WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
£1000 PRIZE NOVEL.
BY
GRANT ALLEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE TENTS OF SHEM,” “ THE DEVIL'S DIE,"
66 THIS MORTAL COIL," ETC.
What's bred in the bone
Grant Allen
AND.
1891.












WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
£1000 PRIZE NOVEL.
BY
GRANT ALLEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE TENTS OP SHEH," "THE DEvIL'S DIE."
"THIS MOBTAL COIL." ETC.
LONDON:
TIT-BITS OFFICES, BURLEIGH STREET, STRAND.
1891.


LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.



CHAPTER
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. Elma's Stranger
1
II.
Two's Company
13
III.
Cyril Waring's Brother
... 24
IV.
Inside the Tunnel
33
V.
Gratitude
... 41
VI.
Two Strange Meetings
51
VIT.
KELMSCOTT Off TlLGaTE ...
... 60
VIII.
Elma breaks out ...
68
IX.
And After?
... 77
X.
Colonel Kelmscott's Repbntance
86
XI.
A Family Jar ...
... 96
XII.
In Silence and Tears
106
XIII.
Business First ...
... 114
XIV.
Music hath Power...
123
XV.
The Path of Duty
... 132
XVI.
Struggle and Victory
141
XVII.
Visions of Wealth
... 150
XVIII.
Gentle Wooer
158
XIX.
Self or Bearer
... 168
XX.
Montague Neyitt finesses ...
178
XXI.
Colonel Kelmscott's Punishment
... 186


IV
CONTENTS.
CHAPTKB
PAGE
xxn.
Cross Purposes
... 194
XXIII.
Guy in Luck
205
XXIV.
A Slight Misunderstanding ...
... 2 16
XXV.
Lead Trumps
229
XXVI.
A Chance Meeting ...
... -hi
XXVII.
Something to their Advantage ...
251
XXVIII.
Mistaken Identity ...
... 260
XXIX.
Woman's Intuition
209
XXX.
Fresh Discoveries ...
... 278
XXXI.
"Golden Joys"
287
XXXII.
A New Departure ...
... 297
XXXIII.
Time Flies
308
XXXIV.
A Stroke for Freedom
... 319
XXXV.
Perils by the AVay
328
XXXVI.
Deserted
... 334
XXXVII.
Aux Armes!
341
XXXVIII.
News from the Cape
... 351
XXXIX.
A Gleam of Light
361
XL.
The Bolt falls
... 370
XLI.
What Judge? ...
378
XLII.
Unexpected Evidence
... 385
XLIII.
Sir Gilbert's Temptation
395
XLIV.
At Bay
... 402
XLV.
All's Well that ends Well
409


WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE.
CHAPTER L
elma's stranger.
It was late when Elma reached the station. Her pony
had jibbed on the way downhill, and the train was just
on the point of moving off as she hurried upon the
platform. Old Matthews, the stout and chubby-
cheeked station-master, seized her most unceremoni-
ously by the left arm, and bundled her into a carriage.
He had known her from a child, so he could venture
upon such liberties.
"Second class, miss? Yes, miss. Here y'are.
Look sharp, please. Any more goin' on? All right,
Tom! Go ahead there!" And lifting his left hand,
he whistled a shrill signal to the guard to start her.
As for Elma, somewhat hot in the face with the
wild rush for her ticket, and grasping her uncounted
change, pence and all, in her little gloved hand, she
found herself thrust, hap-hazard, at the very last
B


2 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [cHap. I.
moment, into the last compartment of the last carriage
—alone—with an artist.
Now, you and I, to be sure, most proverbially
courteous and intelligent reader, might never have
guessed at first sight, from the young man's outer
aspect, the nature of his occupation. The gross and
clumsy male intellect, which works in accordance with
the stupid laws of inductive logic, has a queer habit of
requiring something or other, in the way of definite
evidence, before it commits itself offhand to the distinct
conclusion. But Elma Clifford was a woman; and
therefore she knew a more excellent way. Her habit
was, rather to look things once fairly and squarely in
the face, and then, with the unerring intuition of her
sex, to make up her mind about them firmly, at once
and for ever. That's one of the many glorious advan-
tages of being born a woman. You don't need to learn
in order to know. You know instinctively. And yet
our girls want to go to Girton, and train themselves
up to be senior wranglers!
Elma Clifford, however, had not been to Girton, so,
as she stumbled into her place, she snatched one
hurried look at Cyril Waring's face, and knew at a
glance he was a landscape painter.
Now, this was clever of her, even in a woman, for
Cyril Waring, as he fondly imagined, was travelling
that line that day disguised as a stock-broker. In
other words, there was none of the brown velveteen
affectation about his easy get-up. He was an artist,


CHaP. I.]
BLMA'S STRANGER.
3
to be sure, but he hadn't assiduously and obtrusively
dressed his character. Instead of cutting his beard to;
a Vandyke point, or enduing his body in a Titianesque;
coat, or wearing on his head a slouched Eembrandt hat,
stuck carelessly just a trifle on one side in artistic
disorder, he was habited, for all the world like anybody
else, in the grey tweed suit of the common British
tourist, surmounted by the light felt hat (or bowler),
to match, of the modern English country gentleman.
Even the soft silk necktie of a delicate aesthetic hue
that adorned his open throat didn't proclaim him at
once a painter by trade. It showed him merely as a
man of taste, with a decided eye for harmonies of colour.
So when Elma pronounced her fellow-traveller im^
mediately, in her own mind, a landscape artist, she
was exercising the familiar feminine prerogative of
jumping, as if by magic, to a correct conclusion. It's
a provoking way they have, those inscrutable women,
which no mere male human being can ever conceivably
fathom.
She was just about to drop down, as propriety
demands, into the corner seat diagonally opposite to—
and therefore as far as possible away from—her hand-
some companion, when the stranger rose, and, with a
very flushed face, said, in a hasty, though markedly
deferential and apologetic tone—
"I beg your pardon, but—excuse me for mentioning
it—I think you're going to sit down upon—ur—pray
don't be frightened—a rather large snake of mine."


4
[chap, t
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE.
There was something so comically alarmed in the
ring of his tone—as of a naughty schoolboy detected
in a piece of mischief—that, propriety to the contrary
notwithstanding, Elma couldn't for the life of her
repress a smile. She looked down at the seat where
the stranger pointed, and there, sure enough, coiled up
in huge folds, with his glossy head in attitude to spring
at her, a great banded snake lay alert and open-eyed.
"Dear me," Elma cried, drawing back a little in
surprise, but not at all in horror, as she felt she ought
to do. "A snake! How curious! I hope he's not
dangerous."
"Not at all," the young man answered, still in the
same half-guilty tone of voice as before. "He's of a
poisonous kind, you know; but his fangs have been
extracted. He won't do you any injury. He's perfectly
harmless. Aren't you, Sardanapalus? Eh, eh, my
beauty? But I oughtn't to have let him loose in the
carriage, of course," he added, after a short pause.
"It's calculated to alarm a nervous passenger. Only I
thought I was alone, and nobody would come in; so
I let him out for a bit of a run between the stations.
It's so dull for him, poor fellow, being shut up in his
box all the time when he's travelling."
Elma looked down at the beautiful glossy creature
with genuine admiration. His skin was like enamel;
his banded scales shone bright and silvery. She didn't
know why, but somehow she felt she wasn't jn the
least afraid of him. "I suppose one ought to be



CHAP. 1.]
5
elma's stranger.
repelled at once by a snake," she said, taking the
opposite seat, and keeping her glance fixed firmly upon
the reptile's eye; "but then, this is such a handsome
one! I can't say why, but I don't feel afraid of him
at all as I ought to do. Every right-minded person
detests snakes, don't they? And yet, how exquisitely
flexible and beautiful he is! Oh, pray don't put him
back in his box for me. He's basking in the sun here.
I should be sorry to disturb him."
Cyril Waring looked at her in considerable surprise.
He caught the creature in his hands as he spoke, and
transferred it at once to a tin box, with a perforated
lid, that lay beside him. "Go back, Sardanapalus," he
said, in a very musical and pleasant voice, forcing the
huge beast into the lair with gentle but masterful
hands. "Go back, and go to sleep, sir. It's time for
your nap. . . . Oh no, I couldn't think of letting him
out any more in the carriage to the annoyance of
others. I'm ashamed enough as it is of having unin-
tentionally alarmed you. But you came in so unex-
pectedly, you see, I hadn't time to put my queer pet
away; and, when the door opened, I was afraid he
might slip out, or get under the seats, so all I could
do was just to soothe him with my hand, and keep him
quiet till the door was shut to again."
"Indeed, I wasn't at all afraid of him," Elma
answered, slipping her change into her pocket, and
looking prettier through her blush than even her usual
self. "On the contrary, I really liked to see him.


6
[chap. I.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
He's such a glorious snake! The lights and shades
on his back are so glancing and so wonderful! He's a
perfect model. Of course, you're painting him."
The stranger started. "I'm painting him—yes, that's
true," he replied, with a look of sudden surprise;
"but why 'of course,' please? How on earth could
you tell I was an artist even?"
Elma glanced back in his face, and wondered to
herself, too. Now she came to think of it, liow did
she know that handsome young man, with the charm-
ing features, and the expressive eyes, and the neatly-
cut brown beard, and the attractive manner, was an
artist at all, or anything like it? And how did she
know the snake was his model? For the life of her,
she couldn't have answered those questions herself.
"I suppose I just guessed it," she answered, after
a short pause, blushing still more deeply at the sudden
way she had thus been dragged into conversation with
the good-looking stranger. Elma's skin was dark—a
clear and creamy olive-brown complexion, such as one
sometimes sees in southern Europe, though rarely in
England; and the effect of the blush through it didn't
pass unnoticed by Cyril Waring's artistic eye. He
would have given something for the chance of trans-
ferring that delicious effect to canvas. The delicate
transparency of the blush threw up those piercing dark
eyes, and reflected lustre even on the glossy black hair
that fringed her forehead. Not an English type of
beauty at all, Elma Clifford's, he thought to himself



CHaP. I.]
ELMA.'S STRANGER.
7
as he eyed her closely: rather Spanish or Italian, or
say even Hungarian.
"Well, you guessed right, at any rate," he went on,
settling down in his seat once more, after boxing his
snake, but this time face to face with her. "I'm
working at a beautiful bit of fern and foliage—
quite tropical in its way—in a wood hereabout; and
I've introduced Sardanapalus, coiled up in the fore-
ground, just to give life to the scene, don't you know,
and an excuse for a title. I mean to call it 'The
Eajah's Rest.' Behind, great ferns and a mossy bank;
in front, Sardanapalus, after tiffin, rolled spirally round,
and taking his siesta."
This meeting was a long-wished-for occasion. Elma
had never before met a real live painter. Now, it was
the cherished idea of her youth to see something some
day of that wonderful non-existent fantastic world
which we still hope for and dream about and call
Bohemia, She longed to move in literary and artistic
circles. She had fashioned to herself, like many other
romantic girls, a rose-coloured picture of Bohemian
existence; not knowing indeed that Bohemia is now,
alas! an extinct province, since Belgravia and Ken-
sington swallowed it bodily down, digested, and assimi-
lated it. So this casual talk with the handsome young-
artist in the second-class carriage, on the Great Southern
line, was to Elma as a charming and delightful glimpse
of an enchanted region she could never enter. It was
Paradise to the Peri. She turned the conversation at


8
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, i.
once, therefore, with resolute intent upon art and artists,
determined to make the most while it lasted of this
unique opportunity. And since the subject of self, with
an attentive listener, is always an attractive one, even
to modest young men like Cyril Waring—especially
when it's a pretty girl who encourages you to dilate
upon it—why, the consequence was, that before many
minutes were over, the handsome young man was dis-
coursing from his full heart to a sympathetic soul about
his chosen art, its hopes and its ideals, accompanied by
a running fire of thumb-nail illustrations. He had even
got so far in the course of their intimacy as to take out
the portfolio, which lay hidden under the seat—out of
deference to his disguise as a stock-broker, no doubt—
and to display before Elma's delighted eyes, with many
explanatory comments as to light and shade, or perspec-
tive and foreshortening, the studies for the picture he
had just then engaged upon.
By-and-by, as his enthusiasm warmed under Elma's
encouragement, the young artist produced Sardanapalus
himself once more from his box, and with deftly persua-
sive fingers coiled him gracefully round on the opposite
seat into the precise attitude he was expected to take
up when he sat for his portrait in the mossy foreground.
Elma couldn't say why, but that creature fascinated
her. The longer she looked at him the more intensely
he interested her. Not that she was one bit afraid of
him, as she might reasonably have expected to be,
according to all womanly precedent. On the contrary,



CHAP. 1.]
9
ELMA'S STRANGER.
she felt an overwhelming desire to take him up in her
own hands and stroke and fondle him. He was so
lithe and beautiful; his scales so glistened' At last
she stretched out one dainty gloved hand to pet the
spotted neck.
"Take care," the painter cried, in a warning voice;
"don't be frightened if he springs at you. He's vicious
at times. But his fangs are drawn; he can't possibly
hurt you."
The warning, however, was quite unnecessary. Sar-
danapalus, instead of springing, seemed to recognise a
friend. He darted out his forked tongue in rapid vibra-
tion, and licked her neat grey glove respectfully. Then,
lifting his flattened head with serpentine deliberation,
he coiled his great folds slowly, slowly, with sinuous
curves, round the girl's soft arm till he reached her
neck in long, winding convolutions. There he held up
his face, and trilled his swift, sibilant tongue once more
with evident pleasure. He knew his place. He was
perfectly at home at once with the pretty, olive-
skinned lady. His master looked on in profound
surprise.
"Why, you're a perfect snake-charmer," he cried at
last, regarding her with open eyes of wonder. "I never
saw Sardanapalus behave like that with a stranger
before. He's generally by no means fond of new
acquaintances. You must be used to snakes. Perhaps
you've kept one? You're accustomed of old to their
ways and manners?"


10 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. i.
"No, indeed," Elma cried, laughing in spite of her-
self, a clear little laugh of feminine triumph; for she
had made a conquest, she saw, of Sardahapalus; "I
never so much as touched one in all my life before.
And I thought I should hate them. But this one seems
quite tame and tractable. I'm not in the least afraid
of him. He is so soft and smooth, and his movements
are all so perfectly gentle."
"Ah, that's the way with snakes, always," Cyril
Waring put in, with an admiring glance at the pretty,
fearless brunette and her strange companion. "They
know at once whether people like them or not, and
they govern themselves accordingly. I suppose it's
instinct. When they see you're afraid of them, they
spring and hiss; but when they see you take to
them by nature, they make themselves perfectly at
home in a moment. They don't wait to be asked.
They've no false modesty. Well, then, you see," he
went on, drawing imaginary lines with his ticket on
the sketch he was holding up, "I shall work in Sar-
danapalus just there, like that, coiled round in a spire.
You catch the idea, don't you?"
As he spoke, Elma's eye, following his hand while it
moved, chanced to fall suddenly on the name of the
station printed on the ticket with which he was point-
ing. She gave a sharp little start.
"Warnworth!" she cried, flushing up, with some
slight embarrassment in her voice; "why, that's ever so
far back. We're long past Warnworth. We ran by it



CHaP. I.]
ELMA'S STRANGER.
11
three or four stations behind; in fact, it's the next
place to Chetwood, where I got in at."
Cyril Waring looked up with a half-guilty smile as
embarrassed as her own.
"Oh yes," he said quietly. "I knew that quite well.
I'm down here often. It's half-way between Chetwood
and Warnworth I'm painting. But I thought—well, if
you'll excuse me saying it, I thought I was so com-
fortable and so happy where I was, that I might just as
well go on a station or two more, and then pay the
difference, and take the next train back to Warnworth.
You see," he added, after a pause, with a still more
apologetic and penitent air, "I saw you were so inter-
ested in—well, in snakes, you know, and pictures."
Gentle as he was, and courteous, and perfectly frank
with her, Elma, nevertheless, felt really half inclined to
be angry at this queer avowal. That is to say, at least,
she knew it was her bounden duty, as an English lady,
to seem so; and she seemed so accordingly with most
Britannic severity. She drew herself up in a very stiff
style, and stared fixedly at him, while she began slowly
and steadily to uncoil Sardanapalus from her imprisoned
arm with profound dignity.
"I'm sorry I should have brought you so far out of
your way," she said, in a studied cold voice—though
that was quite untrue, for, as a matter of fact, she had
enjoyed their talk together immensely. "And besides,
you've been wasting your valuable time when you ought
to have been painting. You'll hardly get any work done


12
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, i.
now at all this morning. I must ask you to get out at
the very next station."
The young man bowed with a crestfallen air. "No
time could possibly be wasted," he began, with native
politeness, "that was spent "Then he broke off
quite suddenly. "I shall certainly get out wherever you
wish," he went on, more slowly, in an altered voice;
"and I sincerely regret if I've unwittingly done any-
thing to annoy you in any way. The fact is, the talk
carried me away. It was art that misled me. I didn't
mean, I'm sure, to obtrude myself upon you."
And even as he spoke they whisked, unawares, into
the darkness of a tunnel.
*


( 13 )
CHAPTER II.
two's company.
Elm A was just engaged in debating with herself inter-
nally how a young lady of perfect manners and impec-
cable breeding, travelling without a chaperon, ought to
behave under such trying circumstances, after having
allowed herself to be drawn unawares into familiar con-
versation with a most attractive young artist, when all
of a sudden a rapid jerk of the carriage succeeded in
extricating her perforce, and against her will, from this
awkward dilemma. Something sharp pulled up their
train unexpectedly. She was aware of a loud noise and
a crash in front, almost instantaneously followed by a
thrilling jar—a low dull thud—a sound of broken glass
—a quick blank stoppage. Next instant she found
herself flung wildly forward into her neighbour's arms,
while the artist, for his part, with outstretched hands,
was vainly endeavouring to break the force of the fall
for her.
All she knew for the first few minutes was merely
that there had been an accident to the train, and they
were standing still now in the darkness of the tunnel.
For some seconds she paused, and gasped hard for


14
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, n.
breath, and tried in vain to recall her scattered senses.
Then slowly she sank back on the seat once more,
vaguely conscious that something terrible had happened
to the train, but that neither she nor her companion
were seriously injured.
As she sank back in her place, Cyril Waring bent
forward towards her with sympathetic kindliness.
"You're not hurt, I hope," he said, holding out one
hand to help her rise. "Stand up for a minute, and
see if you're anything worse than severely shaken.
No? That's right, then! That's well, as far as it
goes. But I'm afraid the nervous shock must have
been very rough on you."
Elma stood up, with tears gathering fast in her eyes.
She'd have given the world to be able to cry now, for
the jar had half stunned her and shaken her brain; but
before the artist's face she was ashamed to give free
play to her feelings. So she only answered, in a care->
less sort of tone—
"Oh, it's nothing much, I think. My head feels
rather queer; but I've no bones broken. A collision, I
suppose. Oughtn't we to get out at once and see what's
happened to the other people?"
Cyril Waring moved hastily to the door, and, let^
ting down the window, tried with a violent effort to
turn the handle from the outside. But the door
wouldn't open. As often happens in such accidents,
the jar had jammed it. He tried the other side, and
with some difficulty at last succeeded in forcing it open.


