went against him. It would be awful, wouldn't it 1 ' she ex- 
 claimed, with sudden agitation, lifting herself up from her pillow, 
 and gazing fixedly at the surgeon ; ' it would be awful for him to 
 be hung, and innocent all the time ; and a sweet young wife, 
 too. I couldn't bear it ; no, I couldn't bear it. The thought of 
 it would weigh me down to my grave, and I don't suppose it 
 would let me rest even there.' 
 
 Gerard thought the poor woman was getting delirious. He 
 Vid his fingers gently on her skinny wrist, and held them there 
 while he looked at his watch. 
 
 Yes, the pulse was a good deal quicker than it had been when 
 he last felt it. 
 
 ' Is Jemima there 1 ' asked Mrs. Evitt, twitching aside the 
 bed-curtain, and looking nervously round. 
 
 Yes, Jemima was there, sitting before the fire, darning a 
 coarse gray stocking, and feeling very happy in being allowed to 
 bask in the warmth of a fire, in a room where nobody threw 
 saucepan lids at her. 
 
 George Gerard had rigged up what he called a jury curtain, 
 to shelter the truckle bed from those piercing currents of air 
 which find their way alike through old and new window frames. 
 
 Mrs. Evitt's thin fingers suddenly fastened like claws upoa 
 Ehe surgeon's wrist. 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Bevelation. 319 
 
 ' I want to speak to you,' she whispered, ' by-and-by, when 
 Jemima's gone down to her supper. I can't keep it any longer. 
 It's preying on my vitals.' 
 
 The delirium was evidently increasing, thought Gerard. 
 There was generally this exacerbation of the fever at nightfall. 
 
 1 What is it you can't keep ? ' he asked soothingly. ' Is there 
 anything that worries you 1 ' 
 
 ' "Wait till Jemima has gone down,' whispered the invalid. 
 
 ' I'll come up and have a look at you between ten and eleven,' 
 said Gerard, aloud, rising to go. ' I've a lot of reading to get 
 through this evening.' 
 
 He went down to his books and his tranquil solitude, pon- 
 dering upon Mrs. Evitt's speech and manner. No, it was not 
 delirium. The woman's words were too consecutive for delirium; 
 her manner was excited, but not wild. There was evidently 
 something on her mind — something connected with La Chicot's 
 murder. 
 
 Great Heaven, could this feeble old woman be the assassin ? 
 Could those withered old hands have inflicted that mortal gash % 
 No, the idea was not to be entertained for a moment. Yet, 
 stranger things have been since the world began. Crime, like 
 madness, might give a factitious strength to feeble hands. La 
 Chicot might have had money — jewels — hidden wealth of some 
 kind, of which the secret was known to her landlady, and, 
 
 tempted by direst poverty, this wretched woman might ! 
 
 The thought was too horrible. It took possession of George 
 Gerard's brain like a nightmare. Vainly did he endeavour to 
 beguile his mind by the study of an interesting treatise on dry- 
 rot in the metatarsal bone. His thoughts were with that feeble 
 old woman upstairs, whose skinny hand, just now, had set him 
 thinking of the witches in Macbeth. 
 
 He listened for Jemima's clumping footfall going downstairs. 
 It came at last, and he knew that the girl was gone to her meagre 
 supper, and the coast was clear for Mrs. Evitt's revelation. He 
 shut his book, and went quietly upstairs. Never until now had 
 George Gerard known the meaning of fear ; but it was with 
 actual fear that he entered Mrs. Evitt's room, dreading the dis- 
 covery he was going to make. 
 
 He was startled at finding the invalid risen, and with her 
 dingy black stuff gown drawn on over her night-gear. 
 
 ' Why in heaven's name did you get up 1 ' he asked. ' If you 
 were to take cold you would be ever so much worse than you 
 have been yet.' 
 
 ' I know it,' answered Mrs. Evitt, with her teeth chattering, 
 ' but I can't help that. I've got to go upstairs to the second- 
 floor back, and you must go with me.' 
 
 'What for?' 
 
320 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 ' I'll tell you that presently. I want you to tell me something 
 first.' 
 
 Gerard took a blanket off the bed, and mapped it round 
 the old woman's shoulders. She was sitting in front of the fire, 
 just where Jemima had sat darning her stocking. 
 
 * I'll tell you anything you like,' answered Gerard, ' but I 
 shall be very savage if you catch cold.' 
 
 ' If an innocent person was suspected of a murder, and the 
 evidence was strong against him, and another person knew ho 
 hadn't done it, and said nothing, and let the law take its course, 
 would the other person be guilty 1 ' 
 
 ' Of murder ! ' cried Gerard ; ' of nothing less than murder. 
 Having the power to save an innocent life, and not saving it ! 
 What could that be but murder?' 
 
 ' Are you sure Jemima isn't outside, on the listen ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Evitt suspiciously. ' Just go to the door and look.' 
 
 Gerard obeyed. 
 
 'There's not a mortal within earshot,' he said. 'Now, my 
 good soul, don't waste any more time. It's evident you know 
 all about this murder. 3 
 
 ' I believe I know who did it,' said the old woman. 
 
 'Who?' 
 
 'I can remember that awful night as well as if it was 
 yesterday,' began Mrs. Evitt, making strange swallowing noises, 
 as if to keep down her agitation. ' There we all stood on the 
 landing outside this door — Mrs. Rawber, Mr. Desrolles, me, and 
 Mr. Chicot. Mrs. Eawber and me was all of a twitter. Mr. 
 Chicot looked as white as a ghost ; Mr. Desrolles was the 
 coolest among us. He took it all quiet enough, and I felt it was 
 a comfort to have somebody there that had his wits about him. 
 It was him that proposed sending for a policeman.' 
 
 ' Sensible enough,' said Gerard. 
 
 'Nothing was further from my thoughts than to suspect 
 him,' pursued Mrs. Evitt. ' He had been with me, off and on, 
 for five years, and he'd been a quiet lodger, coming in at his own 
 time with his own key, and giving very little trouble. He had 
 only one fault, and that was his liking for the bottle. He and 
 Madame Chicot had been very friendly. He seemed to take 
 quite a fatherly care of her, and had brought her home from the 
 theatre many a night, when her husband was at his club.'' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' cried Gerard impatiently. ' You've told me that 
 often before to-night. Go on, for heaven's sake. Do you mean 
 to say that Desrolles had anything to do with the murder ? ' 
 
 'He did it,' said Mrs. Evitt, whispering into the surgeon's 
 ear. 
 
 ' How dc you know 1 What ground have you for accusing 
 him?' 
 
JIis. Evitt makes a Revelation. 821 
 
 'The best of grounds. There was a struggle between that 
 poor creature and her murderer. When I went in to look at 
 her as she lay there, before the doctor had touched her, one of 
 her hands was clenched tight — as if she had clutched at some- 
 thing in her last gasp. In that clenched hand I found a tuft of 
 iron-gray hair — just the colour of Desrolles' hair. I could sweaj 
 to it. 
 
 'Is that all your evidence against Desrolles? The fact is 
 strongly in favour of poor Treverton, and you were a wicked 
 woman not to reveal it at the inquest ; but you cannot condemn 
 Desrolles upon the strength of a few gray hairs, unless you know 
 of other evidence against him.' 
 
 ' I do/ said Mrs. Evitt. ' Dreadful evidence. But don't say 
 that I was a wicked woman because I didn't tell it at the 
 inquest. There was nobody's life in danger. Mr. Chicot had 
 got safe off. Why should I up ana tell that which would hang 
 Sir. Desrolles ? He had always been a good lodger to me ; and 
 though I could never look at him after that time without feeling 
 every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice, and though I 
 was thankful to Providence when he left me, it wasn't in me to 
 tell that which would be his death.' 
 
 ' Go on,' urged Gerard. ' What was it you discovered ? ' 
 
 ' When the policeman had come in and looked about him, 
 Mr. Desrolles says, " I shall go to bed ; I ain't wanted no more 
 here," and he goes back to his room as quiet and as cool as if 
 nothing had happened. When the sergeant came back half -an 
 hour afterwards, with a gentleman in plain clothes, which was 
 neither more nor less than a detective, them two went into every 
 room in the house. I went with them to show the way, and to 
 open cupboards and such like. They went up into Mr. Desrolles' 
 room, and he was sleeping like a lamb. He grumbled a bit at us 
 for disturbing him. " Look about as much as you like," he said, 
 " as long as you don't worry me. Open all + be drawers. You 
 won't find any of 'em locked. I haven't a very extensive ward- 
 robe. I can keep count of my clothes without an inventory." 
 " A very pleasant gentleman," said the detective afterwards.' 
 
 ' Did they find nothing 1 ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' Nothing, yet they looked and pried about very carefuL 
 There's only one closet in the second-floor back, and that's behind 
 the head of the bed. The bed's a tent, with chintz curtains all 
 round. They looked under the bed, and they even went so far 
 as to move the chimney board and look up the chimney ; but 
 they didn't move the bed. I suppose they didn't want to disturb 
 Mr. Desrolles, who had curled himself up in the bed-clothes 
 and gone off to sleep again. " I suppose there ain't no cupboards 
 in this room 1" says the detective. I was that tired of dancing 
 attendance upon them, that I just gave my head a shake that 
 
 x 
 
322 TJie Cloven Foot. 
 
 might mean anything, and they -went downstairs to the parlours 
 to worrit Mrs. Bawber.' 
 
 Here Mrs. Evitt paused, as if exhausted by much speech. 
 
 'Come, old lady,' said Gerard kindly, 'take a little of this 
 barley water, and then go on. You are keeping me on tenter 
 hooks.' 
 
 Mrs. Evitt drank, gasped two or three times, and con- 
 tinued — 
 
 4 1 don't know what put it into my head, but after the two 
 men was gone I couldn't help thinking about that cupboard, and 
 whether there mightn't be something in it that the detectives 
 would like to have found. Mr. Desrolles came downstairs at 
 eleven o'clock, and went out to get his breakfast — as he called it, 
 — but I knew pretty well when he went out of doors for his 
 breakfast, he breakfasted upon brandy. If he wanted a cup of 
 tea or a bloater, I got it for him ; but there was mornings when 
 he hadn't appetite to pick a bit of bloater with a slice of bread 
 and butter, and then he went out of doors.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' assented Gerard, ' pray go on.' 
 
 ' "When he was gone I put up the chain of the front door, so 
 as to make sure of not being disturbed, and I went straight up 
 to Ms room. I moved the bedstead, and opened the cupboard 
 door. Mr. Desrolles had no key to the cupboard, for the key was 
 lost when he first came to me, and though it had turned up after- 
 wards, I hadn't troubled to give it him. What did he want with 
 keys, when all the property he had in the world wasn't worth a 
 five-pound note ? ' 
 
 ' Go on, there's a good soul.' 
 