CHAP. II.]
15
TWO'S COMPANY.
Then he descended cautiously on to the six-foot-way,
and held out his hand to help Elraa from the carriage.
It was no collision, he saw at once, but a far more
curious and unusual accident.
Looking ahead through the tunnel, all was black as
night. A dense wall of earth seemed to block and
fill in the whole space in front of them. Part of one
broken and shattered carriage lay tossed about in wild
confusion on the ground close by. Their own had
escaped. All the rest was darkness.
In a moment, Cyril rightly divined what must have
happened to the train. The roof of the tunnel had
caved in on top of it. At least one carriage—the one
immediately in front of them—had been crushed and
shattered by the force of its fall. Their own was the
last, and it had been saved as if by a miracle. It lay
just outside the scene of the subsidence.
One thought rose instinctively at once in the young
man's mind. They must first see if any one was injured
in the other compartments, or among the debris of the
broken carriage; and then they must make for the open
mouth of the tunnel, through which the light of day
still gleamed bright behind them.
He peered in hastily at the other three windows.
Not a soul in any one of the remaining compartments!
It was a very empty train, he had noticed himself, when
he had got in at Tilgate; the one solitary occupant of
the front compartment of their carriage, a fat old lady
with a big black bag, had bundled out at Chetwood.


16 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [ohap. ii.
They were alone in the tunnel—at this end of the train,
at least; their sole duty now was to make haste and
save themselves.
He gazed overhead. The tunnel was bricked in with
an arch on top. The way through in front was blocked,
of course, by the fallen mass of water-logged sandstone.
He glanced back towards the open mouth. A curious
circumstance, half-way down to the opening, attracted
at once his keen and practised eye.
Strange to say, the roof at one spot was not a true
arc of a circle. It bulged slightly downwards, in a
flattened arch, as if some superincumbent weight were
pressing hard upon it. Great heavens, what was this?
Another trouble in store! He looked again, still more
earnestly, and started with horror.
In the twinkling of an eye, his reason told him,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, what was happening at
the bulge. A second fall was just about to take place
close by them. Clearly there were two weak points in
the roof of the tunnel. One had already given way
in front; the other was on the very eve of giving way
behind them. If it fell, they were imprisoned between
two impassable walls of sand and earth. Without one
instant's delay, he turned and seized his companion's
hand hastily.
"Quick! quick!" he cried, in a voice of eager warn-
ing. "Run, run for your life to the mouth of the
tunnel I Here, come! You've only just time! It's
going, it's going!"


CHAP. II.]
17
two's company.
But Elma's feminine instinct worked quicker and
truer than even Cyril Waring's manly reason. She
didn't know why; she couldn't say how; but in that
one indivisible moment of time she had taken in and
grasped to the full all the varying terrors of the situa-
tion. Instead of running, however, she held back her
companion with a nervous force she could never before
have imagined herself capable of exerting.
"Stop here," she cried authoritatively, wrenching his
arm in her haste. "If you go you'll be killed. There's
no time to run past. It'll be down before you're there.
See, see, it's falling."
Even before the words were well out of her mouth,
another great crash shook the ground behind them.
With a deafening roar, the tunnel gave way in a second
place beyond. Dust and sand filled the air confusedly.
For a minute or two all was noise and smoke and dark-
ness. What exactly had happened neither of them
could see. But now the mouth of the tunnel was
blocked at either end alike, and no daylight was visible.
Ho far as Cyril could judge, they two stood alone, in the
dark and gloom, as in a narrow cell, shut in with their
carriage between two solid walls of fallen earth and
crumbling sandstone.
At this fresh misfortune, Elma sat down on the foot-
board with her face in her hands, and began to sob
bitterly. The artist leaned over her and let her cry for
a while in quiet despair. The poor girl's nerves, it was
clear, were now wholly unstrung. She was brave, as
c


18
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, n.
women go, undoubtedly brave; but the shock and the
terror of such a position as this were more than enough
to terrify the bravest. At last Cyril ventured on a
single remark.
"How lucky," he said, in an undertone, "I didn't
get out at Warnworth after all. It would have been
dreadful if you'd been left all alone in this position."
Elma glanced up at him with a sudden rush of
gratitude. By the dim light of the oil lamp that still
flickered feebly in the carriage overhead, she could see
his face; and she knew by the look in those truthful
eyes that he really meant it. He really meant he was
glad he'd come on and exposed himself to this risk,
which he might otherwise have avoided, because he
would be sorry to think a helpless woman should be
left alone by herself in the dark to face it. And,
frightened as she was, she was glad of it too. To be
alone would be awful. This was pre-eminently one of
those many positions in life in which a woman prefers
to have a man beside her.
And yet most men, she knew, would have thought to
themselves at once, " What a fool I was to come on
beyond my proper station, and let myself in for this
beastly scrape, just because I'd go a few miles further
'with a pretty girl I never saw in my life before, and
will probably never see in my life again, if I once get
well out of this precious predicament."
But that they would ever get out of it at all seemed
to both of them now in the highest degree improbable.


CHaP. II.]
two's company.
19
Cyril, by reason, Elma, by instinct, argued out the
whole situation at once, and correctly. There had been
much rain lately. The sandstone was water-logged. It
had caved in bodily, before them and behind them. A
little isthmus of archway still held out in isolation just
above their heads. At any moment that isthmus might
give way too, and, falling on their carriage, might crush
them beneath its weight. Their lives depended upon
the continued resisting power of some fifteen yards or
so of dislocated masonry.
Appalled at the thought, Cyril moved from his place
for a minute, and went forward to examine the fallen
block in front. Then he paced his way back with
groping steps to the equally ruinous mass behind them.
Elma's eyes, growing gradually accustomed to the dark-
ness and the faint glimmer of the oil lamps, followed
his action with vague and tearful interest.
"If the roof doesn't give way," he said calmly at last,
when he returned once more to her, "and if we can only
let them know we're alive in the tunnel, they may pos-
sibly dig us out before we choke. There's air enough
here for eighteen hours for us."
He spoke very quietly and reassuringly, as if being
shut up in a fallen tunnel between two masses of earth
were a matter that needn't cause one the slightest un-
easiness; but his words suggested to Elma's mind a
fresh and hitherto unthought-of danger.
"Eighteen hours," she cried, horror-struck. "Do
you mean to say we may have to stop here, all alone,


20
WHAT'S BKED IN THE BONE. [chap, ii.
for eighteen hours together? Oh, how very dreadful!
How long! How frightening! And if they don't dig
us out before eighteen hours are over, do you mean to
say we shall die of choking?"
Cyril gazed down at her with a very regretful and
sympathetic face.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said; "at least,
not more than you're frightened already; but, of course,
there's only a certain amount of oxygen in the space
that's left us; and as we're using it up at every
breath, it'll naturally hold out for a limited time only.
It can't be much more than eighteen hours. Still, I
don't doubt they'll begin digging us out at once; and
if they dig through fast, they may yet be in time, even
so, to save us."
Elma bent forward with her face in her hands again,
and, rocking herself to and fro in an agony of despair,
gave herself up to a paroxysm of utter misery. This
was too, too terrible. To think of eighteen hours in
that gloom and suspense; and then to die at last,
gasping hard for breath, in the poisonous air of that
pestilential tunnel.
For nearly an hour she sat there, broken down and
speechless; while Cyril Waring, taking a seat in silence
by her side, tried at first with mute sympathy to comfort
and console her. Then he turned to examine the roof,
and the block at either end, to see if perchance any hope
remained of opening by main force an exit anywhere.
He even began by removing a little of the sand at the


CHaP. II.]
TWO'S COMPANY.
21
side of the line with a piece of shattered board from the
broken carriage in front; but that was clearly no use.
More sand tumbled in as fast as he removed it. He
saw there was nothing left for it but patience or despair.
And of the two, his own temperament dictated rather
patience.
He returned at last, wearied out, to Elma's side. Elma,
still sitting disconsolate on the footboard, rocking herself
up and down, and moaning low and piteously, looked up
as he came with a mute glance of inquiry. She was very
pretty. That struck him even now. It made his heart
bleed to think she should be so cowed and terrified.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said, after a pause, half
afraid to speak, "but there are four lamps all burning
hard in these four compartments, and using up the air
we may need by-and-by for our own breathing. If I
were to climb to the top of the carriage—which I can
easily do—I could put them all out, and economize our
oxygen. It would leave us in the dark, but it'd give us
one more chance of life. Don't you think I'd better
get up and turn them off, or squash them?"
Elma clasped her hands in horror at the bare
suggestion.
"Oh dear, no!" she cried hastily. "Please, please,
don't do that. It's bad enough to choke slowly,' like
this, in the gloom. But to die in the dark—that would
be ten times more terrible. Why, it's a perfect Black
Hole of Calcutta, even now. If you were to turn out
the lights I could never stand it."


22
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [cHAp. n.
Cyril gave a respectful little nod of assent.
"Very well," he answered, as calm as ever. "That's
just as you will. I only meant to suggest it to you.
My one wish is to do the best I can for you. Per-
haps "—and he hesitated—" perhaps I'd better let it go
on for an hour or two more, and then, whenever the air
begins to get very oppressive—I mean when one begins
to feel it's really failing us—one person, you know,
could live on so much longer than two ... it would be
a pity not to let you stand every chance. Perhaps I
might"
Elma gazed at him aghast in the utmost horror. She
knew what he meant at once. She didn't even need
that he should finish his sentence.
. "Never !" she said, firmly clenching her small hand
hard. "It's so wrong of you to think of it, even. I
could never permit it. It's your duty to keep yourself
alive at all hazards as long as ever you can. You
should remember your mother, your sisters, your
family."
"Why, that's just it," Cyril answered, a little crest-
fallen, and feeling he had done quite a wicked thing in
venturing to suggest that his companion should have
every chance for her own life. "I've got no mother,
you see, no sisters, no family. Nobody on earth would
ever be one penny the worse if I were to die, except my
twin brother; he's the only relation I ever had in my
life; and even he, I dare say, would very soon get over
it. Whereas you "—he paused and glanced at her com-



CHaP. II.]
TWO'S COMPANY.
23
passionately—" there are probably many to whom the
loss would be a very serious one. If I could do any-
thing to save you "He broke off suddenly, for
Elma looked up at him once more with a little burst of
despair.
"If you talk like that," she cried, with a familiarity
that comes of association in a very great danger, " I
don't know what I shall do; I don't know what I shall
say to you. Why, I couldn't bear to be left alone here
to die by myself. If only for my sake, now we're boxed
up here together, I think you ought to wait and do the
best you can for yourself."
"Very well," Cyril answered once more, in a most
obedient tone. "If you wish me to live to keep you
company in the tunnel, I'll live while I may. You
have only to say what you wish. I'm here to wait
upon you."
In any other circumstances, such a phrase would have
been a mere piece of conversational politeness. At that
critical moment, Elma knew it for just what it was—a
simple expression of his real feeling.


24
[chap. in.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
CHAPTER III.
CYBIL WARING'S BROTHER.
It was nine o'clock that self-same night, and two men
sat together in a comfortable sitting-room under the
gabled roofs of Staple Inn, Holborn. It was as cosy a
nook as any to be found within the four-mile radius,
and artistic withal in its furniture and decorations.
In the biggest arm-chair by the empty grate, a young
man with a flute paused for a moment, irresolute. He
was a handsome young man, expressive eyes, and a
neatly-cut brown beard—for all the world like Cyril
Waring's. Indeed, if Elma Clifford could that moment
have been transported from her gloomy prison in the
Lavington tunnel to that cosy room at Staple Inn,
Holborn, she would have started with surprise to find
the young man who sat in the'arm-chair was to all
outer appearance the self-same person as the painter
she had just left at the scene of the accident. For the
two Warings were truly "as like as two peas"; a
photograph of one might almost have done duty for
the photograph of the other.
The other occupant of the room, who leaned care-
lessly against the mantelshelf, was taller and older;



chap, m.] CYRIL WARING'S BROTHER.
25
though he, too, was handsome, but with the somewhat
cynical and unprepossessing handsomeness of a man of
the world. His forehead was high; his lips were thin;
his nose inclined toward the Roman pattern; his
black moustache was carefully curled and twisted at
the extremities. Moreover, he was musical; for he
held in one hand the bow of a violin, having just laid
down the instrument itself on the sofa after a plaintive
duet with Guy Waring.
"Seen this evening's paper, by the way, Guy?" he
asked, after a pause, in a voice that was all honeyed
charm and seductiveness. "I brought the St. James's
Gazette for you, but forgot to give you it; I was so
full of this new piece of mine. Been an accident this
morning, I see, on the Great Southern line. Some-
where down Cyril's way, too; he's painting near
Chetwood; wonder whether he could possibly, by any
chance, have been in it?"
He drew the paper carelessly from his pocket as he
spoke, and handed it with a graceful air of inborn
courtesy to his younger companion. Everything that
Montague Nevitt did, indeed, was naturally graceful
and courteous.
Guy Waring took the printed sheet from his hands
without attaching much importance to his words, and
glanced over it lightly.
"At ten o'clock this morning," the telegram said,
"a singular catastrophe occurred in a portion of the
Lavington tunnel on the Great Southern Railway. As


26
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE. [ciup. ni.
the 9.15 way-train from Tilgate Junction to Guildford
was passing through, a segment of the roof of the
tunnel collapsed, under pressure of the dislocated rock
on top, and bore down with enormous weight upon the
carriages beneath it. The engine, tender, and four
front waggons escaped unhurt; but the two hindmost,
it is feared, were crushed by the falling mass of earth.
It is not yet known how many passengers, if any,
may have been occupying the wrecked compartments;
but every effort is now being made to dig out the
debris."
Guy read the paragraph through unmoved, to the
outer eye, though with a whitening face, and then took
up the dog-eared " Bradshaw" that lay close by upon
the little oak writing-table. His hand trembled. One
glance at the map, however, set his mind at rest.
"I thought so," he said quietly. "Cyril wouldn't
be there. It's beyond his beat. Lavington's the fourth
station this way on the up-line from Chetwood. Cyril's
stopping at Tilgate town, you know—I heard from him
on Saturday—and the bit he's now working at's in
Chetwood Forest. He couldn't get lodgings at Chet-
wood itself, so he's put up for the present at the White
Lion, at Tilgate, and runs over by train every day to
Warnworth. It's three stations away—four off Laving-
ton. He'd have been daubing for an hour in the wood
by that time."
"Well, I didn't attach any great importance to it
myself," Nevitt went on, unconcerned. "I thought


CHAp. in.] CYBIL WABING'S BROTHER.
27
most likely Cyril wouldn't be there. But still I felt
you'd like, at any rate, to know about it."
"Oh, of course," Guy answered, still scanning the
map in "Bradshaw" close. "He couldn't have been
there; but one likes to know. I think, indeed, to make
sure, I'll telegraph to Tilgate. Naturally, when a
man's got only one relation in the whole wide world—
without being a sentimentalist —that one relation means
a good deal in life to him. And Cyril and I are more
to one another, of course, than most ordinary brothers."
He bit his thumb. "Still, I can't imagine how he
could possibly be there," he went on, glancing at
"Bradshaw" once more. "You see, if he went to
work, he'd have got out at Warnworth; and if he
meant to come to town to consult his dentist, he'd have
taken the 9.30 express straight through from Tilgate,
which gets up to London twenty-five minutes earlier."
"Well, but why to consult his dentist in particular?"
Nevitt asked with a smile. He had very white teeth,
and he smiled accordingly perhaps a little oftener than
was quite inevitable. "You Warings are so absolute.
I never knew any such fellows in my life as you are.
You decide things so beforehand. Why mightn't he
have been coming up to town, for example, to see a
friend, or get himself fresh colours?"
"Oh, I said 'to consult his dentist,'" Guy answered,
in the most matter-of-fact voice on earth, suppressing
a tremor, "because you know I've had toothache off
and on myself, one day with another, for the whole last