 ' I opened the cupboard. It was a queer, old-fashioned closet 
 in the wall, and the door was papered over just the same as the 
 room. It was so dark inside that I had to light a candle before 
 I coidd see anything there. There was not much to see at first, 
 even with the candle, but I went down upon my knees, and hunted 
 in the dark comers, and at last I found Mr. Desrolles' old chintz 
 dressing-go wd, roiled up small, and stuffed into the darkest cor- 
 ner of the cupboard, under a lot of rubbish. He had been wear- 
 ing it only a day or iwo before, and I knew it as well as I knew 
 him. I took it over to the window and unfolded it ; and there 
 was the evidence that told who had murdered that poor creature 
 lying coid on her bed in the room below. The front of the dress- 
 ing-gown and one of the sleeves were soaked in blood. It must 
 have flowed in torrants. The stains were hardly dry. " Good 
 Lord ! " says I to myself, " this would hang him," and I takes and 
 rolls the gown up tight, and puts it back in the corner, and covers 
 it over with other thkigs, old newspapers and old clothes, and 
 such like, just as it was before. And then I runs downstairs and 
 routs out the key of the closet, and takes and locks it. I was ali 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Revelation. 323 
 
 of a tremble while I did it, but I felt there was a power within 
 me to do it. I had but just put the key in my pocket when 
 there came a loud knocking downstairs. From the time Mr. 
 Desrolles had gone out it wasn't quite a quarter of an hour, but 
 I felt pretty sure this was him come back again. I pushed back 
 the bed, and ran down to the door, still trembling inwardly. 
 
 " What the (wicked word)— did you put the chain up for ] " 
 
 he asked angrily, for it was him. I told him that I felt that 
 nervous after last night that I was obliged to do it. He smel/ 
 strong of brandy, and I thought that he was looking strange, 
 like a man that feels all queer in his inside, and struggles not to 
 show it. " I suppose I must put myself into a clean shirt for 
 this inquest," he says, and then he goes upstairs, and I wonders 
 to myself how he feels as he goes by the door where that poor 
 thing lies.' 
 
 ' Did he never ask you for the key of the closet ? ' 
 
 ' Never. Whether he guessed what had happened, and kliew 
 that I suspected him, I can't tell — but he never asked no ques- 
 tions, and the closet has been locked up to this day, and I've got 
 the key, and if you will come upstairs with me I'll show you 
 what I saw that dreadful morning.' 
 
 ' No, no, there's no need for that. The police are the people 
 who must see the inside of that closet. It's a strange business,' 
 said Gerard, ' but I'm more glad than I can say for Treverton's 
 sake, and for the sake of his lovely young wife. What motive 
 could this Desrolles have had for such a brutal murder ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Evitt shook her head solemnly. 
 
 'That's what I never could make out,' she said, 'though 
 I've lain awake many a night puzzling myself over it. I 
 know she hadn't no money — I know that him and her was 
 always friendly, up to the last day of her life. But I've got my 
 idea about it.' 
 
 ' What is your idea ? ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' That it was done when he was out of his mind with delirious 
 tremings.' 
 
 1 But have you ever seen him mad from the effects of drink 1 ' 
 
 ' No, never. But how can we tell that it didn't come upon 
 hirj. sudden in the dead of the night, and work upon him until he 
 got up and rushed downstairs in his madness, and cut that poor 
 thing's throat 1 ' 
 
 ' That's too wild an idea. That a man should be raging mad 
 with delirium tremens between twelve and one o'clock, and per- 
 fectly sane at three, is hardly within the range of possibility. 
 No. There must have been a motive, though we cannot fathom 
 it. Well, I thank God that conscience has impelled you to tell 
 the truth at last, late as it is. I shall get you to repeat this state- 
 ment to Mr. Leopold to-morrow. And now get back to bed, and 
 
b24 The Cloven Foot 
 
 I'll send Jemima up to you with a cup of good, beef tea. God 
 grant that this fellow Desrolles may be found.' 
 
 ' I hope not,' said Mrs. Evitt. ' If they lind him they'll hang 
 him, and he was always a good lodger to me. I'm bound to speak 
 of him as I found him.' 
 
 ' You wouldn't speak very well of him if you had found him 
 at your throat with a razor.' 
 
 ' Ah,' replied the landlady, ' I lived in fear and dread of him 
 ever after that horrid time. I've woke up in a cold prespiration 
 many a time, fancying that I heard his breathing close beside my 
 bed, though I always slept with my door locked and the kitching 
 table pushed against it. I was right down thankful when he 
 went away, though it was hard upon me to have my second-floor 
 empty — and Queen's taxes, and all my rates coming in just as 
 regular as when my house was full.' 
 
 Gerard insisted on his patient going to bed without further 
 delay. She was flushed and excited by her own revelations, and 
 would have willingly gone on talking till midnight, if her doctor 
 had allowed it. But he wished her good-night, and went down- 
 stairs to summon the well-meaning Jemima, who was a very 
 good sick nurse, having ministered to a large family of step- 
 brothers and stepsisters, through teething, measles, chicken-pox, 
 mumps, and all the ills that infant flesh is heir to. 
 
 George Gerard communicated early next day with Mr. Leo- 
 pold, and that gentleman came at once to Mrs. Evitt's bedside, 
 where he had a long and friendly conversation with that lady, 
 who was well enough to be inordinately loquacious. She was 
 quite fascinated by the famous lawyer, whose manners seemed to 
 her the perfection of courtesy, and she remarked afterwards that 
 if her own neck had been in peril she could hardly have refused 
 to answer any questions he asked her. 
 
 Once master of his facts, at first hand, Mr. Leopold called a 
 hansom, and drove to the shady retreat where his client was 
 languishing in durance. Laura was with her husband when the 
 .lawyer came. She started up, pale and agitated, at his entrance, 
 looking to him as the one man who was to save an innocent life. 
 
 'Good news,' said Leopold cheerily. 
 
 ' Thank God,' murmured Laura, sinking back in her chair. 
 
 ' We have found the murderer.' 
 
 ' Found him,' cried Treverton ; ' how, and where 1 ' 
 
 1 When I say found, I go rather too far,' said Leopold, ' but 
 we know who he is. It's the man I suspected from the beginning 
 '-your second-floor lodger, Desrolles.' 
 
 Laura gave a cry of horror. 
 
 1 You need not pity him, Mrs. Treverton,' said Mr. Leopold. 
 
 ' He's a thorough-paced scoundrel. I happen to be acquainted 
 with circumstances that throw a light upon his motive for the 
 
Mrs. Evitt makes a Revelation. 825 
 
 murder. He is quite unworthy of jour compassion. I doubt 
 if hanging — in the gentlemanly way in which it's done now — is 
 bad enough for him. He ought to have lived in a less refined 
 age, when he would have had his last moments enlivened by thi» 
 yells and profanity of the populace.' 
 
 ' How do you know that Desrolles was the murderer ? ' asked 
 John Treverton. 
 
 Mr. Leopold told his client the gist of Mrs. Evitt's statement. 
 
 Treverton listened in silence. Laura sat quietly by, white as 
 marble. 
 
 ' The young surgeon in Cibber Street tells me that Mrs. Evitt 
 "will be well enough to appear in court next Tuesday,' said 
 Mr. Leopold, in conclusion. 'If she isn't, we must ask for 
 another adjournment. I think you may consider that you're 
 out of it. It would be impossible for any magistrate to commit 
 you, in the face of this woman's evidence ; but Desrolles will 
 have to be found all the same, and the sooner he's found the 
 better. I shall set the police on his track immediately. Don't 
 look so frightened, Mrs. Treverton. The only way to prove your 
 husband's innocence is to show that some one else is guilty. I 
 wish you could help me with any information that would put the 
 police on the right scent,' he added, turning to John Treverton. 
 
 ' I told you yesterday that I could not help you.' 
 
 ' Yes, but your manner gave me the idea that you were keep- 
 ing back something. That you could — an' if you would — have 
 given me a clue.' 
 
 ' Tour imagination — despite the grim realism of police courts 
 — must be very lively.' 
 
 ' Ah, I see,' said Mr. Leopold, ' you mean to stick to your 
 text. "Well, this fellow must be found somehow, whether you 
 like it or not. Your good name depends upon our getting some- 
 body convicted.' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Laura, starting up and speaking with sudden 
 energy, ' my husband's good name must be saved at any cost. 
 What is this man to us, John, that we should spare him 1 What 
 is he to me that his safety should be considered before yours ? ' 
 
 ' Hush, dearest ! ' said John soothingly. ' Let Mr. Leopold 
 and me manage this business between us.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE UNDERTAKER'S EVIDENCE. 
 
 ' My father,' cried Laura, when Mr. Leopold had taken his 
 departure, and she and her husband were left alone, ' my father 
 guilty of this cruel murder ! A crime of the vilest kind, with- 
 out a shadow of excuse. And to think that this man's blood 
 
£23 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 flows in my veins, that your wife is the daughter of a murderer 
 Oh, John, it is too terrible ! You must hate me. You mus. 
 shrink from me with loathing.' 
 
 ' Dear love, if you had descended from a long line of criminals. 
 you would still be to me what you have been from the first hour 
 I knew you, the purest, the dearest, the loveliest, the best of 
 women But as to this scoundrel Desrolles, who imposed on 
 your youth and inexperience — who stole into your benefactor's 
 gardens like a thief, seeking only gain — who extorted from your 
 generous young heart a pity he did not deserve, and robbed you 
 of your money, — I no more believe that he is your father than 
 that he is raine^ While his claim upon you meant no more than 
 an annuity which it cost us no sacrifice to give, I was too careless 
 to trouble myself about his credentials. But now that he stands 
 revealed as the murderer of that unfortunate woman, it is our 
 business to explode his specious tale. Will you help to do this, 
 Laura ] I can do nothing but advise, while I am tied hand and 
 foot in this wretched place.' 
 
 ' I will do anything, dearest, anything to prove that this hate- 
 ful man is not the father I lived with when I was a little child. 
 Only tell me what I ought to do.' 
 
 ' The first thing to be done is to go down to Chiswick, and 
 make inquiries there. Do you think you could find the house 
 in which you lived, supposing that it is still standing ? ' 
 
 ' I think I could. It was in a very dull, out-of-the-way place. 
 I can just remember that. It was called Ivy Cottage, and it was 
 in a lane where there was never anything to be seen from the 
 ivindows.' 
 
 ' Very well, darling, what you have to do is to go down to 
 Chiswick with Sampson — we can afford to trust him with all our 
 secrets, for he's as true as steel — see if you can find the particular 
 Ivy Cottage we want, — I dare say there are half-a-dozen Ivy 
 Cottages in Chiswick, all looking out upon nothing particular, — 
 vid then discover all you can about your father's residence in 
 that house, and how and when he quitted it.' 
 
 ' I will go to-day, John. Why should Mr. Sampson go with 
 me 1 I am not afraid of going alone.' 
 