28
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, in.
fortnight. And it's a tooth that never ached with
either of us before—this one, you see "—he lifted his lip
with his forefinger—"the second on the left after the
one we've lost. If Cyril was coming up to town at all,
I'm pretty sure it'd be his tooth he was coming up to
see about. I went to Eskell about mine myself last
Wednesday."
The elder man seated himself and leaned back in his
chair, with his violin in his lap; then he surveyed his
friend long and curiously.
"It must be awfully odd, Guy," he said at last, after
a good hard stare, "to lead such a queer sort of dupli-
cate life as Cyril and you do! Just fancy being the
counterfoil to some other man's cheque! Just fancy
being bound to do, and think, and speak, and wish as
he does! Just fancy having to get a toothache, in the
very same tooth and on the very same day.! Just
fancy having to consult the identical dentist that he
eonsults simultaneously! It'd drive me mad. Why,
it's clean rideeklous!"
Guy Waring looked up hastily from the telegraph
form he was already filling in, and answered, with some
warmth—
"No, no; not quite so. It isn't like that. You
mistake the situation. We're both cheques equally,
and neither is a counterfoil. Cyril and I depend for
our characters, as everybody else does, upon our father
and mother and our remoter progenitors. Only being
twins, and twins cast in very much the same sort of



chap, in.] CYRIL WARING'S BROTHER.
29
mould, we're naturally the product of the same two
parents, at the same precise point in their joint life'
history; and therefore we're practically all but
identical."
As he rose from his desk, with the telegram in his
hand, the porter appeared at the door with letters. Guy
seized them at once, with some little impatience. The
first was from Cyril. He tore it open in haste, and
skimmed it through rapidly. Montague Nevitt mean-
while sat languid in his chair, striking a pensive note
now and again on his violin, with his eyes half closed
and his lips parted. Guy drew a sigh of relief as he
skimmed his note.
"Just what I expected," he said slowly. "Cyril
couldn't have been there. He writes last night—the
letter's marked 'Delayed in transmission'; no doubt
by the accident—' I shall come up to town on Friday
or Saturday morning to see the dentist. One of my
teeth is troublesome; I suppose you've had the same;
the second on the left from the one we've lost; been
aching a fortnight. I want it stopped. But to-morrow
I really can't leave work. I've got well into the swing
of such a lovely bit of fern, with Sardanapalus just
gleaming like gold in the foreground.' So that settles
matters somewhat. He can't have been there. Though,
I think, even so, I'll just telegraph for safety's sake
and make things certain." -
Nevitt struck a chord twice with a sweep of his
hand, listened to it dreamily for a minute with far-


30 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. hi.
away eyes, and then remarked once more, without even
looking up, "The same tooth lost, he says? You both
had it drawn! And now another one aches in both of
you alike! How very remarkable! How very, very
curious!"
"Well, that ivas queer," Guy replied, relaxing into
a smile, "queer even for us; I won't deny it; for it
happened this way. I was over in Brussels at the
time, as correspondent for the Sphere at the Inter-
national Workmen's Congress, and Cyril was away by
himself just then on his holiday in the Orkneys. We
both got toothache in the self-same tooth on the self-
same night; and we both lay awake for hours in
misery. Early in the morning we each of us got up—
five hundred miles away from one another, remember—
and as soon as we were dressed / went into a dentist's
in the Montagne de la Cour, and Cyril to a local
doctor's at Larwick; and we each of us had it out,
instanter. The dentists both declared they could save
them if we wished; but we each preferred the loss of
a tooth to another such night of abject misery."
Nevitt stroked his moustache with a reflective air.
This was almost miraculous. "Well, I should think,"
he said at last, after close reflection, "where such
sympathy as that exists between two brothers, if
Cyril had really been hurt in this accident, you must
surely in some way have been dimly conscious
of it."
Guy Waring, standing there, telegram in hand, looked


chap, in.] CYRIL WARING'S BROTHER. 31
down at his companion with a somewhat contemptuous
smile.
"Oh dear, no," he answered, with common-sense
confidence; for he loved not mysteries. "You don't
believe any nonsense of that sort, do you? There's
nothing in the least mystical in the kind of sympathy
that exists between Cyril and myself. It's all purely
physical. We're very like one another. But that's
all. There's none of the Corsican Brothers sort of
hocus-pocus about us in any way. The whole thing
is a simple caste of natural causation."
"Then you don't believe in brain-waves?" Nevitt
suggested, with a gracefully appropriate undulation of
his small white hand.
Guy laughed incredulously. "All rubbish, my dear
fellow," he answered, "all utter rubbish. If any man
knows, it's myself and Cyril. We're as near one
another as any two men on earth could possibly be;
but when we want to communicate our ideas, each
to each, we have to speak or write, just like the rest
of you. Every man is like a clock wound up to
strike certain hours. Accidents may happen, events
may intervene, the clock may get smashed, and all
may be prevented. But, bar accidents, it'll strike all
right, under ordinary circumstances, when the hour
arrives for it. Well, Cyril and I, as I always say,
are like two clocks wound up at the same time
to strike together, and we strike with very unusual
regularity. But that's the whole mystery. If / get


32
[chap, m.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
smashed by accident, there's no reason on earth why
Cyril shouldn't run on for years yet as usual; and if
Cyril got smashed, there's no reason on earth why I
should ever know anything about it except from the
newspapers."


( 33 )
CHAPTER IV.
INSIDE THE TUNNEL.
And, indeed, if brain-waves had been in question at all,
they ought, without a doubt, to have informed Guy
Waring that at the very moment when he was going
out to send off his telegram, his brother Cyril was
sitting disconsolate, with dark blue lips and swollen
eyelids, on the footboard of the railway carriage in the
Lavington tunnel. Cyril was worn out with digging
by this time, for he had done his best once more to
clear away the sand towards the front of the train in
the vague hope that be might succeed in letting in
a little more air to their narrow prison through the
chinks and interstices of the fallen sandstone. Besides,
a man in an emergency must do something, if only to
justify Ms claim to manliness—especially when a lady
is looking on at his efforts.
So Cyril Waring had toiled and moiled in that deadly
atmosphere for some hours in vain, and now sat,
wearied out and faint from foul vapours, by Elma's
side on the damp, cold footboard. By this time the
air had almost failed them. They gasped for breath,
their heads swam vaguely. A terrible weight seemed
D


34
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, iv.
to oppress their bosoms. Even the lamps in the
carriages flickered low and burned blue. The atmos-
phere of the tunnel, loaded from the very beginning
with sulphurous smoke, was now all but exhausted.
Death stared them in the face without hope of respite
—a ghastly, slow death by gradual stifling.
"You must take a little water," Elma murmured,
pouring out the last few drops for him into the tin cup
—for Cyril had brought a small bottleful that morn-
ing for his painting, as well as a packet of sandwiches
for lunch. "You're dreadfully tired. I can see your
lips are parched and dry with digging."
She was deathly pale herself, and her own eyes were
livid, for by this time she had fairly given up all hope
of rescue; and, besides, the air in the tunnel was so
foul and stupefying, she could hardly speak; indeed,
her tongue clung to her palate. But she poured out
the last few drops into the cup for Cyril and held them
up imploringly, with a gesture of supplication. These
two were no strangers to one another now. They had
begun to know each other well in those twelve long
hours of deadly peril shared in common.
Cyril waved the cup aside with a firm air of dissent.
"No, no," he said, faintly, "you must drink it your-
self. Your need is greater far than mine."
Elma tried to put it away in turn, but Cyril would
not allow her. So she moistened her mouth with those
scanty last drops, and turned towards him gratefully.
. "There's no hope left now," she said, in a very


CHAP. Iv.]
INSIDE THE TUNNtL.
resigned voice. "We must make up our minds to die
where we stand. But I thank you, oh, I thank you
so much, so earnestly."
Cyril, for his part, could hardly find breath to speak.
"Thank you," he gasped out, in one last despairing
effort. "Things look very black; but while there's
life there's hope. They may even still, perhaps, come
up with us."
As he spoke, a sound broke unexpectedly on the
silence of their prison. A dull thud seemed to make
itself faintly heard from beyond the thick wall of sand
that cut them off from the daylight. Cyril stared witty
surprise. It was a noise like a pick-axe. Stooping
hastily down, he laid his ear against the rail beside the
shattered carriage.
"They're digging!" he cried earnestly, finding words
in his joy. "They're digging to reach us! I can hear
them! I can hear them!"
Elma glanced up at him with a certain tinge of halfr
incredulous surprise.
"Yes, they're digging, of course," she said quickly.
"I knew they'd dig for us, naturally, as soon as they
missed us. But how far off are they yet? That's the
real question. Will they reach us in time? Are they
near or distant?" - f
Cyril knelt down on the ground as before, in an
agony of suspense, and struck the rail three times
distinctly with his walking-stick. Then he put his ear to
it and listened, and waited. In less than half a minute


36
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap, iv.
three answering knocks rang, dim but unmistakable,
along tbe buried raiL He could even feel the vibration
on tbe iron with his face.
"They hear us! They hear us !" he cried once more,
in a tremor of excitement. "I don't think they're far
off. They're coming rapidly towards us."
At the words Elma rose from her seat,' still paler
than ever, but strangely resolute, and took the stick
from his hand with a gesture of despair. She was
almost stifled. But she raised it.with method. Knock-
ing the rail twice, she bent down her head and listened
in turn. Once more two answering knocks rang sharp
along the connecting line of metal. Elma shook her
head ominously.
"No, no, they're a very long way off still," she
murmured, in a faltering tone. "I can heap it quite
well. They can never reach us!"
She seated herself on a fragment of the broken carriage,
and buried her face in her hands once more in silence.
Her heart was full. Her head was very heavy. She
gasped and struggled. Then a sudden intuition seized
her, after her kind. If the rail could carry the sound
of a tap, surely it might carry the human voice as well.
Inspired with the idea, she rose again and leant for-
ward.
A second time she knocked two quick little taps,
ringing sharp on the rail, as if to bespeak attention;
then, putting her mouth close to the metals, she shouted
aloud along them with all the voice that was left her—


CHap. iv.] INSIDE THE TUNNEL. 37
"Hallo, there, do you hear? Come soon, come fast.
We're alive, but choking I"
Quick as lightning an answer rang back as if by
magic, along the conducting line of the rail—a strange
unexpected answer.
"Break the pipe of the wires," it said, and then
subsided instantly.
Cyril, who was leaning down at her side at the
moment with his ear to the rail, couldn't make out one
word of it. But Elma's sharp senses, now quickened
by the crisis, were acute as an Oriental's and keen as
a beagle's.
"Break the pipe of the wires," they say, she ex-
claimed, starting back and pondering. "What on earth
can they mean by that? What on earth can they be
driving at ?' Break the pipe of the wires.' I don't
understand them."
Hardly had she spoken, when another sharp tap
resounded still more clearly along the rail at her feet.
She bent down her head once more, and laid her eager
ear beside it in terrible suspense. A rough man's voice
—a navvy's, no doubt, or a fireman's—came speeding
along the metal; and it said in thick accents—
"Do you hear what I say? If you want to breathe
freer, break the pipe of the wires, and you'll get fresh
air from outside right through it."
Cyril this time had caught the words, and jumped up
with a sadden air of profound conviction. It was very
dark, and the lamps were going out, but he took his


38 WHArS BBED IN THE BONE. [chap. iv.
fusee-box from his pocket and struck a light hastily.
Sure enough, on the left-hand side of the tunnel, half
buried in rubbish, an earthenware pipe ran along by
the edge near the wall of the archway. Cyril raised
his foot and brought his heel down upon it sharply
with all the'strength and force he had still left in him.
The pipe broke short, and Cyril saw within it a number
of telegraph wires for the railway service. The tube
communicated directly with the air outside. They were
saved! They were saved! Air would come through
the pipe! He saw it all now! He dimly understood
it!
- At the self-same moment, another sound of breaking
was heard more distinctly at the opposite end, some
thirty or forty feet off through the tunnel. Then a
voice rang far clearer, as if issuing from the tube, in
short, sharp sentences—
"We'll pump you in air. How many of you are
there? Are you all alive? Is any one injured?"
Cyril leant down and shouted back in reply—
"We're two. Both alive. Not hurt. But sick and
half dead with stifling. Send us air as soon as ever
you can. And if possible pass us a bottle of water."
Some minutes elapsed—three long, slow minutes of
intense anxiety. Elma, now broken down with terror
and want of oxygen, fell half fainting forward towards
the shattered tube. Cyril held her up in his supporting
arms, and watched the pipe eagerly. It seemed an age;
but, after a time, he became conscious of a gust of air


CHAP. Iv.]
39
INSIDE THE TUNNEL.
blowing cold on his face. The keen freshness revived
him. •
He looked about him and drew a deep breath. Cool
air was streaming in through the broken place. Quick
as thought, he laid Elma's mouth as close as he could
lay it to the reviving current. Her eyes were closed.
After a painful interval, she opened them languidly.
Cyril chafed her hands with his, but his chafing seemed
to produce very little effect. She lay motionless now
with her eyelids half shut, and the whites of her eyes
alone showing through them. The close, foul air of
that damp and confined spot had worked its worst, and
had almost asphyxiated her. Cyril began to fear the
slight relief had arrived five minutes too late. And it
must still in all probability be some hours at least
before they could be actually disentombed from that
living vault or restored to the open air of heaven.
As he bent over her and held his breath in speechless
suspense, the voice called out again more loudly than
ever—
"Look out for the ball in the tube. We're sending
you water!"
Cyril watched the pipe closely and struck another
light. In a minute, a big glass marble came rattling
through, with a string attached to it.
"Pull the string!" the voice cried; and Cyril pulled
with a will. Now and again, the object attached to it
struck against some projecting ledge or angle where the
pipes overlapped. But at last, with a little humouring,


( 41 )
CHAPTER V.
GRATITUDE.
"There were only two of you, then, in the last carriage?"
Guy asked with deep interest, the very next morning,
as Cyril, none the worse for his long imprisonment, sat
quietly in their joint chambers at Staple Inn, recount-
ing the previous day's adventures.
"Yes. Only two of us. It was awfully fortunate.
And the carriage that was smashed had nobody at all,
except in the first compartment, which escaped being
buried. So there were no lives lost, by a miracle, you
may say. But several of the people in the front part
of the train got terribly shaken."
"And you and the other man were shut up in the
tunnel there for fifteen hours at a stretch ?" Guy went
on reflectively.
"At least fifteen hours," Cyril echoed, without attempt-
ing to correct the slight error of sex, for no man, he
thought, is bound to criminate himself, even in a flirta-
tion. "It was two in the morning before they dug us
quite out. And my companion by that time was more
dead than alive, I can tell you, with watching and
terror."


42
WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap. v.
"Was he, poor fellow?" Guy murmured, with a
sympathetic face ; for Cyril had always alluded casually
to his fellow-traveller in such general terms that Guy
was as yet unaware there was a lady in the case. "And
is he all right again now, do you know? Have you
heard anything more about him?"
But before Cyril could answer there came a knock at
the door, and the next moment Mr. Montague Nevitt,
without his violin, entered the room in some haste, all
agog with excitement. His face was eager and his
manner cordial. It was clear he was full of some
important tidings.
"Why, Cyril, my dear fellow," he cried, grasping the
painter's hand with much demonstration of friendly
warmth, and wringing it hard two or three times over,
"how delighted I am to see you restored to us alive and
well once more. This is really too happy. What a
marvellous escape! And what a romantic story! All
the clubs are buzzing with it. A charming girl! You'll
have to marry her, of course, that's the necessary
climax. You and the young lady are the staple of
news, I see, in very big print, in all the evening
papers!"
Guy drew back at the words with a little start of
surprise. "Young lady!" he cried aghast. "A charm-
ing girl, Nevitt! Then the person who was shut up
with you for fifteen hours in the tunnel was a girl,
Cyril!"
Cyril's handsome face flushed slightly before his


CHAP. V.]
43
GRATITUDE.
brother's scrutinizing gaze; but he answered with a
certain little ill-concealed embarrassment:
"Oh, I didn't say so, didn't I? Well, she was a girl
then, of course; a certain Miss Clifford. She got in at
Chetwood. Her people live somewhere down there
near Tilgate. At least, so I gathered from what she
told me."
Nevitt stared hard at the painter's eyes, which tried,
without success, to look unconscious.
"A romance!" he said, slowly, scanning his man
with deep interest. "A romance, I can see. Young,
rich, and beautiful. My dear Cyril, I only wish I'd had
half your luck. What a splendid chance, and what a
magnificent introduction! Beauty in distress! A lady
in trouble! You console her alone in a tunnel for
fifteen hours by yourself at a stretch. Heavens, what
a tete-a-tete! Did British propriety ever before allow a
man such a glorious opportunity for chivalrous devotion
to a lady of family, face, and fortune?"
"Was she pretty ?" Guy asked, coming down at once
to a more realistic platform.
Cyril hesitated a moment. "Well, yes," he answered,
somewhat curtly, after a short pause. "She's distinctly
good-looking." And he shut his mouth sharp. But he
had said quite enough.
When a man says that of a girl, and nothing more,
in an unconcerned voice, as if it didn't matter twopence
to him, you may be perfectly sure in your own mind
he's very deeply and seriously smitten.