 'No, dear, I could not bear that. You must have our good 
 Sampson to take care of you. He is as sharp as a needle, and, 
 in a country where he is not tongue-tied, will be very useful. He 
 will be here in a few minutes, and then you and he can start for 
 Chiswick as soon as you like.' 
 
 Half-an-hour later, Laura and Mr. Sampson were seated in a 
 railway carriage on their way to Chiswick ; and in less than an 
 hour from the time she left Clerkenwell, Laura was looking won- 
 deringly at the lanes with which her infancy had been familiar. 
 
 There had been great changes, and she wandered about for a 
 
The Undertaker's Evidence. 227 
 
 long time, unable to recognise a single feature in the scene, 
 except always tlie river, which looked at her through the gray 
 mistiness of a winter afternoon, like an old friend. Terraces had 
 been built ; villas of startling newness stared her in the face in 
 every direction. "Where erst had been a rustic lane there was 
 all the teeming life of a factory. 
 
 ' Surely this cannot be Chiswick ! ' exclaimed Laura. 
 
 Yes, there was the good old church, looking sober, gray, and 
 rustic as of old ; and here was the village, but little changed 
 Laura and her companion rambled on till they left the nevi- 
 terraces and stuccoed villas behind them, and came at last to a 
 bit of the ancient world, quiet, dull, lonely, as if it had been left 
 forgotten on the bank of the swift-rolling river of Time. 
 
 ' It must have been hereabouts we lived,' said Laura. 
 
 It wa3 a very dreary lane. There were half-a-dozen scattered 
 houses, some of which had a blind look, presenting a blank wall, 
 pierced by an odd window and a door, to the passer-by. These 
 were the more aristocratic habitations, and had garden fronts 
 looking the other way. A little further on the explorers came 
 to a square, uncompromising-looking cottage, with a green door, 
 a bright brass knocker, and five prim windows looking into the 
 lane. It was a cottage that must have looked exactly the same 
 a hundred and twenty years ago, when Hogarth was living and 
 working hard by. 
 
 1 That is the house we lived in ! ' cried Laura. ' Yes, I am 
 sure of it. I remember those hard-looking windows, staring 
 straight into the lane. I used to envy the children in the house 
 further on, because they had a garden — only a little bit of garden 
 — but just enough for flowers to grow in. There was only a 
 stone yard, with a pump in it, at the back of our house, and not 
 a single flower.' 
 
 'Had you the whole house, do you think V asked Sampson. 
 
 ' I am sure we had not, because we were so afraid to take 
 Aberties in it. I remember my poor mother often telling me tc 
 be very quiet, because Miss Somebody — I haven't the faintest 
 recollection of her name — was very particular. I was dreadfully 
 afraid of Miss Somebody. She was tall, and straight, and old, 
 and she always wore a black gown and a black cap. I would not 
 for the world have done anything to offend her. She kept the 
 house very clean — too clean, I've heard my father say, for she 
 was always about the stairs and passages, on her knees, with r 
 pail beside her. I have often narrowly escaped tumbling into 
 that pail' 
 
 ' I wonder if she's alive still,' said Sampson ; ' the house looks 
 as if it was in the occupation of a maiden lady. I dare say my 
 sister's house will look like that, when she has set up house- 
 keeping on her own account.' 
 
328 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 He lifted the brass knocker and gave a loudish knock. Tha 
 door was opened almost immediately by a puffy widow, who had 
 a chubby boy of three or four years old clinging to her skirts. 
 The widow was very civil, and willing to answer any questions 
 that might be asked her, but she could not give them the infor- 
 mation they wanted. She begged them to come into her parlour, 
 and she was profuse in her offer of chairs ; but she was not the 
 Miss Somebody whom Laura remembered. 
 
 That stern damsel, whose name was Fry, after occupying Ivy 
 Cottage with honour to herself and credit to the parish for eight- 
 and-thirty years, had been called to her forefathers just one little 
 year ago, and was taking her rest, after an industrious career, in 
 the quiet old churchyard where the great English painter and 
 satirist lies. She had left no record of a long line of lodgers, and 
 the amiable widow who had taken Ivy Cottage immediately after 
 Miss Fry's death was not even furnished with any traditions 
 about the people who had lived and died in the rooms now hers. 
 She could only reiterate that Miss Fry had been a most respect- 
 able lady, that she had paid her way, and left the cottage in good 
 repair, and she hoped that she, Mrs. Pew, would continue to 
 deserve those favours which the public had lavishly bestowed 
 upon her predecessor. If the lady and gentleman should hear of 
 any party wanting quiet lodgings in a rural neighbourhood, 
 within a quarter of an hour's walk of the station, Mrs. Pew 
 would consider it a great kindness if they would name her to the 
 party in question. She would have a parlour, with bedroom 
 over, vacant on the following Saturday. 
 
 Sampson promised to carry the fact in his mind. Laura 
 thanked the widow for her civility, and gave the chubby boy 
 half-a-crown, a gift which was much appreciated by the mother, 
 who impounded it directly the door was shut. 
 
 ' Johnny shall have twopence to go and buy brandy snaps, he 
 shall,' cried the matron, when her boy set up a howl at this 
 blatant theft ; and the prospect of that immediate and sensual 
 gratification pacified the child. 
 
 ' Failure number one,' said Sampson, when they were out in 
 the lane. ' What are we to do next 1 ' 
 
 Laura had not the least idea. She felt how helpless she 
 would have been without the kindly little solicitor ; and how 
 wise it had been of her husband to insist upon Mr. Sampson's 
 companionship. 
 
 ' We are not going to be flummoxed — excuse the vulgarity of 
 the expression — quite so easily,' said Sampson. 'Everybody 
 can't be dead within the last seventeen years. Why, seventeen 
 years is nothing to a middle-aged man. He scarcely feels him- 
 self any older for the lapse of seventeen years ; there are a few 
 gray hairs in his whiskers, perhaps, and his waistcoats are a 
 
TJic Undertaker's Evidence. 329 
 
 trifle bigger round the waist, and that's all. There must bfc 
 somebody in this place who can remember your father. Let mu 
 think it out a bit. We want to know if a certain gentleman 
 who was supposed by old Mr. Treverton to have died here, did 
 really die, or whether he recovered and left the place, as a certain 
 party asserts. All the probabilities are in favour of the one 
 fact ; and we have only the word of a very doubtful character 
 for the other. Let me see, now, Mrs. Treverton, where shall we 
 make our next inquiry 1 At the doctor's ? Well, you see, there 
 are a dozen doctors in such a place as this, I dare say. At the 
 undertaker's 1 Yes, that's it. Undertakers are long-lived men. 
 We'll look in upon the oldest established undertaker in the 
 village. If your father died in this place, somebody must have 
 buried him, and the record of his funeral will be in the under- 
 taker's books. But before I begin this business, which may be 
 rather tedious, I should like to put you into a train, and send 
 you back to London, Mrs. Treverton. A cab will take you 
 from the station to your lodgings. You are looking pale and 
 tired.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Laura eagerly, ' I am not tired. I had much 
 rather stay. Don't think of me. I have no sense of fatigue.' 
 
 Sampson shook his head dubiously, but gave way. They 
 went to the village, and after making sundry inquiries at the 
 post-office, Mr. Sampson and his companion repaired to a quiet, 
 old-fashioned looking shop, in whose dingy window appeared the 
 symbols of the gloomy trade conducted within. 
 
 Here they found an old man, who emerged from a workshop 
 in the rear, bringing with him the aromatic odour of elm 
 shavings. 
 
 ' Come,' said Sampson cheerily, ' you're old enough to remem- 
 ber seventeen years ago. You look like an old inhabitant.' 
 
 ' I can remember sixty years ago as well as I can remember 
 yesterday,' answered the man, ' and I shall have lived in this 
 house sixty-nine years come July.' 
 
 ' You're the man for us,' said Sampson. ' I want you to look 
 up your books for the year 1856, and tell me if you buried Mr. 
 Malcolm, of Ivy Cottage, Markham Lane. You buried Mrs. 
 Malcolm first, you know, and the husband soon followed her. It 
 was a very quiet funeral.' 
 
 The undertaker scratched his head thoughtfully, and seemed 
 to retire into the shadow-land of departed years. He ruminated 
 for some minutes. 
 
 ' I can find out all about it in my ledger,' he said, ' but I've 
 a pretty good memory. I don't like to feel dependent upon 
 books. Ivy Cottage 1 That was Miss Fry's house. I buried 
 her a year ago. A very pretty funeral, everything suitable^ 
 
330 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 and in harmony with the old lady's character. Some of oui 
 oldest tradespeople followed. It was quite a creditable thing.' 
 
 Sampson waited hopefully while the old man pondered upon 
 past triumphs in the undertaking line. 
 
 'Let me see, now,' he said musingly. 'Ivy Cottage. I've 
 done a good bit of business for Ivy Cottage within the last thirty 
 years. I've buried — there — I should say a round dozen of Miss 
 Fry's tenants. They was mostly elderly folks, with small 
 annuities, who came to Chiswick to finish up their lives ; as z. 
 quiet old-fashioned place, you see, where they was in nobody 5 ? 
 way. First and last I should say I've turned out a round dozen 
 from Ivy Cottage. It was a satisfaction to do things nicely for 
 Miss Fry herself, at the wind up. She'd been a good friend to 
 me, and she wasn't like the doctors, you know. I couldn't offer 
 ner a commission. Malcolm ! Malcolm, husband and wife, I 
 ought to remember that ! Yes, I've got it ! a sweet young lady,', 
 seven-and-twenty at the most, and the husband drooped and 
 died soon afterwards. I remember. She had a very plain 
 funeral, poor dear, for there didn't seem to be much money, and 
 the husband was the only mourner. We buried him in rather 
 superior style, I recollect ; for an old friend had turned up at 
 the last, and there was enough money to pay all the little debts 
 and do things very nicely, in a quiet way, for the poor gentleman. 
 There were only two mourners in his case, the doctor and an 
 elderly lady from London, who followed in her own carriage. 1 
 I remember the lady, because she called upon me directly after 
 the funeral, and asked me if I was paid, or sure of being paid, as 
 the deceased was her nephew, and she would be willing to 
 perform this lrst act of kindness for him. I thought it a very 
 graceful thing for the lady to do.' 
 
 ' Did she give you her address 1 ' asked Sampson. 
 
 ' I've a notion that she left her card, and that I copied the 
 address into my book. It would be a likely thing for me to do, 
 ror I'm very methodical in my ways ; and with a party of that 
 age there's always an interest. She might come to want me 
 herself soon, and might bear it in mind on her death-bed. "Well, 
 now I've called upon my memory, I'll look at my ledger.' 
 
 He went to a cupboard in a corner of the shop, and took 
 down a volume from a row of tall, narrow books, a series which 
 comprised ' the story of his life from year to year.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, after turning over a good many leaves, ' here 
 it is. Mrs. Malcolm, pine, covered black cloth, black nails, ' 
 
 'That'll do,' interrupted Sampson, seeing Laura's distressed 
 look at these details ; ' now we want Mr. Malcolm.' 
 
 ' Here he is, three months later. Stephen Malcolm, Esq., 
 polished oak, brass handles, — a very superior article, I re- 
 member,' 
 
Tlie Undertaker's Evidence. 331 
 
 ' There can be no mistake, I suppose, in an entry of that kind,' 
 asked Sampson 
 
 ' Mistake ! ' cried the undertaker, with an offended air. ' B 
 you can find a false entry in my books, I'll forfeit five per cent 
 upon ten years' profits.' 
 
 ' There can be no doubt, then, that Mr. Stephen Malcolm 
 died at Ivy Cottage, and that you conducted his funeral ? ' 
 
 1 Not the least doubt.' 
 
 1 Very well. If you will get me a certified copy of the entry 
 of his death in the parish register, I shall be happy to recompense 
 you for your trouble. The document is required for a little bit 
 of law business. Is the doctor who attended Mr. Malcolm still 
 living ? ' 
 
 'No. It was old Dr. Dewsnipp. He's dead. But young 
 Dewsnipp is alive, and in practice here. He can give you any 
 information you want, I dare say.' 
 
 ' Thanks. I think if you get me the copy of the register, that 
 will be sufficient. Oh, by the way, you may as well find the old 
 lady's address.' 
 
 'Ah, to be sure. As you are interested in the family, you 
 may like to have it ; though I dare say the old lady has gone t© 
 her long home before now. Some London firm had the job, no 
 doubt. London firms are so pushing, and they contrive to stand 
 so well with the medical profession.' 
 
 The address was found — Mrs. Malcolm, 97, Russell Square — 
 and copied by Mr. Sampson, who thanked the old man for his 
 courtesy, and gave him his card, with the Midland Hotel address 
 added in pencil. The short winter day was now closing in, and 
 Sampson felt anxious to get Mrs. Treverton home. 
 
 ' I might have gone to the parish register in the first instance,' 
 he said, when they had left the undertaker's, ' but I thought we 
 should get more information out of an old inhabitant, and so we 
 have, for we've heard of this old lady in Russell Square.' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember spending a week at her house,' said Laura, 
 ' How long ago it all seems ! Like the memory of another life.' 
 
 ' Lor', yes,' said Sampson ; ' I remember when I was a little 
 chap, at Dr. Prossford's grammar school, playing chuck-farthing. 
 I've often looked back and wondered to think that little chap, in 
 a tight jacket and short trowsers, was an early edition of me.' 
 
 ' You think the later editions have been improvements on 
 that,' said Laura, smiling. 
 
 She was able to smile now. A heavy load had been suddenly 
 lifted from her mind. What infinite relief it was to know that 
 her father had never been the pitiful trickster — the crawling 
 pensioner upon a woman's bounty — that she had been taught to 
 think him. Her heart was full of gratitude to heaven for this 
 discovery — so easily made, and yet of such immeasurable value. 
 
332 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 * Who can that man be ? ' she asked herself. ' He must have 
 been a friend of my father's, in close companionship with him, 
 or he would hardly have become possessed of my mother's 
 miniature, and of those letters and papers.' 
 
 She determined to go without delay to the house in Russell 
 Square, in the hope — at best but a faint hope — of finding the old 
 lady in black satin still among the living, and not represented by 
 an entry in the ledger of some West-end undertaking firm, or by 
 a number in the dismal catalogue of a suburban cemetery, 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 AN OLD LADY'S DIARY. 
 
 On the following afternoon Laura drove straight from the 
 House of Detention to Russell Square. Her interview with her 
 husband had been full of comfort. Mr. Leopold had been with 
 his client, and Mr. Leopold was in excellent spirits. He had no 
 doubt as to the issue of his case, even without Desrolles ; and 
 the detectives had very little doubt of finding Desrolles. 
 
 ' A man of that age and of those habits doesn't go far,' said 
 the lawyer, speaking of this human entity with as much assur- 
 ance as if he were stating a mathematical truth. 
 
 Laura got out of her cab before one of the dullest-looking 
 houses in the big, handsome old square — a house brightened by 
 no modern embellishment in the way of Venetian blind or 
 encaustic flower-box, but kept with a scrupulous care. Not a 
 speck upon the window panes, not a spot upon the snow-white 
 steps, the varnish of the door as fresh as if it had been laid on 
 yesterday. 
 
 The door was opened by an old man-servant in plain clothes. 
 Laura grew hopeful at the sight of him. He looked like a man 
 who had lived fifty years in one service — the kind of man who 
 begins as a knife-boy, and either stultifies a spotless career by 
 going to America with the plate, or ends as a pious annuitant, in 
 the odour of sanctity. 
 
 ' Does Mrs. Malcolm still live here ? " asked Laura. 
 
 'Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Is she at home?' 
 
 ' I will inquire, ma'am, if you will be kind enough to give me 
 your card,' replied the man, as much as to say that his mistress 
 was a lady whose leisure was not to be irreverently disturbed. 
 She was to be at home or not at home, as it pleased her sovereign 
 will, and according to the quality and claims of her visitor. 
 
 Laura wrote upon one of her cards, 'Stephen Malcolm's 
 
An Old Lady's Diary. 833 
 
 daughter, Laura,' while the ancient butler produced a solid old 
 George the Second salver whereon to convey the card with due 
 reverence to his mistress. 
 
 The address upon the card looked respectable, and so did 
 Laura, and upon the strength of these appearances the butler 
 ventured to show the stranger into the dining-room, where the 
 'furniture was of the good old brobdingnagian stamp, and there 
 was nothing portable except the fire-irons. Here Laura waited | 
 in a charnel-house atmosphere, while Mrs. Malcolm called up the j : 
 dim shadows of the past, and finally came to the determination : 
 that she would hold parley with this young person who claimed 
 to be of her kindred. 
 
 The butler came back after a chilly interval, and ushered 
 Mrs. Treverton up the broad, ghastly-looking staircase, where 
 drab walls looked down upon a stone-coloured carpet, to the big, 
 bare drawing-room, which had ever been one of the coldest 
 memories of her childhood. 
 
 It was a long and lofty room, furnished with monumental 
 rosewood. The cheffoniers were bke tombs — the sofa suggested 
 an altar — the centre table looked as massive as one of those 
 Druidic menhirs which crop up here and there among the wilds 
 of Dartmoor, or the sandy plains of Brittany. A pale-faced 
 clock ticked solemnly on the white marble chimney-piece, three 
 tall windows let in narrow streaks of pallid daylight, between 
 voluminous drab curtains. 
 
 In this mausoleum-like chamber, beside a dull and miserly- 
 looking fire, sat an old lady in black satin — the very same figure, 
 the very same satin gown, Laura remembered years ago ; or a 
 gown so like that it appeared the same. 
 
 ' Aunt,' said Laura, approaching timidly, and f eebng as if she 
 were a little child again, and doomed to solitary imprisonment in 
 that awful room, ' have you forgotten me 1 ' 
 
 The old lady in black satin held out her hand, a withered white 
 hand clad in a black mitten, and adorned with old-fashioned rings. 
 
 ' No, my dear,' she replied, without any indication of surprise, 
 ' I never forget anyone or anything. My memory is good, and 
 my sight and hearing are good. Providence has been very kind 
 to me. Your card puzzled me at first, but when I came to think 
 it over I soon understood who you were. Sit down, my dear. 
 Jonam shall bring you a glass of sherry.' 
 
 The old lady rose and rang the bell 
 
 ' Please don't, aunt,' said Laura, f I never take sherry. I 
 don't want anything except to talk with you a little about my 
 poor father.' 
 
 'Poor Stephen,' replied Mrs. Malcolm. 'Sadly imprudent, 
 poor fellow. Nobody's enemy but his own. And so you are 
 married, my dear? Never mind, Jonam, my niece will not 
 
334 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 take anything.' This to the butler. ' You were adopted by as 
 old friend of your father's, I remember. I went to Chiswick 
 the day after poor Stephen's death, and found that you had been 
 taken away. I was very glad to know you were provided for ; 
 though of course I should have done what I could for you in 
 the way of trying to get you into an institution, or something 
 of that kind. I could never have had a child in this house. 
 Children upset everything. I hope your father's friend has 
 carried out his undertaking handsomely ? ' 
 
 1 He was all goodness,' answered Laura. ' He was more than 
 a father to me. But I lost him two years ago.' 
 
 ' I hope he left you independent ? ' 
 
 ' He made me independent by a deed of trust, when I first 
 went to him. He settled six thousand pounds for my 
 benefit.' 
 
 'Very handsome indeed. And pray whom have you 
 married?' 
 
 ' My benefactor's nephew, and the inheritor of his estate.' 
 
 ' You have been a very lucky girl, Laura, and you ought to 
 be thankful to God.' 
 
 'I hope I am thankful.' 
 
 ' I have often noticed that the children of improvident fathers 
 do better in life than those whose parents toil to make them 
 independent. They are like the ravens — Providence takes care 
 of them. Well, my dear, I congratulate you.' 
 
 ' God has been very good to me, dear aunt, but I have had 
 many troubles. I want you to tell me about my father. Did 
 you see much of him in the last years of his life 1 ' 
 
 ' Not very much. He used to call upon me occasionally, and 
 he used sometimes to bring your mother to spend the day with 
 me. She was a sweet woman — you are like her in face and 
 figure — and she and I used to get on very nicely together. She 
 was not above taking advice.' 
 
 'Had my father many friends and acquaintances at that 
 ime 1 ' asked Laura. 
 
 ' Many friends ! My dear, he was poor.' 
 
 'Do you know if he had any one particular friend? He 
 could not have been quite alone in the world. I recollect there 
 was a gentleman who used to come very often to the cottage at 
 Chiswick. I cannot remember what he was like. I was seldon? 
 in the room when he was there. I remember only that my 
 father and he were often together. I have a very strong reason 
 for wishing to know all about that man.' 
 
 ' I think I know whom you mean. I have heard your poor 
 mother talk of him many a time. She used to tell me all her 
 troubles, and I used to give her good advice. You say you 
 want particularly to know about this person.' 
 
An Old Lady's Diary. S35 
 
 'Most particularly, dear aunt,' said Laura eagerly. 
 
 ' Then, my dear, my diary can tell you much better than I 
 can. I am a woman of methodical habits, and ever since my 
 husband's death, three-and-twenty years ago last August, I have 
 made a point of keeping a record of the course of every day in 
 my life. I dare say the book would seem very stupid to 
 strangers. I hope nobody will publish it after I am dead. 
 But it has been a great pleasure to me to look through the 
 pages from time to time, and call up old days. It is almost 
 Like living over again. Kindly take my keys, Laura, and open 
 the right-hand door of the cheffonier.' 
 