44
[chap, v.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
"And young ?" Guy continued.
"I should say about twenty."
"And rich beyond the utmost dreams of avarice?"
Montague Nevitt put in, with a faintly cynical smile.
"Well, I don't know about that," Cyril answered
truthfully. "I haven't the least idea who she is, even.
She and I had other things to think about, you may be
sure, boxed up there so long in that narrow space, and
choking for want of air, than minute investigations into
one another's pedigrees."
"We've got no pedigree," Guy interposed, with a bitter
smile. "So the less she investigates about that the
better."
"But she has, I expect," Nevitt put in hastily; "and
if I were you, Cyril, I'd hunt her up forthwith, while
the iron's hot, and find out all there is to find out about
her. Clifford—Clifford? I wonder whether by any
chance she's one of the Devonshire Cliffords, now? For
if so, she might really be worth a man's serious attention.
They're very good business. They bank at our place;
and they're by no means paupers." For Nevitt was a
clerk in the well-known banking firm of Drummond,
Coutts, and Barclay, Limited; and being a man who
didn't mean, as he himself said," to throw himself away
on any girl for nothing," he kept a sharp look-out on
the current account of every wealthy client with an only
daughter.
Ten minutes later, as the talk ran on, some further
light was unexpectedly thrown upon this interesting


,CH*P. V.]
GRATITUDE.
45
topic by the entrance of the porter with a letter for Cyril.
The painter tore it open, and glanced over it, as Nevitt
observed, with evident eagerness. It was short and
curt, but in its own way courteous.
"' Mr. Eeginald Clifford, C.M.G., desires to thank Mr.
Cyril Waring for his kindness and consideration to' Miss
Clifford during her temporary incarceration'
"Incarceration's good, isn't it? How much does he
charge a thousand for that sort, I wonder?' ' 1
"' during her temporary incarceration in the Lavington
tunnel yesterday. Mrs. and Miss Clifford wish also to
express at the same time their deep gratitude to Mr.
Waring for his friendly efforts, and trust he has ex-
perienced no further ill effects from the unfortunate
accident to which he was subjected.
"' Craighton, Tilgate, Thursday morning.''.'
"She might have written herself," Cyril murmured
half aloud. He was evidently disappointed at this very
short measure of correspondence on the subject.
But Montague Nevitt took a more cheerful view.
"Oh, Eeginald Clifford, of Craighton !" he cried with a
smile, his invariable smile. "I know all about him.
He's a friend of Colonel Kelmscott's down at Tilgate
Park. C.M.G., indeed! What a ridiculous old peacock.
He was administrator of St. Kitts once upon a time, I
believe, or was it Nevis or Antigua? I don't quite
recollect, I'm afraid; but anyhow, some comical little
speck of a sugary, niggery, West Indian Island; and
he was made a Companion of St. Michael and St. George


46 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, V.
when his term was up, just to keep him quiet, don't
you know, for he wanted a knighthood, and to shelve
him from being appointed to a first-class post like Bar-
bados or Trinidad. If it's Elma Clifford you were shut
up with in the tunnel, Cyril, you might do worse, there's
no doubt, and you might do better. She's an only
daughter, and there's a little money at the back of the
family, I expect; but I fancy the Companion of the
Fighting Saints lives mainly on his pension, which, of
course, is purely personal, and so dies with him."
Cyril folded up the note without noticing Nevitt's
words and put it in his pocket, somewhat carefully and
obtrusively. "Thank you," he said, in a very quiet
tone, " I didn't ask you about Miss Clifford's fortune.
When I want information on that point I'll apply for
it plainly. But meanwhile I don't think any lady's
name should be dragged into conversation and bandied
about like that, by an absolute stranger."
"Oh, now you needn't be huffy," Nevitt answered,
with a still sweeter smile, showing all those pearly
teeth of his to the greatest advantage. "I didn't mean
to put your back up, and I'll tell you what I'll do for
you. I'll heap coals of fire on your head, you ungrate-
ful man. I'll return good for evil. You shall have an
invitation to Mrs. Holker's garden party on Saturday
week at Chetwood Court, and there you'll be almost
sure to meet the beautiful stranger."
But at that very moment, at Craighton, Tilgate, Mr.
Reginald Clifford, C.M.G., a stiff little withered-up


CHAP. v.]
47
GRATITUDE.
official Briton, half mummified by long exposure to
tropical suns, was sitting in his drawing-room with
Mrs. Clifford, his wife, and discussing—what subject
of all others on earth but the personality of Cyril
Waring?
"Well, it was an awkward situation for Elma, of
course, I admit," he was chirping out cheerfully, with
his back turned by pure force of habit to the empty
grate, and his hands crossed behind him. "I don't
deny it was an awkward situation. Still, there's no
harm done, I hope and trust. Elma's happily not a
fanciful or foolishly susceptible sort of girl. She sees
it's a case for mere ordinary gratitude. And gratitude,
in my opinion, towards a person in his position, is
sufficiently expressed once for all—by letter. There's
no reason on earth she should ever again see or hear
any more of him."
"But girls are so romantic," Mrs. Clifford put in
doubtfully, with an anxious air. She herself was by
no means romantic to look at, being, indeed, a person
of a certain age, with a plump, matronly figure, and
very staid of countenance; yet there was something in
her eye, for all that, that recalled at times the vivid
keenness of Elma's, and her cheek had once been as
•delicate and creamy a brown as her pretty daughter's.
"Girls are so romantic," Mrs. Clifford repeated once
more, in a dreamy way, "and she was evidently
impressed by him."
"Well, I'm glad I made inquiries at once about these


48 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, v.
two young men, anyhow," the Companion of St. Michael
and St. George responded with fervour, clasping his
wizened little hands contentedly over his narrow waist-
coat. "It's a precious odd story, and a doubtful story,
and not at all the sort of story one likes one's girl;to be
any way mixed up with. For my part, I shall give
them a very wide berth indeed in future; and there's
no reason why' Elma should ever knock up against
them."
"Who told you they were nobodies?" Mrs. Clifford
inquired, drawing a wistful sigh.
"Oh, Tom Clark was at school with them," the ex-
administrator continued, with a very cunning air, " and
he knows all about them—has heard the whole circum-
stances. Very odd, very odd; never met anything so
queer in all my life; most mysterious and uncanny.
They never had a father; they never had a mother;
they never had anybody on earth they could call their
own; they dropped from the clouds, as it were, one
rainy day, without a friend in the world, plump down
into the Charterhouse. There they were well supplied
with money, and spent their holidays with a person at
Brighton, who wasn't even supposed to be their lawful
guardian. Looks fishy, doesn't it? Their names are
Cyril and Guy Waring—and that's all they know of
themselves. They were educated like gentlemen till
they were twenty-one years old; and then they were
turned loose upon the world, like a pair of young bears,
with a couple of hundred pounds of capital apiece to


CHaP. v.]
49
GRATITUDE.
shift for themselves with. Uncanny, very; I don't
like the look of it. Not at all the sort of people an
impressionable girl like our Elma should ever be
allowed to see too much of."
"I don't think she was very much impressed by
him," Mrs. Clifford said with confidence. "I've watched
her to see, and I don't think she's in love with him.
But by to-morrow, Eeginald, I shall be able, I'm sure,
to tell you for certain."
The Companion of the Militant Saints glanced rather
uneasily across the hearth-rug at his wife. "It's a
marvellous gift, to be sure, this intuition of yours,
Louisa," he said, shaking his head sagely, and swaying
himself gently to and fro on the stone kerb of the fender.
"I frankly confess, my dear, I don't quite understand
it. And Elma's got it too, every bit as bad as you have.
Runs in the family, I suppose—runs somehow in the
family. After living with you now for twenty-two
years—yes, twenty-two last April—in every part of the
world and every grade of the service, I'm compelled to
admit that your intuition in these matters is really
remarkable—simply remarkable."
Mrs. Clifford coloured through her olive-brown skin,
exactly like Elma, and rose with a somewhat embar-
rassed and half-guilty air, avoiding her husband's eyes
as if afraid to meet them.
Elma had gone to bed early, wearied out as she was
with her long agony in the tunnel. Mrs. Clifford crept
up to her daughter's room with a silent tread, like some
E


50
[chap, v.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
noiseless Oriental, and, putting her ear to the keyhole,
listened outside the door in profound suspense for several
minutes.
Not a sound from within; not a gentle footfall on the
carpeted floor. For a moment she hesitated; then she
turned the handle slowly, and, peering before her,
peeped into the room. Thank Heaven! no snake signs.
Elma lay asleep, with one arm above her head, as peace-
fully as a child, after her terrible adventure. Her bosom
heaved, but slowly and regularly. The mother drew a
deep breath, and crept down the stairs with a palpitating
heart to the drawing-room again.
"Reginald," she said, with perfect confidence, relaps-
ing once more at a bound into the ordinary every-day
British matron, " there's no harm done, I'm sure. She
doesn't think of this young man at all. You may
dismiss him from your mind at once and for ever,
She's sleeping like a baby."


( 51 )
CHAPTER VI.
TWO STRANGE MEETINGS.
"Mrs. Hugh Holker, at home, Saturday, May 29th,
3 to 6.30. Chetwood Court; tennis."
Cyril Waring read it out with a little thrill of
triumph. To be sure, it was by no means certain
that Elma would be there; but still, Chetwood Court
was well within range of Tilgate town, and Montague
Nevitt felt convinced, he said, the Holkers were friends
of the Cliffords and the Kelmscotts.
"For my part," Guy remarked, balancing a fragment
of fried sole on his fork as he spoke, " I'm not going all
that way down to Chetwood merely to swell Mrs.
Holker's triumph."
"I wouldn't if I were you," Cyril answered,, with
quiet incisiveness. He hadn't exactly fallen in love
with Elma at first sight, but he was very much interested
in her, and it struck him at once that what interested
him was likely also to interest his twin brother. And
this is just one of those rare cases in life where a man
prefers that his interest in a subject should not be
shared by any other person.
Before Saturday, the 29th, arrived, however, Guy


52
[chap. vI.
WHAT'S BKED IN THE BONE.
had so far changed his mind in the matter, that he
presented himself duly with Nevitt at Waterloo to
catch the same train to Chetwood station that Cyril
went down by.
"After all," he said to Nevitt, as they walked
together from the club in Piccadilly," I may as well
see what the girl's like, anyhow. If she's got to be my
sister-in-law — which seems not unlikely now—I'd
better have a look at her beforehand, so to speak, on
approbation."
The Holkers' grounds were large and well planted,
with velvety lawns on the slope of a well-wooded hill
overlooking the boundless blue weald of Surrey.
Nevitt and the Warings were late to arrive, and found
most of the guests already assembled before them.
After a time Guy found himself, to his intense chagrin,
told off by his hostess to do the honours to an amiable
old lady of high tonnage and great conversational
powers, who rattled on uninterruptedly in one silvery
stream about everybody on the ground, their histories
and their pedigrees. She took the talking so completely
off his hands, however, that, after a very few minutes,
Guy, who was by nature of a lazy and contemplative
disposition, had almost ceased to trouble himself about
what she said, interposing "indeeds" and "reallys"
with automatic politeness at measured intervals; when
suddenly the old lady, coming upon a bench where a
mother and daughter were seated in the shade, settled
down by their sides in a fervour of welcome, and shook


chap, vi.] TWO STRANGE MEETINGS.
53
hands with them both effusively in a most demonstrative
fashion.
The daughter was pretty—yes, distinctly pretty. She
attracted Guy's attention at once by the piercing keen-
ness of her lustrous dark eyes, and the delicate olive-
brown of her transparent complexion. Her expression
was'merry, but with a strange and attractive undertone,
he thought, of some mysterious charm. A more taking
girl indeed, now he came to look close, he hadn't seen
for months. He congratulated himself on his garrulous
old lady's choice of a bench to sit upon, if it helped him
to an introduction to the beautiful stranger.
But before he could even be introduced, the pretty
girl with the olive-brown complexion had held out her
hand to him frankly, and exclaimed in a voice as sunny
as her face—
"I don't need to be told your friend's name, I'm sure,
Mrs. Godfrey. He's so awfully like him. I should
have known him anywhere. Of course, you're Mr.
Waring's brother, aren't you?"
Guy smiled, and bowed gracefully; he was always
graceful.
"I refuse to be merely Mr. Waring's brother," he
answered, withsomc amusement, as he took the proffered
hand in his own warmly. 1: If it comes to that, I'm
Mr. Waring myself; and Cyril, whom you seem to
know already, is only my brother."
"All, but my Mr. Waring isn't here to-day, is he ? '.'
the olive-brown girl put in, looking around with


chap, vi.] TWO STRANGE MEETINGS. 55
ever knew in my life, except a few old and very intimate
friends, who could tell at all the difference between us."
Elma drew back, almost as if shocked and hurt at the
bare suggestion.
"Oh, dear no," she cried quickly, scanning him over
at once with those piercing keen eyes of hers; "you're
like him, of course—I don't deny the likeness—as
brothers may be like one another. Your features are
the same, and the colour of your hair and eyes, and all
that sort of thing; but still, I knew at a glance you
weren't my Mr. Waring. I could never mistake you
for him. The expression and the look are so utterly
different."
"You must be a very subtle judge of faces," the
young man answered, still smiling, "if you knew us
apart at first sight; for I never before in my life met
anybody who'd seen my brother once or twice, and who
didn't take me for him, or him for me, the very first
time he saw us apart. But then," he added, after a
short pause, with a quick dart of his eyes, "you were
with him in the tunnel for a whole long day; and in
that time, of course, you saw a good deal of him."
Elma blushed again, and Guy noticed in passing that
she blushed very prettily.
"And how's Sardanapalus?" she asked, in a some-
what hurried voice, making an inartistic attempt to
change the subject.
"Oh, Sardanapalus is all right,". Guy answered,
laughing. "Cyril told me you had made friends with


56
WHAT'S BRED IN THK BONE. [chap. yi.
him, and weren't one bit afraid of him. Most people
are so dreadfully frightened of the poor old creature."
"But he isn't old," Elma exclaimed, interrupting him
with some warmth. "He's in the prime of life. He's
so glossy and beautiful. I quite fell in love with him."
"And who is Sardanapalus?" Mrs. Clifford asked,
with a vague maternal sense of discomfort and doubt.
"A dog or a monkey?"
"Oh, Sardanapalus, mother—didn't I tell you about
him ?" Elma cried enthusiastically. "Why, he's just
lovely and beautiful He's such a glorious green and
yellow-banded snake; and he coiled around my arm as
if he'd always known me."
Mrs. Clifford drew back with a horror-stricken face,
darting across at her daughter the same stealthy sort of
look she had given her husband the night after Elma's
adventure.
"A snake!" she repeated, aghast, "a snake! Oh,
Elma! Why, you never told me that. And he coiled
round your arm. How horrible!"
But Elma wasn't to be put down by exclamations of
horror.
"Why, you're not afraid of snakes yourself, you
know, mother," she went on, undismayed. "I remember
papa saying that when you were at St. Kitts with him
you never minded them a bit, but caught them in your
hands like an Indian juggler, and treated them as
playthings, so I wasn't afraid either. I suppose it's
hereditary."


chap. . TWO STRANGE MEETINGS.
57
Mrs. Clifford gazed at her fixedly for a few seconds
with a very pale face.
"I suppose it is," she said slowly and stiffly, with an
evident effort. "Most things are, in fact, in this world
we live in. But I didn't know you at least had inherited
it, Elma."
Just at that moment they were relieved from the
temporary embarrassment which the mention of Sar-
danapalus seemed to have caused the party, by the
approach of a tall and very handsome man, who came
forward with a smile towards where their group was
standing. He was military in bearing, and had dark
brown hair, with a white moustache; but he hardly
looked more than fifty for all that, as Guy judged at
once from his erect carriage and the singular youthful-
ness of both face and figure. That he was a born aristo-
crat one could see in every motion of his well-built
limbs. His mien had that ineffable air of grace and
breeding which sometimes marks the members of our
old English families. Very much like Cyril, too, Guy
thought to himself, in a flash of intuition; very much
like Cyril, the way he raised his hat and then smiled
urbanely on Mrs. Clifford and Elma. But it was Cyril
grown old and prematurely white, and filled full with
the grave haughtiness of an honoured aristocrat.
"Why, here's Colonel Kelmscott!" Mrs. Clifford
exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, not a little set at ease
by the timely diversion. "We're so glad you've come,
Colonel. And Lady Emily too; she's over yonder, is


58
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, vt.
she? Ah, well, I'll look out for her. We heard you
were to be here. Oh, how kind of you; thank you. No,
Elma's none the worse for her adventure, thank Heaven!
just a little shaken, that's all, but not otherwise injured.
And this gentleman's the brother of the kind friend
who was so good to her in the tunnel. I'm not quite
sure of the name. I think it's"
"Guy Waring," the young man interposed blandly.
Hardly any one who looked at Colonel Kelmscott's
eyes could even have perceived the profound surprise
this announcement caused him. He bowed without
moving a muscle of that military face. Guy himself
never noticed the intense emotion the introduction
aroused in the distinguished stranger. But Mrs. Clif-
ford and Elma, each scanning him closely with those
keen grey eyes of theirs, observed at once that, unmoved
as he appeared, a thunderbolt falling at Colonel Kelm-
scott's feet could not more thoroughly or completely
have stunned him. For a second or two he gazed in
the young man's face uneasily, his colour came and
went, his bosom heaved in silence; then he roped his
moustache with his trembling fingers, and tried in vain
to pump up some harmless remark appropriate to the
occasion. But no remark came to him. Mrs. Clifford
darted a furtive glance at Elma, and Elma darted back
a furtive glance at Mrs. Clifford. Neither said a word,
and each let her eyes drop to the ground at once as
they met the other's. But each knew in her heart
that something passing strange had astonished Colonel


CHAP. vI.]
59
TWO STRANGE MEETINGS.
Kelmscott; and each knew, too, that the other hail
observed it.
Mother and daughter, indeed, needed no spoken
words to tell these things plainly to one another. The
deep intuition that descended to both was enough to
put them in sympathy at once without the need of
articulate language.
"Yes, Mr. Guy Waring," Mrs. Clifford repeated at
last, breaking the awkward silence that supervened
upon the group. "The brother of Mr. Cyril Waring,
who was so kind the other day to my daughter in the
tunnel."
The Colonel started imperceptibly to the naked eye
again.
"Oh, indeed," he said, forcing himself with an effort
to speak at last. "I've read about it, of course; it was
in all the papers. . . . And—eh—is your brother here,
too, this afternoon, Mr. Waring?"


60 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, vii.
CHAPTEE VII.
KELMSCOTT OF TILGATE.
To both Elma and her mother this meeting between
Colonel Kelmscott and Guy Waring was full of mystery.
For the Kelmscotts, of Tilgate Park, were the oldest
county family in all that part of Surrey; and Colonel
Kelmscott himself passed as the proudest man of that
haughtiest house in Southern England. What, there-
fore, could have made him give so curious and almost
imperceptible a start the moment Guy Waring's name
was mentioned in conversation? Not a word that he
said, to be sure, implied to Guy himself the depth of
his surprise; but Elma, with her marvellous insight,
could see at once, for all that, by the very haze in his
eyes, that he was fascinated by Guy's personality, some-
what as she herself had been fascinated the other day
in the train by Sardanapalus. Nay, more; he seemed
to wish, with all his heart, to leave the young man's
presence, and yet to be glued to the spot, in spite of
himself, by some strange compulsion.
It was with a dreamy, far-away tone in his voice that
the Colonel uttered those seemingly simple words, "And
is your brother here, too, this afternoon, Mr. Waring?"


chap. wij KELMSCOTT OF TILGATE.
"Yes, he's somewhere about," Guy answered care-
lessly. "He'll turn up by-and-by, no doubt. He's
pretty sure to find out, sooner or later, Miss Clifford's
here, and then he'll come round this way to speak to
her."
For some time they stood talking in a little group by
the bench, Colonel Kelmscott meanwhile thawing by
degrees and growing gradually interested in what Guy
had to say, while Elma looked on with a devouring
curiosity.
"Your brother's a painter, you say," the Colonel
murmured once under that heavy white moustache of
his; "yes, I think I remember. A rising painter. Had
a capital landscape in the Grosvenor last year, I recol-
lect, and another in the Academy this spring, if I don't
mistake—skied—skied, unfairly; yet a very pretty
thing, too; 'At the Home of the Curlews.'"
"He's painting a sweet one now," Elma put in
quickly, "down here, close by, in Chetwood Forest.
He told me about it; it must be simply lovely—all
fern and mosses, with, oh! such a beautiful big snake
in the foreground."
"I should like to see it," Colonel Kelmscott said
slowly, not without a pang. "If it's painted in the
forest—and by your brother, Mr. Waring—that would
give it, to me, a certain personal value." He paused a
moment; then he added, in a little explanatory under-
tone, "I'm lord of the manor, you know, at Chetwood;
and I shoot the forest."


62 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. vh.
"Cyril Would be delighted to let you see the piece
when it's finished," Guy answered lightly. "If you're
ever up in town our way—we've rooms in Staple Inn.
I dare say you know it—that quaint, old-fashioned
looking place, with big lattice windows, that overhangs
Holborn."
Colonel Kelmscott started, and drew himself up still
taller and stiffer than before.
"I may have some opportunity of seeing it some day
in one of the galleries," he answered coldly, as if not to
commit himself. "To tell you the truth, I seldom have
time to lounge about in studios. It was merely the
coincidence of the picture being painted in Chetwood
Forest that made me fancy for a moment I might like
to see it. But I'm no connoisseur. Mrs. Clifford, may
I take you to get a cup of tea? Tea, I think, is laid
out in the tent behind the shrubbery."
It was said in a tone to dismiss Guy politely; and
Guy, taking the hint, accepted it as such, and fell back
a pace or two to his garrulous old lady. But before
Colonel Kelmscott could walk off Mrs. Clifford and her
daughter to the marquee for refreshments, Elma gave a
sudden start, and blushed faintly pink through that
olive-brown skin of hers.
"Why, there's my Mr. Waring!" she exclaimed, in a
very pleased tone, holding out her hand, with a delicious
smile; and as she said it, Cyril and Montague Nevitt
strolled up from behind a great clump of lilacs beside
them.


CHar. vii.] KELMSCOTT OF TILGATE. 63
Two pairs of eyes watched those young folks closely
as they shook hands once more — Guy's and Mrs.
Clifford's. Guy observed that a little red spot rose on
Cyril's cheek he had rarely seen there, and that his
voice trembled slightly as he said, "How do you do?"
to his pretty fellow-traveller of the famous adventure.
Mrs. Clifford observed that the faint pink faded out
of the olive-brown skin as Elma took Cyril Waring's
hand in hers, and that her face grew pale for three
minutes afterwards. And Colonel Kelmscott, looking
on with a quietly observant eye, remarked to himself
that Cyril Waring was a very creditable young man
indeed, as handsome as Guy, and as like as two peas,
but if anything perhaps even a trifle more pleasing.
For the rest of that afternoon, they six kept con-
stantly together.
Elma noted that Colonel Kelmscott was evidently ill
at ease; a thing most unusual with that proud, self-
reliant aristocrat. He held himself, to be sure, as
straight and erect as ever, and moved about the grounds
with that same haughty air of perfect supremacy, as
of one who was monarch of all he surveyed in the
county of Surrey. But Elma could see, for all that,
that he was absent-minded and self-contained; he
answered all questions in a distant, unthinking way;
some inner trouble was undoubtedly consuming him.
His eyes were all for the two Warings. They glanced
nervously right and left every minute in haste, but
returned after each excursion straight to Guy and Cyril.


64
[chap, to.
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE.
The Colonel noted narrowly all they said and did ; and
Elma was sure he was very much pleased at least with
her painter. How could he fail to be, indeed ?—for Mr.
Waring was charming. Elma wished she could have
strolled off with him about the lawn alone, were it only
ten paces in front of her mother. But somehow the
fates that day were unpropitious. The party held
together as by some magnetic bond, and Mrs. Clifford's
eye never for one moment deserted her.
The Colonel glowered. The Colonel was moody. His
speech was curt. He occupied himself mainly in listen-
ing to Guy and Cyril. A sort of mesmeric influence
seemed to draw him towards the two young men.
He drew them out deliberately. Yet the start he
had given as either young man came up towards his
side was a start, not of mere neutral surprise, but of
positive disinclination and regret at the meeting. Nay,
even now he was angling hard, with all the skill of a
strategist, to keep the Warings out of Lady Emily's
way. But the more he talked to them, the more inte-
rested he seemed. It was clear he meant to make the
most of this passing chance—and never again, if he
could help it, Elma felt certain, to see them.
Once, and once only, Granville Kelmscott, his son,
strolled casually up and joined the group by pure
chance for a few short minutes. The heir of Tilgate
Park was tall and handsome, though less so than his
father; and Mrs. Clifford was not wholly indisposed to
throw him and Elma together as much as possible.


chap, vii.] KELMSCOTT OF TILGATE.
65
Younger by a full year than the two Warings, Granville
Kelmscott was not wholly unlike them in face and
manner. As a rule, his father was proud of him, with
a passing great pride, as he was proud of every other
Kelmscott possession. But to-day, Elma's keen eye
observed that the Colonel's glance moved quickly in a
rapid dart from Cyril and Guy to his son Granville, and
back again from his son Granville to Guy and Cyril.
What was odder still, the hasty comparison seemed to
redound not altogether to Granville's credit. The
Colonel paused, and stifled a sigh as he looked; then,
in spite of Mrs. Clifford's profound attempts to retain
the heir by her side, he sent the young man off at
a moment's notice to hunt up Lady Emily. Now
why on earth did he want to keep Granville and the
Warings apart? Mrs. Clifford and Elma racked their
brains in vain; they could make nothing of the
mystery.
It was a long afternoon, and Elma enjoyed it, though
she never got her tete-a-tete after all with Cyril Waring.
Just a rapid look, a dart from the eyes, a faint pressure
of her hand at parting—that was all the romance she
was able to extract from it, so closely did Mrs. Clifford
play her part as chaperon. But as the two young men
and Montague Nevitt hurried off at last to catch their
train back to town, the Colonel turned to Mrs. Clifford
with a sigh of relief.
"Splendid young fellows, those," he exclaimed, look-
ing after them. "I'm not sorry I met them. Ought
F


fi6
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, m
to have gone into a cavalry regiment early in life;
what fine leaders they'd have made, to be sure, in a
dash for the guns or a charge against a battery! But
they seem to have done well for themselves in their
own way: carved out their own fortunes, each after
his fashion. Very plucky young fellows. One of
them's a painter, and one's a journalist; and both of
them are making their mark in their own world. I
really admire them."
And on the way to the station, that moment, Mr.
Montague Nevitt, as he lit his cigarette, was saying to
Cyril, with an approving smile, "Your Miss Clifford's
pretty."
"Yes," Cyril answered drily, "she's not bad look-
ing. She looked her best to-day. And she's capital
company."
But Guy broke out unabashed into a sudden burst of
speech.
"Not bad looking!" he cried contemptuously. "Is
that all you have to say of her? And you a painter,
too! Why, she's beautiful! She's charming! If
Cyril was shut up in a tunnel with her"
He broke off suddenly.
And for the rest of the way home he spoke but
seldom. It was all too true. The two Warings were
cast in the self-same mould. What attracted one, it
was clear, no less surely and certainly attracted the
other.
As they went to their separate rooms in Staple Inn


CHaP. VII.]
67
KELMSCOTT OF TILGATE.
that night, Guy paused for a moment, candle in hand,
by his door, and looked straight at Cyril.
"You needn't fear me," he said, in a very low tone.
"She's yours. You found her. I wouldn't be mean
enough for a minute to interfere with your find. But
I'm not surprised at you. I would do the same myself,
if I could have seen her first. I won't see her again.
I couldn't stand it. She's too beautiful to see and not
to fall in love with."


68
WHAT'S DRED IN THE BONE. [chap, vra.
CHAPTER VIII.
ELMA BREAKS OUT.
Mrs. Clifford returned from Chetwood Court that day
in by no means such high spirits as when she went
there. In the first place, she hadn't succeeded in
throwing Elma and Granville Kelmscott into one
another's company at all, and in the second place Elma
had talked much under her very nose, for half-an-hour
at a stretch, with the unknown young painter fellow.
When Elma was asked out anywhere else in the
country for the next six weeks or so, Mrs. Clifford
made up her mind strictly to inquire in private, before
committing herself to an acceptance, whether that
dangerous young man was likely or not to be included
in the party.
For Mrs. Clifford admitted frankly to herself that
Cyril was dangerous; as dangerous as they make them.
He was just the right age; he was handsome, he was
clever, his tawny brown beard had the faintest little
touch of artistic redness, and was trimmed and dressed
with provoking nicety. He was an artist too; and
girls nowadays, you know, have such an unaccountable


chap, vrii.] ELMA BREAKS OUT.
C9
way of falling in love with men who can paint, or
write verses, or play the violin, or do something foolish
of that sort, instead of sticking fast to the solid attrac-
tions of the London Stock Exchange or of ancestral
acres.
Mrs. Clifford confided her fears that very night to
the sympathetic ear of the Companion of the Militant
and Guardian Saints of the British Empire.
"Eeginald," she said solemnly, "I told you the other
day, when you asked about it, Elma wasn't in love.
And at the time I was right, or very near it. But
this afternoon I've had an opportunity of watching
them both together, and I've half changed my mind.
Elma thinks a great deal too much altogether, I'm
afraid, about this young Mr. Waring."
'* How do you know?" Mr. Clifford asked, staring
her hard in the face, and nodding solemnly.
The British matron hesitated. "How do I know
anything?" she answered at last, driven to bay by the
question. "I never know how. I only know I know
it. But whatever we do we must be careful not to
let Elma and the young man get thrown together
again. I should say myself it wouldn't be a bad plan
if we were to send her away somewhere for the rest
i >f the summer, but I can' tell you better about all this
tomorrow."
Elma, for her part, had come home from Chetwood
Court more full than ever of Cyril Waring. He looked
so handsome and so manly that afternoon at the


70
WHAT'S BKED IN THE BONE. [cmp. vnt
Holkers', Elma hoped she'd be asked out where he
was going to be again.
'She sat long in her own bedroom, thinking it over
with herself, while the candle burnt down in its socket
very low, and the house was still, and the rain pattered
hard on the roof overhead, and her father and mother
were discussing her by themselves downstairs in the
drawing-room.
She sat long on her chair without caring to begin
undressing. She sat and mused with her hands crossed
on her lap. She sat and thought, and her thoughts
were all about Cyril Waring.
For more than an hour she sat there dreamily, and
told herself over, one by one, in long order, the after-
noon's events from beginning to the end of them, She
repeated every word Cyril had spoken in her ear. She
remembered every glance, every look he had darted at
her. She thought of that faint pressure of his hand
as he said farewell. The tender blush came back to
her brown cheek once, more with maidenly shame as
she told it all over. He was so handsome and so nice,
and so very, very kind, and, perhaps, after this, she
might never again meet him. Her bosom heaved.
She was conscious of a new sense just aroused within
her.
Presently her heart began to beat more violently.
She didn't know why. It had never beaten in her life
like that before—not even in the tunnel, nor yet when
Cyril came up to-day and spoke first to her. Slowly,


CIIA1V VIII.]
171
ELMA BREAKS OUT.
slowly, she rose from her seat. The fit was upon her.
Could this be a dream? Some strange impulse made
her glide forward and stand for a minute or two
irresolute, in the middle of the room. Then she turned
round, once, twice, thrice, half unconsciously. She
turned round, wondering to herself all the while what
this strange thing could mean; faster, faster, faster,
her heart within her beating at each turn with more
frantic haste and speed than ever. For some minutes
she turned, glowing with red shame, yet unable to
stop, and still more unable to say to herself why or
wherefore.
At first that was all. She merely turned and panted.
But as she whirled and whirled, new moods and
figures seemed to force themselves upon her. She
lifted her hands and swayed them about above her
head gracefully. She was posturing she knew, but
why she had no idea. It all came upon her as
suddenly and as uncontrollably as a blush. She was
whirling around the room, now slow, now fast, but
always with her arms held out lissom, like a dancing-
girl's. Sometimes her body bent this way, and some-
times that, her hands keeping time to her movements
meanwhile in long graceful curves, but all as if com-
pelled by some extrinsic necessity.
It was an instinct within her over which she had no
control. Surely, surely, she must be possessed. A
spirit that was not her seemed to be catching her round
the waist, and twisting her about, and making her spin


72
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BON'E. [chap, vih.
headlong over the floor through this wild fierce dance.
It was terrible, terrible. Yet she could not prevent it.
A force not her own seemed to sustain and impel her.
And all the time, as she whirled, she was conscious
also of some strange dim need. A sense of discomfort
oppressed her arms. She hadn't everything she required
for this solitary orgy. Something more was lacking
her. Something essential, vital. But what on earth it
could be she knew not; she knew not.
By-and-by she paused, and, as she glanced right and
left, the sense of discomfort grew clearer and more
vivid. It was her hands that were wrong. Her hands
were empty. She must have something to fill them.
Something alive, lithe, curling, sinuous. These wavings
and swayings, to this side and to that, seemed so mean-
ingless and void—without some life to guide them.
There was nothing for her to hold; nothing to tame
and subdue; nothing to cling and writhe and give point
to her movements. Oh I heavens, how horrible!
She drew herself up suddenly, and by dint of a fierce
brief effort of will repressed for awhile the mad dance
that overmastered her. The spirit within her, if spirit
it were, kept quiet for a moment, awed and subdued by
her proud determination. Then it began once more
and led her resistlessly forward. She moved over to
the chest of drawers still rhythmically and with set
steps, but to the phantom strain of some unheard low
music. The music was running vaguely through her
head all the time—wild iEolian music—it sounded like