 Laura obeyed. The interior of the cheffonier was divided 
 into shelves, and on the uppermost of these shelves were neatly 
 arranged three-and-twenty small volumes, bound in morocco, 
 and lettered Diary, with the date of each year. The parlia- 
 mentary records at Strawberry Hill are not more carefully kept 
 than the history of Mrs. Malcolm's life. 
 
 ' Let me see,' she said. ' Your father died in the winter of 
 '56 ; your poor mother a few months earlier. Bring me the 
 volume for '56.' 
 
 Laura handed the book to the old lady, who gave a gentle 
 little sigh as she opened it. 
 
 ' Dear me, how neatly I wrote in '56,' she exclaimed. ' My 
 handwriting has sadly degenerated since then. We get old, my 
 dear ; we grow old without knowing it.' 
 
 Laura thought that in that monumental drawing-room age 
 might well creep on unawares. Life there must be a long hyber- 
 nation. 
 
 ' Let me see. I must find some of my conversations with your 
 mother. " June 2. Bead prayers. Breakfast. My rasher was 
 cut too thick, and the frying was not up to cook's usual mark. 
 Mem. : must speak to cook about the bacon. Bead a leading 
 article on indirect taxation in Times, and felt my store of know- 
 ledge increased. Saw cook. Decided on a lamb cutlet for lunch, 
 and a slice of salmon and roast chicken for dinner. Sent for 
 cook five minutes afterwards, and ordered sole instead of salmon. 
 I had salmon the day before yesterday." Dear me, I don't see 
 your poor mother's name in the first week of June,' said the old 
 lady, turning over the leaves. ' Here it comes, a little later, on 
 the fifteenth. Now you shall hear your mother's own words, 
 faithfully recorded on the day she spoke them. And yet there 
 are people who would ridicule a lonely old woman for keeping a 
 diary,' added Mrs. Malcolm, with mild self-approval. 
 
 ' I feel very grateful to you for having kept one,' said Laura. 
 
 ' June 15. Stephen brought his wife to lunch with me, by 
 appointment. I ordered a nice little luncheon ; filleted sole, 
 cutlets, a duckling, peas, new pot» +, "° a <&erry tart, and a custard 
 
335 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 The poor woman does not often enjoy a good dinner, and no 
 doubt my luncheon would be her dinner. But my thoughtf ul- 
 ness was thrown away. The poor thing was looking pale and 
 worn when she came, and she hardly ate a morsel. Even the 
 duckling did not tempt her, though she owned it was the first 
 she had seen this year. After luncheon Stephen went to the 
 City, to keep an appointment, as he told us, and his wife and I 
 spent a quiet hour in my drawing-room. We had a long talk, 
 which turned, as usual, on her domestic troubles. She calls this 
 Captain Desmond her husband's evil genius, and says he is a 
 blight upon her life. He is not an old friend of Stephen's, so 
 there is no excuse for that foolish fellow's infatuation. They met 
 him first at Boulogne, last year ; and from that time to this he 
 and Stephen have been inseparable. Poor Laura declares that 
 this Desmond belongs to a horrid, gMnbling, drinking set, and/ 
 that he is the cause of Stephen's ruin. " We were poor when 
 we first went to Boulogne," she said, with tears in her eyes, poor 
 child, " but we could just manage to live respectably, and for the 
 first year we were very happy. But from the day my husband 
 made the acquaintance of Captain Desmond things began to go 
 badly. Stephen resumed his old habits of billiard-playing, cards, 
 and late hours. He had grown fond of his home, and reconciled 
 to a quiet, domestic life. Darling Laura's pretty ways and sweet 
 little talk amused and interested him. But after Captain Des 
 mond came upon the scene Stephen seldom spent an evening at 
 home. I know that it is wicked to hate people," the poor thing 
 said, in her simple way, " but I cannot help hating this bad 
 man." ' 
 
 ' Poor mother ! ' sighed Laura, touched to the heart by this 
 picture of domestic misery. 
 
 * I asked her if she knew who and what Captain Desmond was. 
 She could only tell me that when Stephen made his acquaintance 
 he was living at a boarding-house at Boulogne, and had been 
 living there for some months. He had spent a considerable part 
 of his life abroad. He had nobody belonging to him, and he 
 seemed to belong to nobody ; though he often boasted vaguely of 
 grand connections. To poor Laura's mind he was nothing more 
 or less than an adventurer. " He flatters my husband," she said, 
 " and he tries to flatter me. He is very often at Chiswick, and 
 whenever he comes he takes my husband back to London with him, 
 and then I see no more of Stephen till the next day, or perhaps 
 not for two or three days after. He has what his friend calls a 
 shake-down at Captain Desmond's lodgings in May's Buildings, 
 St. Martin's Lane." ' 
 
 ' Aunt,' exclaimed Laura eagerly, ' will you let me copy that 
 address ? It might be of use to me, if I should have to trace the 
 past life of this man.' 
 
An Old Lady's Diary. 837 
 
 She wrote the address in a little memorandum book contained 
 in her purse. 
 
 'My dear, -why should you trouble yourself about Captain 
 Desmond,' said the old lady. ' Whatever harm he did your poor 
 father is past and done with. Nothing can alter or mend it now. 1 
 
 ' No, aunt, but as long as this man lives he will go on doing 
 harm. He will go from small crimes to great ones. It is his 
 nature. Please go on with the diary, dear aunt. You can have 
 no idea how valuable this information is to me.' 
 
 ' 1 have always felt I was doing a useful act in keeping a 
 diary, my dear. I am not surprised to find tins humble record of 
 inestimable value/ said the old lady, who was bursting with 
 gratified vanity. ' Where would history be if people in easy cir- 
 cumstances, and with plenty of leisure, did not keep diaries 1 I 
 do not think there is any more about Captain Desmond. No ; your 
 mother tells me about her own health. She is feeling very low 
 and ill. She fears she will not live many years, and then what is 
 to become of poor little Laura 1 ' 
 
 ' Did you ever go to Chiswick, aunt ? ' 
 
 'Never, till after your poor father's death. I attended his 
 funeral.' 
 
 ' Was Captain Desmond present 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; but he was with your fatli er up till the last hour of hi3 
 life. I heard that from the landlady. He helped to nurse him.' 
 
 ' I thank you, aunt, with all my heart, for what you have told 
 me. I will come and see you again in a few days, rf I may.' 
 
 ' Do, my dear, and bring your husband.' Laura shivered. 
 ' I should like to make his acquaintance. H you will mention 
 the day a little beforehand, I should be pleased for you to take 
 your luncheon with me. I have the cook who roasted that 
 duckling for your poor mother still with me.' 
 
 ' I shall be pleased to come, aunt. We are in London upon 
 very serious business, but I hope it will soon be ended, and when 
 it is over I will tell you all about it.' 
 
 Do, my dear, I am very glad to see you again. I dare say 
 you remember spending a week with me when your mother died. 
 (I think you enjoyed yourself. This house must have been such a 
 change for you after that poor little place at Chiswick, and there 
 is a good deal to amuse a child in this room,' said Mrs. Malcolm, 
 glacing admiringly from the monumental clock on the mantel- 
 piece to the group of feather flowers and stuffed birds on the 
 sepulchral cheffonier. 
 
 Laura smiled faintly, remembering those interminable days 
 in that cheerless chamber, compared with which a dirty lane 
 where she could have made mud pies would have been Elysium. 
 
 ' I've no doubt you were extremely kind to me, aunt,' she said 
 gently, ' but I was very small and very shy.' 
 
338 i%e Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 And you did not like going to bed in the dark ; which shows 
 that you have been foolishly brought up. Your mother was & 
 sweet woman, but wanting in strength of mind.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIV. 
 
 THREE WITNESSES. 
 
 In the forenoon of the following Tuesday John Trevertoa 
 again appeared before the magistrate, at the Police-court in Bow 
 Street. 
 
 The same witnesses were present who had been examined on 
 the previous occasion. Two medical men gave their evidence aa 
 to the dagger, which had been sent to them for examination. One 
 declared that the blade bore unmistakable traces of blood stains, 
 and gave it as his opinion that steel once so sullied never lost the 
 stain. The other stated that a steel blade wiped quickly while 
 the blood upon it was wet would carry no such ineffaceable mark, 
 and that the tarnished appearance of the dagger was referable 
 only to time and atmosphere. 
 
 The inquiry dragged itself haltingly towards a futile close, 
 when just as it seemed about to conclude, an elderly woman, 
 wrapped in a thick gray shawl, and a cat-skin sable victorine, 
 and further muffled with a Shetland veil tied over a close black 
 bonnet, came forward, escorted by George Gerard, and volun- 
 teered her evidence. This was Mrs. Evitt, who was just well 
 enough to crawl from a cab to the witness-box, leaning on the 
 surgeon's arm. 
 
 ' Oh/ said the magistrate, when Jane Sophia Evitt had been 
 duly sworn, ' you are the landlady, are you ? Why were you not 
 here last Tuesday ? You were subpoenaed, I believe.' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship, though I was not in a state of health to 
 bear it.' 
 
 ' Oh, you were too ill to appear, were you 1 "Well, what have 
 you to say about the prisoner ? ' 
 
 ( Please, your worship, he oughtn't to be a prisoner. I ought 
 to have up and spoke the truth sooner — it has preyed upon mf 
 awful that I didn't do it — a sweet young wife, too.' 
 
 4 What is the meaning of this rambling 1 ' asked the magis- 
 trate, indignantly. ' Is the poor creature delMous ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir, I ain't more delirious than your worship. My body 
 has beeu all of a shiver — hot fits and cold fits — but thank God 
 my mind has kep' clear.' 
 
 ' You really must not tell us about your ailments. What do 
 you know of the prisoner ? ' 
 
 ' Only that he's as innocent as that, lamb, yonder,' said Mrs. 
 
Three Witnesses. 339 
 
 Evitt, pointing to a baby in the arms of a forlorn looking draby 
 from the adjacent rookeries of St. Giles's, which had just set up 
 a shrill squall, and was in process of being evicted by a policeman. 
 ' He had no more to do with it than that blessed infant that's 
 just been carried out of court.' 
 
 And then, continually beginning to wander, and being con- 
 tinually pulled up sharp by the magistrate, Mrs. Evitt told hei 
 ghastly story of the handful of iron-grey hair, and the blood- 
 stained dressing-gown, hidden in the closet behind the bed in 
 her two-pair back. 
 
 ' Which is there to this day, as the police may find or them- 
 selves if they like to go and look,' concluded Mrs. Evitt. 
 
 ' They will take care to do that,' said the magistrate. * Where 
 is this Desrolles 1 ' 
 
 ' He is being looked for, sir,' rephed Mr. Leopold. ' If your 
 worship will permit, there are two gentlemen in court who are 
 in possession of facts that have a material bearing on this case.' 
 
 ' Let them be sworn.' 
 