CHAP. vIII.]
to
ELMA BREAKS OUT.
a rude tune on a harp or zither. And surely the cym-
bals clashed now and again overhead; and the timbrel
rang clear; and the castanets tinkled, keeping time
with the measure. She stood still and listened. No,
no, not a sound save the rain on the roof. It was the
music of her own heart, beating irregularly and fiercely
to an intermittent lilt, like a Hungarian waltz or a
Eoumanian tarantella.
By this time, Elma was thoroughly frightened. Was
she going mad? she asked herself, or had some evil
spirit taken up his abode within her? What made her
spin and twirl about like this—irresponsibly, uninten-
tionally, irrepressibly, meaninglessly? Oh, what would
her mother say, if only she knew all? And what on
earth would Cyril Waring think of her?
Cyril Waring! Cyril Waring! It was all Cyril
Waring. And yet, if he knew—oh, mercy, mercy!
Still, in spite of these doubts, misgivings, fears, she
walked over towards the chest of drawers with a firm
and rhythmical tread, to the bars of the internal music
that rang loud through her brain, and began opening
one drawer after another in an aimless fashion. She
was looking for something—she didn't know what;
and she never could rest now until she'd found it.
Drawer upon drawer she opened and shut wearily,
but nothing that her eyes fell upon seemed to suit her
mood. Dresses and jackets and underlinen were there:
she glanced at them all with a deep sense of profound
contempt; none of these gewgaws of civilized life could


74
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. vjii.
be of any use to supply the vague want her soul felt so
dimly and yet so acutely. They were dead, dead, dead,
so close and clinging! Go further! Go further! At
last she opened the bottom drawer of all, and her eye
fell askance upon a feather boa, curled up at the bottom
—soft, smooth, and long; a winding, coiling, serpentine
boa. In a second, she had fallen upon it bodily with
greedy hands, and was twisting it round her waist, and
holding it high and low, and fighting fiercely at times,
and figuring with it like a posturant. Some dormant
impulse of her race seemed to stir in her blood, with
frantic leaps and bounds, at its first conscious awaken-
ing. She gave herself up to it wildly now. She was
mad. She was mad. She was glad. She was happy.
Then she began to turn round again, slowly, slowly,
slowly. As she turned, she raised the boa now high
above her head; now held it low on one side, now
stooped down and caressed it. At times, as she played
with it, the lifeless thing seemed to glide from her grasp
in eurling folds and elude her; at others, she caught it
round the neck like a snake, and twisted it about her
arm, or let it twine and encircle her writhing body.
Like a snake! like a snake! That idea ran like wild-
fire through her burning veins. It was a snake, indeed,
she wanted; a real live snake; what would she not
have given, if it were only Sardanapalus!
Sardanapalus, so glossy, so beautiful, so supple, that
glorious green serpent, with his large smooth coils, and
his silvery scales, and his darting red tongue, and his


CHAP. vIII.]
75
ELMA BREAKS OUT.
long lithe movements. Sardanapalus, Sardanapalus,
Sardanapalus! The very name seemed to link itself
with the music in her head. It coursed with her blood.
It rang through her brain. And another as well. Cyril
'Waring, Cyril Waring, Cyril Waring, Cyril Waring!
Oh I great heavens, what would Cyril Waring say now,
if only he could see her in her mad mood that moment!
And yet it was not she, not she, not she, but some
spirit, some weird, some unseen power within her. It
was no more she than that boa there wa3 a snake. A
real live snake. Oh, for a real live snake! And then
she could dance—tarantel, tarantella—as the spirit
within her prompted her to dance it.
"Faster, faster," said the spirit; and she answered
him back, " Faster!"
Faster, faster, faster, faster she whirled round the
room; the boa grew alive; it coiled about her; it
strangled her. Her candle failed; the wick in the
socket nickered and died; but Elma danced on, unheed-
ing, in the darkness. Dance, dance, dance, dance;
never mind for the light! Oh! what madness was
this? What insanity had come over her? Would her
feet never stop? Must she go on till she dropped?
Must she go on for ever?
Ashamed and terrified with her maidenly sense, over-
awed and obscured by this hateful charm, yet unable to
stay herself, unable to resist it, in a transport of fear
and remorse, she danced on irresponsibly. Check her-
self she couldn't, let her do what she would. Her whole


76
WHAT'S BRED IS THE BONE. [chap, viii.
being seemed to go forth into that weird, wild dance.
She trembled and shook. She stood aghast at her own
shame. She had hard work to restrain herself from
crying aloud in her horror.
At last, a lull, a stillness, a recess. Her limbs seemed
to yield and give way beneath her. She half fainted
with fatigue. She staggered and fell. Too weary to
undress, she flung herself upon the bed, just as she was,
clothes and all. Her overwrought nerves lost conscious-
ness at once. In three minutes she was asleep, breath-
ing fast but peacefully.


( 77 )
CHAPTEE IX.
AND AFTER?
When Elma woke up next morning, it was broad
daylight. She woke with a start, to find herself lying
upon the bed where she had flung herself. For a
minute or two she couldn't recollect or recall to herself
how it had all come about. It was too remote from
anything in her previous waking thought, too dream-
like, too impossible. Then an unspeakable horror
flashed over her unawares. Her face flushed hot.
Shame and terror overcame her. She buried her head
in her hands in an agony of awe. Her own self-respect
was literally outraged. It wasn't exactly remorse; it
wasn't exactly fear; it was a strange creeping feeling
of ineffable disgust and incredulous astonishment.
There could be but one explanation of this impossible
episode. She must have gone mad all at once! She
must be a frantic lunatic!
A single thought usurped her whole soul. If she
was going mad—if this was really mania—she could
neVer, never, never—marry Cyril Waring.
For in a flash of intuition she knew that now. She
knew she was in love. She knew he loved her.


78
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. ix.
In that wild moment of awakening all the rest
mattered nothing. The solitary idea that ran now
through her head, as the impulse to dance had run
through it last night, was the idea that she could never
marry Cyril Waring. And if Cyril Waring could have
seen her just then 1 her cheeks burned yet a brighter
scarlet at that thought than even before. One virginal
blush suffused her face from chin to forehead. The
maidenly sense of shame consumed and devoured her.
Was she mad? Was she mad? And was this a
lucid interval?
Presently, as she lay still on her bed all dressed, and
with her face in her hands, trembling for very shame,
a little knock sounded tentatively at the door of her
bedroom. It was a timid, small knock, very low and
soft, and, as it were, inquiring. It seemed to say in an
apologetic sort of undertone, " I don't know whether
you're awake or not just yet; and if you're still asleep,
pray don't let me for a moment disturb or arouse you."
"Who's there?" Elma mustered up courage to ask,
in a hushed voice of terror, hiding her head under the
bed-clothes.
"It's me, darling," Mrs. Clifford answered, very
softly and sweetly. Elma had never heard her mother
speak in so tender and gentle a tone before, though
they loved one another well, and were far more
sympathetic than most mothers and daughters. And
besides, that knock was so unlike mamma's. Why so
soft and low?


CHAP. IX.]
79
AND AFTER?
Had mamma discovered her? With a despairing
sense of being caught she looked down at her tell-tale
clothes and the unslept-in bed.
"Oh, what shall I ever do?" she thought to herself,
confusedly. "I can't let mamma come in and catch
me like this. She'll ask why on earth I didn't undress
last night. And then what could I ever say? How
could I ever explain to her?"
The awful sense of shame-facedness grew upon her
still more deeply than ever. She jumped up and
whispered through the door, in a very penitent voice,
"Oh, mother, I can't let you in just yet. Do you mind
waiting five minutes? Come again by-and-by. I—I—
I'm so awfully tired and queer this morning somehow."
Mrs. Clifford's voice had an answering little ring of
terror in it, as she replied at once, in the same soft
tone—
"Very well, darling. That's all right. Stay as long
as you like. Don't trouble to get up if you'd rather
have your breakfast in bed. And don't hurry yourself
at all. I'll come back by-and-by and see what's the
matter."
Elina didn't know why, but by the very tone of her
mother's voice she felt dimly conscious something
strange had happened. Mrs. Clifford spoke with
unusual gentleness, yet with an unwonted tyemor.
"Thank you, dear," Elma answered through the
door, going back to the bedside and beginning to
undress in a tumult of shame. "Come again by-and-


CiiAp. ix.] AND AFTER?
81
my darling. It'll soon pass off. There's nothing on
earth, nothing at all to be alarmed at."
She laid her hand nervously on Elma's arm. Half
dead with shame as she was, Elma noticed it trembled.
She. noticed, too, that mamma seemed almost afraid to
catch her eye. When their glance met for an instant
the mother's eyelids fell, and her cheek, too, burned
bright red, almost as red, Elma felt, as her own that
nestled hot so deep in the pillow. Neither said a word
to the other of what she thought or felt. But their
mute sympathy itself made them more shame-faced
than ever. In some dim, indefinite, instinctive fashion,
Elma knew her mother was vaguely aware what she
had done last night. Her gaze fell half unconsciously
on the bottom drawer. With quick insight, Mrs. Clif-
ford's eye followed her daughter's. Then it fell as
before. Elma looked up at her terrified, and burst into
a sudden flood of tears. Her mother stooped down and
caught her wildly in her arms. "Cry, cry, my darling,"
she murmured, clasping her hard to her breast. "Cry,
cry; it'll do you good; there's safety in crying. No-
body but I shall come near you to-day. Nobody else
shall know! Don't be afraid of me! Have not I been
there, too? It's nothing, nothing."
With a burst of despair, Elma laid her face in her
mother's bosom. Some minutes later, Mrs. Clifford
went down to meet her husband in the breakfast-
room.
"Well?" the father asked, shortly, looking hard at
a


82
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. ix.
his wife's face, which told its own tale at once, for it
was white and pallid.
"Well!" Mrs. Clifford answered, with a pre-occupied
air. "Elma's not herself this morning at all. Had a
nervous turn after she went to her room last night. I
know what it is. I suffered from them myself when I
was about her age." Her eyes fell quickly and she
shrank from her husband's searching glance. She was
a plump-faced and well-favoured British matron now,
but once, many years before, as a slim young girl, she
had been in love with somebody—somebody whom by
superior parental wisdom she was never allowed to
marry, being put off instead with a well-connected
match, young Mr. Clifford of the Colonial Office. That
was all. No more romance than that. The common
romance of every woman's heart. A forgotten love.
Yet she tingled to remember it.
"And you think?" Mr. Clifford asked, laying down
his newspaper and looking very grave.
"I don't think. I know," his wife answered hastily.
"I was wrong the other day, and Elma's in love with
that young man, Cyril Waring. I know more than
that, Reginald; I know you may crush her; I know
you may kill her; but if you don't want to do that, I
know she must marry him. Whether we wish it, or
whether we don't, there's nothing else to be done. As
things stand now, it's inevitable, unavoidable. She'll
never be happy with anybody else—she must have
him—and I, for one, won't try to prevent her."


CHaP. IS.]
83
AND AFTER \
Mr. Eeginald Clifford, C.M.G., sometime Adminis-
trator of the island of St. Kitts, gazed at his wife in
blank astonishment. She spoke decidedly; he had
never heard her speak with such firmness in his life
before. It fairly took his breath away. He gazed at
his wife blankly as he repeated to himself in very slow
and solemn tones, each word distinct, " You, for one,
won't try to prevent her!"
"No, I won't," Mrs. Clifford retorted defiantly,
assured in her own mind she was acting right.
"Elma's really in love with him; and I won't let
Elma's life be wrecked—as some lives have been
wrecked, and as some mothers would wreck it."
Mr. Clifford leaned back in his chair, one mass of
astonishment, and let the Japanese paper-knife he Avas
holding in his right hand drop clattering from his
fingers. "If I hadn't heard you say it yourself,
Louisa," he answered, with a gasp, "I could never
have believed it. I could—never—have—believed it.
I don't believe it even now. It's impossible, incre-
dible."
"But it's true," Mrs. Clifford repeated. "Elma
must marry the man she's in love with."
Meanwhile poor Elma lay alone in her bedroom
upstairs, that awful sense of remorse and shame still
making her cheeks tingle with unspeakable horror.
Mrs. Clifford brought up her cup of tea herself. Elma
took it with gratitude, but still never dared to look
her mother in the face. Mrs. Clifford, too, kept her


WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
[cHap. IX.
own eyes averted. It made Elma's self-abasement
even profounder than before to feel that her mother
instinctively knew everything.
The poor child lay there long, with a burning face
and tingling ears, too ashamed to get up and dress
herself and face the outer world, too ashamed to go
down before her father's eyes, till long after lunch-
time. Then there came a noise at the door once more;
the rustling of a dress; a retreating footstep. Some-
body pushed an envelope stealthily under the door.
Elma picked it up and examined it curiously. It bore
a penny stamp, and the local postmark. It must
have come then by the two o'clock delivery, without
a doubt; but the address, why, the address was written
in some unknown hand, and in printing capitals. Elma
tore it open with a beating heart, and read the one
line of manuscript it contained, which was also written
in the same print-like letters.
"Don't be afraid," the letter said. "It will do you
no harm. Eesist it when it comes. If you do, you
will get the better of it."
Elma looked at the letter over and over again in a
fever of dismay. She was certain it was her mother
had written that note. But she read it with tears,
only half-reassured—and then burnt it to ashes, and
proceeded to dress herself.
When she went down to the drawing-room, Mrs.
Clifford rose from her seat, and took her hand in her
own, and kissed her on one cheek as if nothing out of


CHaP. IX.]
85
AND AFTER?
the common had happened in any way. The talk
between them was obtrusively commonplace. But
all that clay long, Elma noticed her mother was far
tenderer to her than usual; and when she went up to
bed Mrs. Clifford held her fingers for a moment with a
gentle pressure, and kissed her twice upon her eyes,
and stifled a sigh, and then broke from the room as if
afraid to speak to her.


8fi
[fitUP. x.
WHAT'S WIED IN THE BONE.
CHAPTER X.
COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S REPENTANCE.
Eljia Clifford wasn't the only person who passed a
terrible night and suffered a painful awakening on the
morning after the Holkers' garden-party. Colonel
Kelmscott, too, had his bad half-hour or so before he
finally fell asleep; and he woke up next day to a
sense of shame and remorse far more definite, and,
therefore, more poignant and more real than Elma's.
Hour after hour, indeed, he lay there on his bed,
afraid to toss or turn lest he should wake Lady Emily,
but with his limbs all fevered and his throat all
parched, thinking over the strange chance that had
thus brought him face to face, on the threshold of his
honoured age, with the two lads he had wronged so
long and so cruelly.
The shock of meeting them had been a sudden and
a painful one. To be sure, the Colonel had always felt
the time might come when his two eldest sons would
cross his path in the intricate maze of London society.
He had steeled himself, as he thought, to meet them
there with dignity and with stoical reserve. He had
made up his mind that if ever the names he had im-


chap. x.] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S REPENTANCE. 87
posed upon them were to fall upon his startled ears,
no human being that stood by and looked on should
note for one second a single tremor of his lips, a faint
shudder of surprise, an almost imperceptible flush or
pallor on his impassive countenance. And when the
shock came, indeed, he had borne it, as he meant to
bear it, with military calmness. Not even Mrs. Clif-
ford, he thought, could have discovered from any under-
tone of his voice or manner that the two lads he re-
ceived with such well-bred unconcern were his own
twin sons, the true heirs and inheritors of the Tilgate
Park property.
And yet, the actual crisis had taken him quite by
surprise, and shaken him far more than he could ever
have conceived possible. For one thing, though he
quite expected that some day he would run up
unawares against Guy and Cyril, he did not expect it
would be down in the country, and still less within a
few miles' drive of Tilgate. In London, of course, all
things are possible. Sooner or later, there, everybody
hustles and clashes against everybody. For that
reason, he had tried to suggest, by indirect means,
when he launched them on the world, that the twins
should tempt their fortune in India or the colonies.
He would have liked to think they were well out of
his way, and out of Granville's, too. But, against his
advice, they had stayed on in England. So he ex-
pected to meet them some day, at the Academy private
view, perhaps, or in Mrs. Bouverie Barton's literary