 The first of these two voluntary witnesses was Mr. Joseph 
 Lemuel, the web-known stockbroker and milhonaire, on whose 
 appearance in the witness-box there was a sudden hush in the 
 court, and profound attention from every one, as at the presence 
 of greatness. 
 
 Even that tag-rag and bob-tail from adjacent St. Giles's had 
 heard of Joseph Lemuel. His name had been in the penny 
 newspapers. He was a man who was supposed to make a million 
 of money every time there was war in Europe, and to lose a 
 million whenever there was a financial crisis. 
 
 ' Do you know anything of this affair, Mr. Lemuel ? ' the 
 magistrate asked, with an off-hand friendliness, when the witness 
 had been sworn, as much as to say, ' It is really uncommonly 
 good of you to trouble yourself about a fellow-creature'? fate ; 
 and I want to make the thing as bght and as pleasant as I can, 
 for your sake.' 
 
 'I think I may be able to afford a clue to the motive of the 
 murderer,' said Mr. Lemuel, who seemed more moved than the 
 occasion warranted. ' I presented the unhappy lady with a neck- 
 lace about a week before her death ; and I have reason to fear 
 that this gift may have been the cause of her terrible death ! ' 
 
 ' Was the necklace of such value as to tempt a murderer ? ' 
 
 ' It was not. But, to an uneducated eye, it appeared of great 
 value. It was a gift which I offered to a lady whose talents I — 
 as one of the outside pubbc — enthusiastically admired.' 
 
 1 Naturally,' assented the magistrate, as much as to say, 'Don't 
 be frightened, my dear sir. I am not going to ask you any 
 awkward questions.' 
 
 1 It was a necklace I had bought in Paris, in the Palais Royal, 
 
340 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 a short time before. It was made by a man who had a speciality 
 for these things. It would perhaps have deceived any eye except 
 that of a diamond merchant, and might indeed have deceived a 
 Scaler, if he had judged by the eye alone. I gave fifty pounds 
 for the necklace. It was exquisitely set, and really a work of 
 Ort.' 
 
 ' Did Madame Chicot suppose the stones were real V 
 
 'I don't know, I told her nothing about the necklace. It 
 seemed to me a suitable offering to an actress, to whom appear- 
 ances are as important as realities.' 
 
 ' Madame Chicot made no inquiry as to the intrinsic value oi 
 vour gift 1 ' 
 
 ' None. It was offered and accepted in silence.' 
 
 ' Is that all you have to say 1 ' 
 
 'That is all.' 
 
 The next witness was Mr. Mosheh, the diamond merchant. 
 His evidence consisted of a straight and succinct narrative of his 
 interview with the stranger who offered for sale a set of imitation 
 diamonds under the impression that he was offering real stones 
 of great value. 
 
 ' These crystals were some of them equal in size to the largest 
 diamonds known in the trade,' said Mr. Mosheh. ' They would 
 have been a tremendous haul for a thief, if they had been real.' 
 
 He gave the date of the man's visit, which was within a week 
 of La Chicot's murder. 
 
 ' Could you identify the man who called upon you with those 
 atones 1 ' asked the magistrate. 
 
 ' I believe I could.' 
 
 'Was he the prisoner?' 
 
 ' Certainly not. He was a man of between fifty and sixty 
 years of age.' 
 
 'Has anybody a photograph of Desrolles V 
 
 Yes, there was a photograph in court. Mrs. Evitt had 
 furnished the police with two, which Desrolles had given her 
 upon different occasions. One was in court, the other had been 
 taken by the detective who was looking for Desrolles. 
 
 The photograph was shown to the witness. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Mosheh, ' I believe that to be the same face. 
 The man who came to me wore a large gray beard. All the 
 lower part of the face was hidden, and the beard made him look 
 older. I conclude that it was a false beard. But to the best of 
 my belief that is the same man. The upper part of the face is 
 very striking. I don't think I couid be deceived in it.' 
 
 After this evidence Mr. Leopold urged that there was no 
 ground for any longer detaining John Treverton. The magistrate, 
 after some little discussion, agreed to this, and the prisoner was 
 discharged. 
 
mi 
 
 CHAPTEE XLT. 
 
 THE HTJNT FOR DESROLi.ES. 
 
 Wuen Desrolles left the village under the shadow of Dartmoor, 
 after bargaining for a handsome annuity, he meant to enter upon 
 a new and delightful stage of existence. The world was changed 
 for him. Assured of a handsome income, he felt as it were, new 
 born He would rove, butterfly-like, from city to city. He would 
 sip of one sweet, and then fly to the rest. All that was fairest 
 upon earth was at his command. The loveliest spots in southern 
 Europe should be the cradle of his declining years. He would 
 leave off brandy, and live decently. Henceforward he would 
 have a full purse, and freedom from care ; for what tortures can 
 conscience have in reserve for a man who has set it at nought all 
 his life ? 
 
 Mr. Desrolles considered Paris as the first stage in that 
 voyage of pleasure which he had planned for himself ; but once 
 having entered Paris, with money in his pocket, and a sense of 
 independence, all his schemes became as nothing when weighed 
 against the fascinations of that wonderful city. He had spent 
 some of his most reckless years in Paris ; he knew the city by 
 heart, with all her charms, with all her vices, all those qualities 
 which she possesses in common with the courtesans who 
 spring from her soil. Paris for Desrolles in his decline 
 had all the delights she had offered him in his youth. She 
 stretched out her many arms to detain and hold him like an 
 octopus. Her life of the streets and the cafe, her dancing places 
 — where the dancing began at eleven at night and ended only at 
 some unearthly hour of the morning — her singing places, where 
 bare-necked brazen women sat smiling in the glare of the gas 
 — her wine shops at every corner — her billiard-rooms over every 
 cafe' — all these were charms which for Desrolles proved irresistible. 
 There was an all-pervading note of dissipation in the place that 
 delighted him. In London he had felt himself a scamp. In 
 Paris he fancied himself little worse than his fellow men. There 
 were differences perhaps ; but only differences of degree. 
 
 Desrolles had come to Paris with the intention of curing him- 
 self of brandy. He carried out this resolve with "audable 
 firmness. He cured himself of brandy by taking to absinthe. 
 He entered Paris with ninety-five pounds in his pocket, and a 
 promise of a thousand a year. With the future so amply pro- 
 vided for, he was naturally somewhat reckless as to his ex- 
 penditure in the present. He was not a man who cared for pomp 
 or show. Hf» had out-lived Ids taste for the refinements of life 
 
342 Tlie Cloven Foot. 
 
 With his purse full of money he had no inclination to put up at 
 Maurice's or the Bristol. The elegant luxury of those establish- 
 ments would have seemed fade to bis perverted taste, just as 
 brandy without the addition of cayenne pepper iised to seem 
 tasteless to a luckless English marquis, who burned life's brief 
 candle at both ends, and brought it to speedy extinction. 
 
 Desrolles, like the hare, wound back to his old form. Years 
 ago he had lodged in the students' quarter, and drunk at the 
 students' cafes, and lost his money among those profane young 
 reprobates from whom were to issue the future senators, doctors, 
 and lawyers of France. The lodging had been dirty and dis- 
 reputable twenty years ago. It was so much the more dirty 
 and no less disreputable after the lapse of twenty years. But 
 Desrolles was grateful to Providence and the Prefect of the 
 Seine for having left his old quarters standing. 
 
 The house, beneath whose weather-worn roof he had spent 
 such wild nights of old, had been spared from demolition by 
 accident only, and was soon to be numbered with the things of 
 the past. Its doom was fixed, it existed only on sufferance, 
 pending the complete reconstruction of the quarter. A mighty 
 Boulevard, marching on with progress as relentless as Jugger- 
 naut's car, had cut the narrow, dingy old street across, at 
 right angles, letting daylight in upon all its shabbiness, its teem- 
 ing live, its contented poverty, its secret crime, squalid miseries, 
 and sordid vices. 
 
 The house in which Desrolles had lived had but just escaped 
 demolition. It stood at the corner of the broad, new Boulevard, 
 where mighty stone palaces were being raised upon the ashes 
 of departed hovels. Its next door neighbour had been razed to 
 the ground, and the gaudy papers that had lined the vanished 
 rooms were revealed to the open day, showing how, stage by 
 stage, the rooms had waxed shabbier, lower, smaller, till on the 
 sixth story they had dwindled to mere pigeon holes. The 
 ragged paper rotted on the wall ; black patches showed where 
 the fire-places had stood ; and a great black column marked the 
 comse of a demolished chimney-stack. This outside wall had 
 been shored up, but, even thus supported, the tall narrow, 
 corner house, contemplated from th« street below, had an in- 
 secure look. 
 
 Desrolles was delighted to find his ancient den still standing. 
 How well he remembered the little wine-shop on the ground 
 floor, the bright-coloured bottles in the windows, the odour of 
 brandy within, the blouses sitting on the benches against the 
 wall, squabbling loudly over dominoes, or playing tcarte with 
 the limpest and smallest of cards. 
 
 He inquired in the wine-shop if there was une chambre ds 
 gar£07i — a bachelor's room — to be had upstairs. 
 
The Bunt for Desrolles. 343 
 
 ' There is always room for a bachelor ' answered the buxom 
 female behind the counter. ' Yes, there is a pretty little room 
 on the fifth story, all that there is of the most commodious, 
 ou, monsieur aurait toutes ses aises.' 
 
 Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously. 
 
 ' The fifth story,' he exclaimed. ' Do you think my legs are 
 as young as they were twenty years ago 1 ' 
 
 ' Monsieur looks full of youth and activity,' said the 
 woman. 
 
 ' Does La Veuve Chomard still keep the house 1 ' 
 
 Alas, no. The widow Chomard had departed some nine 
 years ago to the narrowest of houses in the cemetery of Mount 
 Parnassus. The present proprietor was a gentleman in the 
 commerce of wines, and also the proprietor of the shop. 
 
 That made nothing, Desrolles told the woman. All he wanted 
 was a comfortable room on the first or second floor. 
 
 Unhappily the chambrette de gargon on the fifth stage was 
 the only unoccupied room in the house, and after some hesitation 
 Desrolles followed an ancient female of the portress species up 
 the dirty old staircase, and into the chambrette. 
 
 ' That gives upon the new boulevard,' said the portress, 
 opening a small window. ' Cesl crdnement gai. It is awfully 
 lively ! ' 
 
 Desrolles looked down upon the broad new street, with its 
 omnibuses, and waggons, and builders' trollies, circulating up and 
 down — its monstrous scaffolding, and lofty ladders, and workmen 
 dangling between earth and sky, with an appearance of being in 
 immediate peril of death. 
 
 The room was small, but to Desrolles' eye it looked snug. 
 There were comfortable stuff curtains to the mahogany bedstead, 
 curtains to the window, a carpet on the red-tiled floor, a hearth 
 on which a wood fire might burn cheerily, a cupboard for fire- 
 wood, and a bureau with a lock and key, in which a man might 
 put away a bottle or two for occasional use. 
 