88
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. Ichai-. x.
saloon, but certainly not on the close sward of the
Holkers' lawn, within a few short miles of his own
home at Tilgate.
And now he had met them, his conscience, that had
lain asleep so long, woke up of a sudden with a terrible
start, and began to prick Mm fiercely.
If only they had been ugly, misshapen, vulgar; if
only they had spoken with coarse, rough voices, or
irritated him by their inferior social tone, or shown
themselves unworthy to be the heirs of Tilgate—why
then, the Colonel might possibly have forgiven himself!
But to see his own two sons, the sons he had never
set eyes on for twenty-five years or more, grown up
into such handsome, well-set, noble-looking fellows—
so clever, so bright, so able, so charming—to feel they
were in every way as much gentlemen born as Gran-
ville himself, and to know he had done all three an
irreparable wrong, oh, that was too much for him. For
he had kept two of his sons out of their own all
these years, only in order to make the position and
prospects of the third, at last, certainly doubtful,
and perhaps wretched.
There was much to excuse him to himself, no doubt,
he cried to his own soul piteously in the night watches.
Proud man as he was, he could not so wholly abase
himself even to his inmost self as to admit he had
sinned without deep provocation. He thought it all
over in his heart, just there, exactly as it all happened,
that simple and natural tale of a common wrong, that


chap, x ] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S REPENTANCE. 89
terrible secret of a lifetime that he was still to repent
in sackcloth and ashes.
It was so long before—all those twenty-six years, or
was it twenty-eight?—since his regiment had been
quartered away down in Devonshire. He was a hand-
some subaltern then, with a frank open face—Harry
Kelmscott, of the Greys—just such another man, he
said to himself in his remorse, as his son Granville now
—or rather, perhaps, as Guy and Cyril Waring. For he
couldn't conceal from himself any longer the patent
fact that Lucy Waring's sons were like his own old self,
and sturdier, handsomer young fellows into the -bargain
than Lady Emily Kelmscott's boy Granville, whom he
had made into the heir of the Tilgate manors. The
moor, where the Greys were quartered that summer,
was as dull as ditch-water. No society, no dances, no
hunting, no sport; what wonder a man of his tastes,
spoiling for want of a drawing-room to conquer, should
have kept his hand in with pretty Lucy Waring?
But he married her—he married her. He did her no
wrong in the end. He hadn't that sin at least to lay
to his conscience.
Ah, well, poor Lucy! he had really been fond of her;
as fond as a Kelmscott of Tilgate could reasonably be
expected ever to prove towards the daughter of a simple
Dartmoor farmer. It began in flirtation, of course, as
such things will begin; and it ended, as they will end,
too, in love, at least on poor Lucy's side, for what can
you expect from a Kelmscott of Tilgate? And, indeed,


90 WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap, x.
indeed, he said to himself earnestly, he meant her no
harm, though he seemed at times to be cruel to her.
As soon as he gathered how deeply she was entangled—
how seriously she took it all—how much she was in
love with him—he tried hard to break it off, he tried
hard to put matters to her in their proper light; he tried
to show her that an officer and a gentleman, a Kelm-
scott of Tilgate, could never really have dreamed of
marrying the half-educated, half-peasant daughter of a
Devonshire farmer. Though, to be sure, she was a lady
in her way, too, poor Lucy; as much of a lady in
manner and in heart as Emily herself, whose father
was an earl, and whose mother was a marquis's eldest
daughter.
So much a lady in her way, in deed, in thought, and
all that—one of nature's gentlewomen—that when Lucy
cried and broke her heart at his halting explanations,
he was unmanned by her sobs, and did a thing no
Kelmscott of Tilgate should ever have stooped to do—
yes, promised to marry her. Of course, he didn't
attempt in his own heart to justify that initial folly, as
he thought it, to himself. He didn't pretend to condone
it. He only allowed he had acted like a fool. A Kelm-
scott of Tilgate should have drawn back long before, or
else, having gone so far, should have told the girl plainly
—at whatever cost, to her—he could go no further and
have no more to say to her.
To be sure, that would have killed the poor thing
outright. But a Kelmscott, you know, should respect


92
[chap. X.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
well he remembered it. Ah me, ah me, it seemed but
yesterday—when his father insisted he was to marry
Lady Emily Croke, Lord Aldeburgh's daughter; and he
dared not marry her, of course, having a wife already,
and he dared not tell his father, on the other hand, why
he couldn't marry her. It was a hateful time. He
shrank from recalling it. He was keeping Lucy, then
his own wedded wife, as Mrs. Waring, in small rooms
in Plymouth; and yet he was running up to town now
and again, on leave, as the gay young bachelor, the heir
of Tilgate Park—and meeting Emily Croke at every
party he went to in London—and braving the Admiral's
wrath by refusing to propose to her. What he would
ever have done if Lucy had lived, he couldn't imagine.
But, there! Lucy didn't live; so he was saved that
bother. Poor child, it brought tears to his eyes even
now to think of her. He brushed them furtively away,
lest he should waken Lady Emily.
And yet it was a shock to him, the night Lucy died.
Just then, he could hardly realize how lucky was the
accident. He sat there by her side, the day the twins
were born, to see her safely through her trouble; for
he had always done his duty, after a fashion, by Lucy.
When a girl of that class marries a gentleman, don't
you see, and consents, too, mind you, to marry him
privately, she can't expect to share much of her
husband's company. She can't expect he should stultify
himself by acknowledging her publicly before his own
class. And, indeed, he always meant to acknowledge


chap. x.] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S REPENTANCE. O'J
her in the end—after his father's death, when there was
no fear of the Admiral's cutting off his allowance.
But how curiously events often turn out of them-
selves. The twins were born on a Friday morning, and
by the Saturday night, poor Lucy was lying dead, a
pale, sweet corpse, in her own little room, near the Hoe,
at Plymouth. It was a happy release for him though
ho really loved her. But still, when a man's fool
enough to love a girl below his own station in life—the
Colonel paused and broke off. It was twenty-seven
years ago now, yet he really loved her. He couldn't
find it in his heart even then to indorse to the full the
common philosophy of his own order.
So there he was left with the two boys on his hands,
but free, if he liked, to marry Lady Emily. No reason
on earth, of course, why he shouldn't marry her now.
So, naturally, he married her—after a fortnight's
interval. The Admiral was all smiles and paternal
blessings at this sudden change of front on his son's
part. Why the dickens Harry hadn't wanted to marry
the girl before, to be sure he couldn't conceive; han-
kering after some missy in the country, he supposed,
that silly rot about what they call love, no doubt;
but now that Harry had come to his senses at last,
and taken the Earl's lass, why, the Admiral was
indulgence and munificence itself; the young people
should have an ample allowance, and my daughter-in-
law, Lady Emily, should live on the best that Tilgate
and Chetwood could possibly afford her.


94
[chap. 1.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE*
What would you have? the Colonel asked piteously,
in the dead of night, of his own conscience. How else
could he have acted? He said nothing. That was all,
mind you, he declared to himself more than once in his
own soul. He told no lies. He made no complications.
While the Admiral lived, he brought up Lucy's sons,
quite privately, at Plymouth. And as soon as ever the
Admiral died, he really and truly meant to acknowledge
them.
But fathers never die—in entailed estates. The
Admiral lived so long—quite, quite too long for Guy
and Cyril. Granville was born, and grew to be a big
boy, and was treated by everybody as the heir to
Tilgate. And now the Colonel's difficulties gathered
thicker around him. At last, in the fulness of time,
the Admiral died, and slept with his fathers, whose
Elizabethan ruffs were the honour and glory of the
chancel at Tilgate; and then the day of reckoning was
fairly upon him. How well he remembered that awful
hour. He couldn't, he couldn't. He knew it was Ins
duty to acknowledge his rightful sons and heirs, but
he hadn't the courage. Things had all altered so
much.
Meanwhile, Guy and Cyril had gone to Charterhouse
us nobody's wards, and been brought up in the expecta-
tion of earning their own livelihood, so no wrong, he
said casuistically, had been done to them, at any rate.
And Granville had been brought up as the heir of
Tilgate. Lady Emily naturally expected her son to


chap, x.] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S REPENTANCE. 95
succeed his father. He had gone too far to turn back
at last. And yet—
And yet, in his own heart, disguise it as he might, he
knew he was keeping his lawful sons out of their own
in the end, and it was his duty to acknowledge them as
the heirs of Tilgate,


WHAT'S BRED IX THE BONE. [chap, xt.
CHAPTER XI.
A FAMILY JAK.
Hour .after hour the unhappy man lay still as death
on his bed and reasoned in vain with his accusing
conscience. To be sure, he said to himself, no man
was bound by the law of England to name his heir.
It is for the eldest son himself to come forward and
make his claim. If Guy and Cyril could prove their
title to the Tilgate estates when he himself was dead,
that was their private business. He wasn't bound to
do anything special to make the way easy for them
beforehand.
But still, when he saw them, his heart arose and
smote him. His very class prejudices fought hard on
their behalf. These men were gentlemen, the eldest
sons of a Kelmscott of Tilgate—true Kelmscotts to the
core—handsome, courtly, erect of bearing. Guy was
the very image of the Kelmscott of Tilgate Park who
bled for King Charles at Marston Moor; Cyril had the
exact mien of Sir Piupert Kelmscott, Knight of Chet-
wood, the ablest of their race, whose portrait, by
Kneller, hung in the great hall between his father, the
Admiral, and his uncle, Sir Frederick. They had all


CHaP. XI.]
97
A FAMILY JAR.
the qualities the Colonel himself associated with the
Kelmscott name. They were strong, brave, vigorous,
able to hold their own against all comers. To leave
them out in the cold was not only wrong—it was also,
he felt in his heart of hearts, a treason to his order.
At last, after long watching, he fell asleep. But he
slept uneasily. When he woke, it was with a start.
He found himself murmuring to himself in his troubled
sleep, " Break the entail, and settle a sum on the two
that will quiet them."
It was the only way left to prevent public scandal,
and to save Lady Emily and his son Granville from a
painful disclosure: while, at the same time, it would
to some extent satisfy the claims of his conscience.
Compromise, compromise; there's nothing like com-
promise. Colonel Kelmscott had always had by
temperament a truly British love of compromise.
To carry out his plan, indeed, it would be necessary
to break the entail twice; once formally, and once
again really. He must begin by getting Granville's
consent to the proposed arrangement, so as to raise
ready money with which to bribe the young men; and
as soon as Granville's consent was obtained, he must
put it plainly to Guy and Cyril, as an anonymous
benefactor, that if they would consent to accept a fixed
sum in lieu of all contingencies, then the secret of their
birth would be revealed to them at last, and they would
bo asked to break the entail on the estates as eldest
sons of a gentleman of property.
it


98
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xi.
It was a hard bargain; a very hard bargain; but
then these boys would jump at it, no doubt; expecting
nothing as they did, they'd certainly jump at it. It's
a great point, you see, to come in suddenly, when you
expect nothing, to a nice lump sum of five or six
thousand!
. So much so, indeed, that the real difficulty, he
thought, would rather lie in approaching Granville.
After breakfast that morning, however, he tapped
his son on the shoulder as he was leaving the table,
and said to him, in his distinctly business tone,
"Granville, will you step with me into the library
for ten minutes' talk? There's a small matter of the
estate I desire to discuss with you."
Granville looked back at him with a curiously
amused air.
"Why, yes," he said shortly. "It's a very odd
coincidence. But do you know, I was going this
morning myself to ask for a chance of ten minutes'
talk with you."
He rose, and followed his father into the oak-panelled
library. The Colonel sat down on one of the uncom^
fortable library chairs, especially designed, with their
knobs and excrescences, to prevent the bare possibility
of serious study. Granville took a seat opposite him,
across the formal oak table. Colonel Kelmscott paused,
and cleared his throat nervously. Then, with military
promptitude, he darted straight into the very thick
of the fray^


CHaP. XI.]
!)9
A FAMILY JAfl.
"Granville," he said abruptly, "I want to speak
with you about a rather big affair. The fact of it is,
I'm going to break the entail. I want to raise some
money."
The son gave a little start of surprise and amuse-
ment. "Why, this is very odd," he exclaimed once
more, in an astonished tone. "That's just the precise
thing I wanted to talk about with you."
Colonel Kelmscott eyed him with an answering start.
"Not debts!" he said slowly. "My boy, my boy,
this is bad. Not debts surely, Granville; I never
suspected it."
"Oh, dear no," Granville answered frankly. "No
debts, you may be sure. But' I wanted to feel myself
on a satisfactory basis-^as to income and so forth .
and I was prepared to pay for my freedom well. To
tell you the truth outright, I want to marry."
Colonel Kelmscott eyed him close with a very
puzzled look. "Not Elma Clifford, my boy," he said
again quickly- "For of course, if it is her, Granville,
I need hardly say" .:. : .; 1; -
The young man cut him short with a. hasty little
laugh. ''' Elma Clifford," he repeated, with some scorn
in his musical voice, " Oh, dear no, not her. If it had
been her you may be sure there'd be no reason of any
sort for breaking the entail. But the fact is this: I
dislike allowances one way or the other. I want to
feel once for all I'm my own master. I want to marry
—not this girl or that, but whtfm ever-I will. I don't


100
WHAT'S BRED IS THE BONE. [chap, St.
care to come to you with my hat in my hand, asking
how much you'll be kind enough to allow me if I
venture to take Miss So-and-so or Miss What-you-
may-call-it. And as I know you want money yourself
for this new wing you're thinking of, why, I'm pre-
pared to break the entail at once, and sell whatever
building land you think right and proper."
The father held his breath. What on earth could
this mean ?" And who is the girl, Granville?" he
asked, with unconcealed interest.
"You won't care to hear," his son answered care*
lessly.
Colonel Kelmscott looked across at him with a very
red face. "Not some girl who'll bring disgrace upon
your mother, I hope?" he said, with a half-pang of
remorse, remembering Lucy. "Not some young woman
beneath your own station in life. For to that, you may
be sure, I'll never consent under any circumstances."
Granville drew himself up proudly, with a haughty
smile. He was a Kelmscott, too, as arrogant as the
best of them.
"No, that's not the difficulty," he answered, looking
rather amused than annoyed or frightened. "My tastes
are not low. I hope I know better than to disgrace my
family. The lady I want to marry, and for whose
sake I wish you to make some arrangement beforehand
is—don't be surprised—well, Gwendoline Gildersleeve."
"Gwendoline Gildersleeve," his father echoed,
astonished; for there was feud between the families.


CHaP. XI.]
101
A FAMILY JAR.
"That rascally, land-grabbing barrister's daughter!
Why, how on earth do you come to know anything of
her, Granville? Nobody in Surrey ever had the im-
pertinence yet to ask me or mine to meet the Gilder-
sleeves anywhere, since that disgraceful behaviour of
his about the boundary fences. And I didn't suppose
you'd ever even seen her."
"Nobody in Surrey ever did ask me to meet her,"
Granville answered somewhat curtly. "But you can't
expect every one in London society to keep watch over
the quarrels of every country parish in provincial
England! It wouldn't be reasonable. I met Gwen-
doline, if you want to know, at the Bertrams', in
Berkeley Square, and she and I got on so well together
that we've—well, we've met from time to time in the
Park, since our return from town, and we think by
this time we may consider ourselves informally engaged
to one another."
Colonel Kelmscott gazed at his son in a perfect
access of indignant amazement. Gilbert Gildersleeve's
daughter! That rascally Q.C.'s! At any other moment
such a proposal would have driven him forthwith into
open hostilities. If Granville chose to marry a girl
like that, why, Granville might have lived on what
his father would allow him.
Just now, however, with this keen fit of remorse
quite fresh upon his soul about poor Lucy's sons,
Colonel Kelmscott was almost disposed to accept the
opening thus laid before hirn by Granville's proposal.


102
[chap. XI.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE.
So he temporized for awhile, nursing his ehin with
his hand, and then, after much discussion, yielded at
last a conditional consent—conditional upon their
mutual agreement as to the terms on which the entail
was to be finally broken.
"And what sort of arrangement do you propose
I should make for your personal maintenance, and this
Gildersleeve girl's household?" the Colonel asked at
length, with a very red face, descending to details.
His son, without appearing to notice the implied
slight to Gwendoline, named the terms that he thought
would satisfy him.
"That's a very stiff sum," the master of Tilgate
retorted; "but perhaps I could manage it; per—haps
I could manage it. We must sell the Dowlands farm
at once, that's certain, and I must take the twelve
thousand or so the land will fetch for my own use,
absolutely and without restriction."
'* To build the new wing with ?" the son put in, with
a gesture of assent.
"To build the new Wing with? Why, certainly
not," his father answered angrily. "Am I to bargain
with my son what use I'm to make of my own property?
Mark my words, I won't submit to interference. To
do precisely as I choose with, sir. To roll in if I like'
To fling into the sea, if the fancy takes me!"
Granville Kelmscott stared hard at him. Twelve
thousand pounds! What on earth could his father
mean by this whim? he wondered. "Twelve thousand


CIIaF. XI.]
103
A FAMILY JAR.
pounds is a very big sum to fling away from the estate
without a question asked," he retorted, growing hot
"It seems to me, you too closely resemble our ancestors
who came over from Holland. In matters of business,
you know, the fault of the Dutch is giving too little
and asking too much."
His father glared at him. That's the worst of this
huckstering and higgling with your own flesh and
blood. You have to put up with such intolerable
insults. Bnt he controlled himself, and continued.
The longer he talked, however, the hotter and angrier
he became by degrees. And what made him the
hottest and angriest of all was the knowledge mean-
while that he was doing it every bit for Granville's
own sake; nay, more, that consideration for Granville
alone had brought him originally into this peck of
trouble.'
At last he could contain himself with indignation
no longer. His temper broke down. He flared up and
out with it. "Take care what you do!" he cried.
"Take care what you say, Granville! I'm not going
to be bearded with impunity in my den. If you press
me too hard, remember, I'll ruin all. I can cut you
off with a shilling, sir, if I choose—cut you off with
a shilling. Yes, and do justice to others I've wronged
for your sake. Don't provoke me too far, I say. If
you do, you'll repent it."
"Cut me off with a shilling, sir!" his son answered
angrily, rising and staring hard at him. "Why, what


104
WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap. XI.
do you mean by that? You know you can't do it.
My interest in the estate's as good as your own. I'm
the eldest son"
He broke off suddenly; for at those fatal words,
Colonel Kelmscott's face, fiery red till then, grew
instantly blanched and white with terror. "Oh, what
have I done ?" the unhappy man cried, seeing his son's
eyes read some glimpse of the truth too clearly in his
look. "Oh, what have I said? Forget it, Granny,
forget it! I didn't mean to go so far as I did in my
anger. I was a fool—a fool! I gave way too much.
For Heaven's sake, my boy, forget it, forget it!"
The young man looked across at him with a dazed
and puzzled look, yet very full of meaning. "I shall
never forget it," he said slowly. "I shall learn what it
means. I don't know how things stand; but I see
you meant it. Do as you like about the entail. It's
no business of mine. Take your pound of flesh, your
twelve thousand down, and pay your hush-money!
I don't know whom you bribe, and I have nothing to
say to it. I never dragged the honour of the Kelm-
scotts in the dust. I won't drag it now. I wash my
hands clean from it. I ask no questions. I demand
no explanations. I only say this. Until I know what
you mean—know whether I'm lawful heir to Tilgate
Park or not, I won't marry the girl I meant to marry.
I have too much regard for her, and for the honour of
our house, to take her on what may prove to be false
expectations. Break the entail, I say! Eaise your


CHaP. XI.]
105
A FAMILY JAR.
twelve thousand. Pay off your bloodhounds. But
never expect me to touch a penny of your money,
henceforth and for ever, till I know whether it was
yours and mine at all to deal with."
Colonel Kelmscott bent down his proud head meekly.
"As you will, Granville," he answered, quite broken
with remorse, and silenced by shame. "My boy, my
boy, I only wanted to save you!"