 ' It's an infernal way up,' he said. ' A man might as well 
 live on the top of the gate of St. Denis. But I must make it 
 serve. I am a staunch Conservative. I like old quarters.' 
 
 Of old the house had been free and easy in its habits. A 
 lodger could come in at any hour he liked with his pass-key. 
 Desrolles made an inquiry or two of the portress as to the 
 present rule. He found that the old order still obtained. The 
 present proprietor was un bon enfant. He asked nothing of his 
 lodgers, but that they should pay him liis rent, and not embroil 
 themselves with the police. 
 
 Desrolles flung down the small valise which contained all 
 his worldly gear, paid the portress a month's rent in advance, 
 and went out to enjoy his Paris. That enchantress had him ia 
 
344 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 her clutch, already. He made up his mind by this time that he 
 would defer his journey southward for a few weeks ; perhaps 
 until after the procession of the Bceuf Gras had delighted the 
 lively inhabitants of the liveliest city in the world. 
 
 He went back to his old haunts, loved twenty years ago, and 
 always remembered with fondness. He found many changes, 
 but the atmosphere was still the same. Absinthe was the one 
 great novelty. That murderous stimulant had not attained a 
 universal popularity at the beginning of the Second Empire. 
 Desrolles took to absinthe as an infant takes to the gracious 
 fountain heaven has provided for its sustenance. He renounced 
 brandy .in favour of the less familiar poison. He found plenty of 
 new companions in his old haunts. They were not the same 
 men, but they had the same habits, the same vices ; and Des- 
 rolles' idea of a friend was a bundle of sympathetic wicked- 
 ness. He found men to gamble with and drink with, men 
 whose tongues were as foul as his own, and who looked at life 
 in this world and the next from the same standpoint. 
 
 His brutal nature sank even to a lower depth of brutabty in 
 such congenial company. Money gave him a temporary omnipo- 
 tence. He was spending it with royal recklessness, believing 
 himself secure against all future evils, when one morning chance 
 flung an Euglish newspaper in his way, and he read the report 
 of John Treverton's first appearance at the Bow Street Police- 
 court. 
 
 The paper was more than a week old. The adjourned in- 
 quiry must have been held a day or two ago. Desrolles sat 
 staring at the page in a half stupid wonderment, his brain 
 bemused with absinthe, trying to consider what effect this 
 arrest of John Treverton might exercise upon his own 
 fortunes. 
 
 There was no mention of his own name in the report. So fat 
 he was entirely ignored. So far he felt himself safe. 
 
 Yet there was no knowing what might happen. An in- 
 vestigation of this kind once commenced, might extend its 
 ramifications in the widest directions. 
 
 ' It is a pity,' Desrolles said to himself. ' The business was so 
 comfortably settled. It must be the parson's son, that young 
 coxcomb I saw in Devonshire, who has set the thing moving 
 again.' 
 
 His life in Paris suited him, it was indeed the only kind of 
 life he cared for ; yet so much was he disturbed by the idea of 
 possible revelations to which this new inquiry might lead, that 
 he began to consider the prudence of going further afield. 
 
 ' America is the place,' he said to himself. ' Some sea-coast 
 city in South America would suit me down to the ground. But 
 that kind of life would only be comfortable with an assured in. 
 
Tlie Hunt /tr DesroUes. 345 
 
 come ; and how am I to feel sure of my income if I leave Europe ? 
 As to Treverton being in trouble — I can afford to take that 
 coolly. They can't hang him. The evidence against him is not 
 strong enough to hang a mongrel dog. No, unless other names 
 are brought up, the thing must blow over. But if I put the 
 high seas between Mr. and Mrs. Treverton and me, how can I 
 be sure of my pension ] They may snap their fingers at me 
 when I am on the other side of the herring-pond.' 
 
 This was a serious consideration, yet DesroUes had a lurking 
 conviction that it would be wise for him to get to America as 
 soon as he could. Paris might suit him admirably, but Paris 
 was unpleasantly near London, the police of the two cities were 
 doubtless in frequent communication. 
 
 He went to a shipping office, and got the time bill of the 
 American steamers that were to sail from Havre during the next 
 six weeks. He carried this document about with him for two or 
 three days, and studied it frequently in his quite moments. He 
 knew the names of the steamers and their tonnage by heart, but 
 he had not yet made up his mind to which vessel he would entrust 
 himself and his fortunes. There was La Heine Blanche, which 
 sailed for Valparaiso in a week's time. There was the Zenobie, 
 which sailed for Rio Janeiro in a fortnight. He was divided be- 
 tween these two. 
 
 He told himself that he must have an outfit of some kind for 
 his voyage. This and his passage would cost at least fifty pounds. 
 Of the hundred which John Treverton had given him he had 
 only sixty remaining. 
 
 1 There will not be much left by the time I get to the south,' 
 he said to himself. ' But I don't think Laura will throw me 
 over. Besides, if the money is paid to my account in Shepherd's 
 Irn — the Trevertons need never know my whereabouts.' 
 
 He made up his mind at last that he would go by the 
 Iteine Blanche, the ship which sailed earliest. He went to the 
 Belle Jardi^'tre, and laid out ten pounds upon clothing, and 
 bought himself a portmanteau to hold his new garments. He 
 called at the agents to take his passage and pay the necessary 
 deposit, to secure his berth. 
 
 He had intended to go to the New "World with a Eew name, 
 but exhausted nature had required a good deal of stimulant after 
 the purchase of the outfit, and by the time he reached the office 
 Mr. DesroUes was, in his own phraseology, rather far gone. It 
 was as much as he could do to reckon his money when he took a 
 handful of loose gold and silver from his pocket. The clerk had 
 to help him. When the clerk asked him his name, he answered 
 without thinking — DesroUes ; but in the next moment a ray of 
 light flashed through the darkness of bis clouded brain, and he 
 conected himself. 
 
846 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 1 Beg pardon,' he ejaculated, spasmodically. ' Desrolles a 
 friend's name. My name's Mowbray. Colonel Mowbray, citizen, 
 United States. Just finished a grand tour of Europe. 'Mericana 
 very fond of Paris. Charming city. Good deal altered since 
 my last tour — twent' years ago. Not altered for the better.' 
 
 ' Oh, then your name is not Desrolles, but Mowbray,' said 
 the clerk, scanning the American colonel somewhat suspiciously. 
 
 ' Yes, Mowbray. M-o-w-b-r-a-y ' answered Desrolles, labo- 
 riously. 
 
 He left the office, and being too far gone to have any definite 
 views as to his destination, drifted vaguely to the Palais Royal, 
 where he came to anchor at the Cafe" de la Rotonde, and there 
 called for the usual dose of absinthe, into which he poured half a 
 tumbler of water, with a tremulous hand. 
 
 He fell asleep in the snug corner by the stove, and slept off 
 something of his intoxication ; or at least he awoke so far re- 
 freshed as to remember an appointment he had made with one 
 of his new friends of the Quartier Latin, to dine at a restau- 
 rant on the Quai des Grands Augustins. 
 
 He had plenty of time to spare, so he sauntered round the 
 Palais Royal, and stared idly at the shop windows- till he came 
 to one where there was a great display of diamouJs, when he 
 recoiled as if he had seen an adder, and turned quickly aside 
 into the gravelly garden, where he flung himself upon a bench, 
 trembling from head to foot. 'Curse them,' he muttered, 
 'curse those shining shams. They have ruined me body and 
 soul. I never took to drinking — hard — until after that.' 
 
 Beads of sweat broke out upon his contracted brow as he sat 
 there, staring straight before him, as if at some horrid vision. 
 Then he pulled himself together with an effort, braced his 
 shattered nerves, and left the Palais Royal with something of 
 the old 'long sword, saddle, bridle' swagger, which had been 
 peculiar to him twenty years ago, when he called himself Captain 
 Desmond, and had not yet forgotten his youthful days in a 
 cavalry regiment. 
 
 He kept his appointment, treated his new friend like a 
 prince, dined luxuriously, and drank deeply of fhe strongest 
 Burgundy in the wine list, winding up with numerous glasses 
 of Chartreuse. After dinner Mr. Desrolles and his guest repaired 
 to a cafe" on the Boulevard St. Michel, where there was a billiard 
 table ; and the rest of the evening was devoted to billiards, 
 Desrolles growing noisier, more quarrelsome, and less distinct of 
 utterance as the night wore on. 
 
 There were two tilings which Mr. Desrolles did not know ; 
 first, that his new friend was a distinguished member of the 
 Parisian swell-mob, and was constantly under the surveillance of 
 the police ; secondly, that he himself had been watched and 
 
The Hunt for Desrolles. Z&1 
 
 followed by an English detective ever since he left the Quai dea 
 Grands Augustins, which English detective knew all about Mr. 
 Desrolles' intended voyage in the Reine Blanche. 
 
 Desrolles went home to his lodging, not too steady of foo^ 
 soon after midnight. He was prepared to encounter some slight 
 difficulty in opening the door with his pass-key, and was pleased 
 at finding that some other night-bird, returning to his nest a 
 little earner, had left the door ajar. He had only to push it opeB 
 and go in. 
 
 Within ail was gloom, save in one corner by the portress's 
 den, where a glimmer of gas showed the numbered board 
 whereon hung the keys which admitted the lodgers to their 
 several apartments. But Desrolles knew every twist of the 
 corkscrew staircase. Drunk as he was, he wound his way up 
 safely enoxigh, with only an occasional lurch and an occasional 
 stumble. He managed to unlock the door of his room, after 
 trying the key upside down once or twice, and making some 
 circuitous scratchings on the panel. He managed to strike a 
 lucifer and light his candle, leaning against the mantel-piece as 
 he performed that feat, and giving a drunken chuckle when it 
 was done. But his nerves must have been in a very shaky 
 condition, for when a man, who had crept softly into the room 
 behind him, laid a strong hand upon his shoulder, he collapsed, 
 and made as if he would have fallen to the ground. ' What do 
 you want ? ' he asked in French. 
 
 ' You,' answered the intruder in English. ' I arrest you on 
 suspicion of being concerned in the murder of La Chicot. You 
 know all about it. You were examined at the inquest. Any- 
 thing you say now will be used as evidence against you. You 
 had better come quietly with me.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' said Desrolles, still in French. ' I 
 am a Frenchman.' 
 
 ' Oh, very much of that. You've been lodging here three 
 weeks. You are known to be an Englishman. You took your 
 passage to-day for Valparaiso. I called at the office to make 
 inquiries an hour after you left it. No nonsense, Mr. Desrolles, 
 All you've got to do is to come quietly with me.' 
 
 ' You've got some one else outside, I suppose,' said Desrolles, 
 with a savage glare at the door. 
 
 His expression in this moment was diabolical ; a wild beast — 
 a beast of a low type, not your kingly lion or your lordly tiger — at 
 bay and knowing escape impossible, might so look ; the thin lips 
 curling upward above the long sharks' teeth ; the gr izzl ed brows 
 contracted — the eyes emitting sparks of lurid light. 
 
 ' Of course,' answered the man coolly. ' You don't suppose I 
 should be such a fool as to trust myself in a hole Hke this without 
 help. I've got my mate on the landing, and we've both got 
 
348 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 revolvers. Ah, none of that now,' ejaculated the detective 
 suddenly, as Desrolles plunged his lean hand into his breast 
 pocket. ' Stow that, now. Is it a knife 1 ' 
 
 It was a knife, and a murderous one. Desrolles had it out, 
 and the long-pointed blade ready, before his captor could stop 
 him. The man sprang upon him, caught him by the wrist, 
 before the knife could do mischief ; and then the two closed, 
 liand against hand, limb against limb, Desrolles wrestling with 
 his foe as only rage and despair can wrestle. 
 
 He had been a famous bruiser in days of old. To-night he had 
 the unnatural strength given to the overtasked sinews by a mind 
 on the edge of madness. He fought like a madman : he fought 
 like a tiger. There was not a muscle — not a sinew — that was not 
 strained to its utmost in that savage conflict. 
 
 For some moments Desrolles seemed the victor. The detec- 
 tive had lied when he said that he had help at hand. The French 
 policeman who had planned to meet him at that house at mid- 
 night had not yet come, and the Englishman had been too impa- 
 tient to wait, believing himself and his revolver more than a 
 match for one drunken old man. 
 
 He did not want to use his revolver. It would have been a 
 hazardous thing even to wound his man. It was his duty to take 
 him alive, and surrender him safe and sound to be dealt with by 
 the law of his country. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, soothingly, having hardly enough breath for 
 so much speech, ' let me put the bracelets on and take you away 
 -quietly. What's the use of this humbug 1 ' 
 
 Desrolles, with his teeth set, answered never a word. He 
 had got his antagonist very near the door ; once across the 
 threshold, a last vigorous thrust from his lean arms might hurl 
 the man backwards down the steep staircase — certain death to 
 the intruder. Desrolles' eyes were fixed upon the doorway, the 
 door standing conveniently open. His blood-shot eyeballs flashed 
 fire. It was in his mind that the thing was to be done. One 
 more herculean effort, and his foe would be across the threshold. 
 
 Possibly the detective saw that look of triumph in the savage 
 face, and divined his danger. However that might be, he 
 gathered himself together, and with a sudden impetus, flinging 
 all his weight against Desrolles, he drove his foe before him across 
 the narrow room, hurled him with all his might against the wall, 
 casting him loose for the moment, in order to grip him tighter 
 afterwards. 
 
 But as that tall figure fell with terrific force against the gaudy- 
 papered wall, there was a sudden crashing sound, at which the 
 detective recoiled with a cry of horror. The frail lath and plaster 
 partition split asunder, the rotten wood crumbled and scattered 
 i*self in & cloud of dust, half that side of the room dropped into 
 
Epilogue. 34.9 
 
 rv*in, as if the house had been a house of cards, and, with one 
 hoarse shriek, Desrolles rolled backwards into empty air. 
 
 They found him presently upon the pavement below, so bat- 
 tered and disfigured by that awful fall as to be hardly recogniz- 
 able even by the eyes that had looked upon him a few minutes 
 before. In falling he had struck against the timbers that shored 
 up the rotton eld house, and life had been beaten out of him 
 before he touched the stones below. It was a bad end of a bad 
 man. There was nobody to be sorry for him except the detective, 
 who had lost the chance of a handsome reward. 
 
 The Parisian journals next day made a feature of the cata- 
 strophe. ' Fall of part of a house in the Boulevard Louis Capet. 
 Horrible death of one of the inmates.' 
 
 The English newspapers of a later date contained the account 
 of the pursuit and arrest of Desrolles, Ids desperate resistance, 
 and awful death. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Treverton went back to Hazlehurst Manor, 
 and there was much rejoicing among their friends at John Tre- 
 verton's escape from the critical position in which the hazards of 
 life had placed him. The subject was a painful one, and people 
 in their intercourse with John and Laura, touched upon it as 
 lightly as possible. Those revelations about John Treverton's 
 first marriage, his Bohemian existence under an assumed name, 
 his poverty, and so on, had created no small sensation among a 
 community which rarely had anything more exciting to talk 
 about than the state of the weather, or the appearance of the 
 crops. People had talked their fill by the time Mr. and Mrs. 
 Treverton came back, for they had spent a month at a Dorset- 
 shire watering-place on their way home, for the benefit of Laura's 
 health, whereby the scandal was stale and almost worn thread- 
 bare when they arrived at the Manor House. 
 
 Only one event of any importance had happened during their 
 absence. Edward Clare — the poet, the man who sauntered 
 through life hand-in-hand with the muses, dwelling apart from 
 common clay in a world of his own — had suddenly sickened of 
 elegant leisure, and had started all at once for the Cape to learn 
 ostrich fanning, with the deliberate intention of settling for life 
 in that distant land. 
 
 ' An adventurous career will suit me, and I shall make money, 
 he told those few acquaintances to whom he condescended to ex- 
 plain Lis views. ' My people are tired of seeing me lead an idle 
 life. They have no faith in my future as a poet. Perhaps they 
 
350 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 are right. The rarest and finest of poets have made very little 
 money. It is only charlatanism in literature that really pays. 
 A man who can write down to the level of the herd commands 
 an easy success. Herrick, if he were alive to-day, would not 
 make a living by his pen.' 
 
 So Edward Clare departed from the haunts of his youth, and 
 there was no one save his mother to regret him. The Vicar 
 knew too well that John Treverton's arrest was his son's work, 
 and treachery so base was a sin his honest heart could not for- 
 give. He was glad that Edward had gone, and his secret prayer 
 was that the young man might learn honesty as well as industry 
 in his self-imposed exile. 
 
 To the exile himself anything was better than to see the 
 man he had impotently striven to injure, happy and secure from 
 all future malice. Weighed against that mortification the 
 possible difficulties and hardships of the life to which he was 
 going were as nothing to him. 
 
 The year wore on, and brought a new and strange gladness 
 and a deep sense of responsibility to John Treverton. One 
 balmy May morning his first-born son opened his innocent blue 
 eyes upon a bright young world, arrayed in all the glory of spring. 
 The child was placed in his father's arms by the good old 
 Hazlehurst doctor, who had attended Jasper Treverton in his 
 last illness. 
 
 'How proud my old friend would have been to see his 
 family name in a fair way of being continued in the land for 
 many a long year to come,' he said. 
 
 ' Thank God all things have worked round well for us, at 
 last,' answered John Treverton, gravely. 
 
 In the ripeness and splendour of August and harvest, when 
 the heather was in bloom on the rolling moor, and the narrow 
 streams were dried up by the fierceness of the sun, George 
 Gerard came down to the Manor House to spend a brief holiday ; 
 and it happened, by a strange concidence, that Laura had invited 
 Celia Clare to stay with her at the same time. They all had a 
 pleasant time in the peerless summer weather. There were 
 picnics and excursions across the moor, with much exciting 
 adventure, and some risk of losing oneself altogether in that 
 sparsely populated world ; and in all these adventures 
 George and Celia had a knack of finding themselves aban 
 doned by the other two— or perhaps it was they who went 
 astray, though they always protested that it was Mr. and Mrs. 
 Treverton who deserted them. 
 
 ' I shouldn't wonder if we came to a bad end, like the babes 
 in the wood,' protested Celia. ' Imagine us existing on unripe 
 blackberries for a week or so, and then lying resignedly down to 
 die. I don't believe a bit in the birds putting leaves over us. 
 
Epilogue. Sol 
 
 That's a fable invented for the pantomime. Eirda are a great 
 deal too selfish. No one who had ever seen a pair of robina 
 fight for a bit of bread would believe in those benevolent bird8 
 who buried the babes in the wood.' 
 
 Being occasionally lost on the moor gave Celia and Mr. 
 Gerard great opportunities for conversation. They were obliged 
 to find something to talk about ; and in the end naturally told 
 each other their inm ost thoughts. And so it came about, in the 
 most natural way in the world, that one blazing noontide Celia 
 found herself standing before a Druidic table, gazing idly at the 
 big gray stones half embedded in heather and bracken, with 
 George Gerard's arm round her waist, and with her head placidly 
 resting against his shoulder. 
 
 He had been asking her if she would wait for him. That was 
 all. He had not asked her if she loved him, having made up his 
 own mind upon that question, unassisted. 
 
 1 Darling, will you wait for me ? ' he asked, looking down at 
 her, with eyes brimming over with love. 
 
 'Yes, George,' she answered, meekly, quite a transformed 
 Celia, all her pertness and flippancy gone. 
 
 1 It may be a long while, dear,' he said gr avely ; ' almost aa 
 long as Eachel waited for Jacob.' 
 
 'I don't mind that, provided there is no Leah to come 
 between us.' 
 
 1 There shall be no Leah.' 
 
 So they were engaged, and in the dim cloudland of the future, 
 Celia saw a vision of Harley Street, a landau, and a pair of hand- 
 some grays. 
 
 1 Doctors generally have grays, don't they, George ? ' sho 
 asked, presently, apropos to nothing particular. 
 
 George's thoughts had not travelled so far as the carriagt 
 and pair stage of his existence, and he did not understand the 
 question. 
 
 ' Yes, dear, there is a Free Hospital in the Gray's Inn Road, 
 he answered, simply, ' but I was at Bartlemy's.' 
 
 ' Oh, you foolish George, I was thinking of horses, not 
 hospitals. What colour shall you choose when you start your 
 carriage 1 ' 
 
 ' We'll talk it over, deare"*, when we are going to start the 
 carriage.' 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Treverton heard of the engagement with infinite 
 pleasure, nor did the Vicar or his easy-tempered wife offer any 
 objection. 
 
 Before the first year of Celia's betrothal was over, John 
 Treverton had persuaded the good old village doctor to retire, 
 and to accept a handsome price for his comfortable practice, which 
 covered a district of sixty miles circumference,, and offered anipla 
 
352 The Cloven Foot. 
 
 work for an energetic young man. This practice John Trevertou 
 gave to George Gerard as a free gift. 
 
 ' Don't consider it a favour,' he said, when the surgeon wanted 
 it to be treated as a debt, to be paid out of his future earnings. 
 ' The obligation is all on my side. I want a clever young doctor, 
 whom I know and esteem, instead of any charlatan who might 
 happen to succeed our old friend. The advantage is all on my 
 side. You will help me in all my sanitary improvements, and 
 my nursery will be safe in the inevitable season of measles and 
 scarlatina.' 
 
 Thus it came to pass that Celia, as well as John Treverte© 
 nnd his wife was able to say, 
 
 *■ Eut in some wise all things wear round betijae^ 
 And wind up weiv 
 
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