106
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, mi.
CHAPTER XII.
IN SILENCE AND TEARS.
When he had time to think, Colonel Kelmscott deter-
mined in his own mind that he would still do his best
to save Granville, whether Granville himself wished
it or otherwise. So he proceeded to take all the
necessary steps for breaking the entail and raising the
money he needed for Guy and Cyril.
In all this, Granville neither acquiesced nor dis-
sented. He signed mechanically whatever documents
his father presented to him, and he stood by his bargain
with a certain sullen, undeviating, hard-featured loyalty;
but he never forgot those few angry words in which
his father had half let out his long-guarded life secret.
Thinking the matter over continually with himself,
however, he came in the end to the natural conclusion
that one explanation alone would fit all the facts. He
was not his father's eldest son at all. Colonel Kelm-
scott must have been married to some one else before
his marriage with Lady Emily. That some one else's
son was the real heir of Tilgate. And it was to him
that his father, in his passionate'penitence, proposed,
after many years, to do one-sided justice. Now Gran-


chap, xn.] IN SILENCE AND TEARS. 107
ville Kelmscott, though a haughty and somewhat head-
strong fellow, after the fashion of his race, was a young
man of principle and of honour. The moment this
hideous doubt occurred to his mind, he couldn't rest in
his bed till he had cleared it all up and settled it for
ever, one way or the other. If Tilgate wasn't his, by
law and right, he wanted none of it. If his father was
trying to buy off the real heir to the estate with a
pitiful pittance, in order to preserve the ill-gotten
remainder for Lady Emily's son, why, Granville for his
part would be no active party to such a miserable com-
promise. If some other man was the Colonel's lawful
heir, let that other man take the property and enjoy
it; but he, Granville Kelmscott, would go forth upon
the world, an honest adventurer, to seek his fortune
with his own right hand wherever he might find it.
Still, he could take no active step, on the other
hand, to hunt up the truth about the Colonel's real or
supposed first marriage. For here an awful dilemma
blocked the way before him. If the Colonel had
married before, and if by that former marriage he had
a son or sons—how could Granville be sure the supposed
first wife was dead before the second was married?
And supposing, for a moment, she was not dead—.
supposing his father had been even more criminal and
more unjust than he at first imagined—how could he
take the initiative himself in showing that his own
mother, Lady Emily Kelmscott, was no wife at all in
the sight of the law? that some other woman was his


108
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap. xii.
father's lawful consort? The bare possibility of such
an issue was too horrible for any son on earth to face
undismayed. So, tortured and distracted by his divided
duty, Granville Kelmscott shrank alike from action or
inaction.
In the midst of such doubts and difficulties, however.
one duty shone out clear as day before him. Till the
mystery was cleared up, till the problem was solved,
he must see no more of Gwendoline Gildersleeve. He
had engaged himself to her as the heir of Tilgate. She
had accepted him under that guise, and looked forward
to an early and happy marriage. Now, all was changed.
He was, or might be, a beggar and an outcast. To be
sure, he knew Gwendoline loved him for himself; but
how could he marry her if he didn't even know he had
anything of his own in the world to marry upon? The
park and fallow deer had been a part of himself; with-
out them, he felt he was hardly even a Kelmscott. It
was his plain duty, now, for Gwendoline's sake, to
release her from her promise to a man who might
perhaps be penniless, and who couldn't even feel sure
he was the lawful son of his own father. And yet—
for Lady Emily's sake—he mustn't hint, even to
Gwendoline, the real reason which moved him to offer
her this release. He must throw himself upon her
mercy, without cause assigned, and ask her for the time
being to have faith in him and to believe him.
So, a day or two after the interview with his father
in the library, the self-disinherited heir of Tilgate took


chap. xii.] IN SILENCE AND TEARS.
109
the path through the glade that led into the dell beyond
the boundary fence—that dell which had once been
accounted a component part of Tilgate Park, but which
Gilbert Gildersleeve had proved, in his cold-blooded
documentary legal way, to belong in reality to the
grounds of Woodlands. It was in the dell that Gran-
ville sometimes ran up against Gwendoline. He sat
down on the broken ledge of ironstone that overhung
the little brook. It was eleven o'clock gone. By eleven
o'clock, three mornings in the week, chance—pure
chance—the patron god of lovers, brought Gwendoline
into the dell to meet him.
Presently, a light footfall rang soft upon the path,
and next moment a tall and beautiful girl, with a
wealth of auburn hair, and a bright colour in her
cheeks, tripped lightly down the slope, as if strolling
through the wood in maiden meditation, fancy free,
unexpecting any one.
"What, you here, Mr. Kelmscott ?" she exclaimed,
as she saw him, her pink cheek deepening as she spoke
to a still profounder crimson.
"Yes, I'm here, Gwendoline," Granville Kelmscott
answered, with a smile of recognition at her maidenly
pretence of an undesigned coincidence. "And I'm
here, to say the truth, because I quite expected this
morning to meet yon"
He took her hand gravely. Gwendoline let her eyes
fall modestly on the ground, as if some warmer greeting
were more often bestowed between them. The young


llO WHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE. [ciup. xir.
man blushed with a certain manly shame. "No, not
to-day, dear," he said, with an effort, as she held her
cheek aside, half courting and half deprecating the
expected kiss. "Oh, Gwendoline, I don't know how
to begin. I don't know how to say it. But I've got
very sad news for you—news that I can't bear to break
—that I can't venture to explain—that I don't even
properly understand myself. I must throw myself
upon your faith. I must just ask you to trust me."
Gwendoline let him seat her, unresisting, upon the
ledge by his side, and her cheek grew suddenly ashy
pale, as she answered with a gasp, forgetting the " Mr.
Kelmscott" at this sudden leap into the stern realities
of life, "Why, Granville, what do you mean.? You
know I can trust you. You know, whatever it may be,
I believe you implicitly."
The young man took her hand in his with a tender
pressure. It was a terrible message to have to deliver.
He bungled and blundered on, with many twists and
turns, through some inarticulate attempt at an indefinite
explanation. It wasn't that he didn't love her—oh,
devotedly, eternally, she must know, that well; she
never could doubt it. It wasn't that any shadow had
arisen between him and her, it wasn't anything lie
could speak about, or anything she must say to any
soul on earth—oh, for his mother's sake, he hoped
and trusted she would religiously keep his secret invio-
late! But something had happened to him within the
last few days — something unspeakable, indefinite,


chap. xn.] IN SILENCE AND TEARS. Ill
uncertain, vague, yet very full of the most dreadful
possibilities; something that might make him unable
to support a wife; something that at least must delay
or postpone for an unknown time the long-hoped-for
prospect of Iris claiming her and marrying her. Some
day, perhaps—he broke off suddenly, and looked with
a wistful look into her deep grey eyes. His resolution
failed him. "One kiss," he said, " Gwendoline!" His
voice was choking. The beautiful girl, turning towards
him with a wild sob, fell, yielding herself. on his breast,
and cried hot tears of joy at that evident sign that, in
spite of all he said, he still really loved her.
They sat there long, hand in hand, and eye on eye,
talking it all over, as lovers will, with infinite delays,
yet getting no nearer towards a solution either way.
Gwendoline, for her part, didn't care, of course—what
true woman does whether Granville was the heir of
Tilgate or not; she would marry him all the more, she
said, if he were a penniless nobody. All she wanted
was to love him and be near him. Let him marry her
now, marry her .to-day, , and then go where he would in
the world. to seek his livelihood. But Granville, poor
fellow, alarmed a^ the bare suggestion—for his mother's
sake^that Tilgate might really not be his, checked her
at once in her outburst with a grave, silent look; he
was still, he said calmly, the inheritor of Tilgate. It
wasn't that. At least, not as she took it. He didn't
know precisely what it was himself. She must have
faith in him and trust him. She must wait and see.


112
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xn.
In the end, he hoped, he would come back and
marry her.
And Gwendoline made answer, with many tears,
that she knew it was so, and that she loved him and
trusted him. So, after sitting there long, hand locked
in hand, and heart intent on heart, the two young
people rose at last to go, protesting and vowing their
mutual love on either side, as happy and as miserable
in their divided lives as two young people in all
England that moment. Over and over again they
kissed and said good-bye; then they stood with one
another's fingers clasped hard in their own, unwilling
to part, and unable to loose them. After that, they
kissed again, and declared once more they were broken-
hearted, and could never leave one another. But still,
Granville added, half aside, he must make up his mind
not to see Gwendoline again—honour demanded that
sacrifice—till he could come at last a rich man to claim
her. Meanwhile, she was free; and he—he was ever
hers, devotedly, whole-souledly. But they were no
longer engaged. He was hers in heart only. Let her
try to forget him. He could never forget her.
And Gwendoline, sobbing and tearful, but believing
him implicitly, retreated with slow steps, looking back
at each turn of the zigzag path, and sending the ghosts
of dead kisses from her finger-tips to greet him.
Below in the dell Granville stood still, and watched
her depart in breathless silence. Then, in an agony of
despair, he flung himself down on the ground and burst


chap, xn.] IN SILENCE AND TEARS.
113
into tears, and sobbed like a child over his broken
daydream.
Gwendoline, coming back to make sure, saw him
lying and sobbing so; and, woman-like, felt compelled
to step down just one minute to comfort him. Granville
in turn refused her proffered comfort—it was better so
—he mustn't listen to her any more; he must steel
himself to say No; he must remember it was dishonour-
able of him to drag a delicately nurtured girl into a
penniless marriage. Then they kissed once more and
made it all up again; and they sobbed and wept as
before, and broke it off for ever; and they said good-
bye for the very last time; and they decided they must
never meet till Granville came back; and they hoped
they would sometimes catch just a glimpse of one
another in the outer world, and whatever the other one
said or did, they would each in their hearts be always
true to their first great love; and they were more
miserable still, and they were happier than they had
ever been in their lives before; and they parted at last,
with a desperate effort, each perfectly sure of the other's
love, and each vowing in soul they would never, never
see one another again, but each, for all that, perfectly
certain that some day or other they would be husband
and wife, though Tilgate and the wretched little fallow
deer should sink, unwept, to the bottom of the ocean.
i


114
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. (chap. xhi.
CHAPTER XIII.
BUSINESS FIRST.
The manager at Messrs. Drummond, Coutts and Bar-
clay's, Limited, received Colonel Kelmscott with
distinguished consideration. A courteous, conciliatory
sort of man, that manager, with his close-shaven face
and his spotless shirt-front.
"Five minutes, my dear sir?" he exclaimed, with
warmth, motioning his visitor blandly into the leather-
covered chair. "Half an hour, if you wish it. We
always have leisure to receive our clients. Any service
we can render them, we're only too happy."
"But this is a very peculiar bit of business," Colonel
Kelmscott answered, humming and hawing with obvious
hesitation. "It isn't quite in the regular way of bank-
ing, I believe. Perhaps, indeed, I ought rather to have
put it into the hands of my solicitor. But, even if you
can't manage the thing yourself, you may be able to
put me in the way of finding out how best I can get it
managed elsewhere."
The manager bowed. His smile was a smile of
genuine satisfaction. Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate was


CHAp. XITI.]
115
BUSINESS FIRST.
in a most gracious humour. The manager, with defer-
ence, held himself wholly at his client's disposition.
So the Colonel proceeded to unfold his business.
There were two young men, now knocking about town,
of the names of Guy and Cyril Waring—the one a
journalist, the other a painter—and they had rooms in
Staple Inn, Holborn, which would doubtless form a
sufficient clue by which to identify them. Colonel
Kelmscott desired unobtrusively to know where these
young men banked—if indeed they were in a position
to keep an account; and when that was found out, he
wished Messrs. Drummond, Coutts and Barclay,
Limited, to place a sum of money at their bankers to
their credit, without mentioning the name of the person
so placing it, as well as to transmit to them a sealed
envelope, containing instructions as to the use to be
made of the money in question.
The manager nodded a cautious acquiescence. To
place the money to the credit of the two young men,
indeed, would be quite in their way. But to send
the sealed envelope, without being aware of its con-
tents, or the nature of the business on which it was
despatched, would be much less regular. Perhaps the
Colonel might find some other means of managing
without their aid that portion of the business arrange-
ment.
The Colonel, for his part, fell in; readily enough with
this modest point of view. It amply sufficed for him
if the money were paid to the young men's credit, and


116
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xiii.
a receipt forwarded to him in due course, under cover
of a number, to the care of the bankers.
"Very well," the manager answered, rubbing his
hands contentedly. "Our confidential clerk will settle
all that for you. A most sagacious person, our con-
fidential clerk. No eyes, no ears, no tongue for any-
thing but our clients' interests."
The Colonel smiled, and sat a little longer, giving
further details as the precise amount he wished sent,
and the particular way he wished to send it—the whole
sum to be, in fact, twelve thousand pounds, amount of
the purchase money of the Dowlands farms, whereof
only six thousand had as yet been paid down; and that
six thousand he wished to place forthwith to the credit
of Cyril Waring, the painter. The remaining six
thousand, to be settled, as agreed, in five weeks' time,
he would then make over under the self-same conditions
to the other brother, Guy Waring, the journalist. It
had gone a trifle too cheap, that land at Dowlands, the
Colonel opined; but still, in days like these he was
very glad, indeed, to find a purchaser for the place at
anything like its value.
"I think a Miss-Ewes was the fortunate bidder,
wasn't she ?" the manager asked, just to make a certain
decent show of interest in his client's estate.
"Yes, Miss Elma Ewes of Kenilworth," the Colonel
answered, letting loose for a moment his tongue, that
unruly member. "She's the composer, you know—
writes songs and dances; remotely connected with


oiup. xin.]
117
BUSINESS FIRST.
Reginald Clifford, the man who was Governor of some
West Indian Dutch-oven—St. Kitts, I think, or Antigua
—he lives down our way, and he's a neighbour of mine
at Tilgate. Or rather she's connected with Mrs. Clif-
ford, the Governor's wife, who was one of the younger
branch, a Miss Ewes of Worthing, daughter of the Ewes
who was Dean of Dorchester. Elma's been a family
name for years with all the lot of Eweses, good, bad, or
indifferent. Came down to them, don't you know, from
that Roumanian ancestress."
"Indeed," the manager answered, now beginning to
be really interested—for the Cliffords were clients too,
and it behoves a banker to know everything about
everybody's business. "So Mrs. Clifford had an ances-
tress who was a Roumanian, had she? Well, I've
noticed at times her complexion looked very southern
and gipsy-like—distinctly un-English.".
"Oh, they call it Roumanian," Colonel Kelmscott
went on in a confidential tone, roping his white mous-
tache, and growing more and more conversational;
"they call it Roumanian, because it sounds more
respectable; but I believe, if you go right down to the
very bottom of the thing, it was much more like some
kind of Oriental gipsy. Sir Michael Ewes, the founder
of the house, in George the Second's time, was ambas-
sador for awhile at Constantinople. He began life,
indeed, I believe, as a Turkey merchant. Well, at
Pera one day, so the story goes—you'll find it all in
Horace Walpole's diary—he picked up with this dark-


118
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xnt.
skinned gipsy-woman, who was a wonderful creature in
her way, a sort of mesmeric sorceress, who belonged to
some tribe of far eastern serpent charmers. It seems
that women of this particular tribe were regularly
trained by the men to be capering priestesses—or
fortune-tellers, if you like—who performed some extra-
ordinary sacred antics of a mystical kind, much after
the fashion of the howling dervishes. However that
may be, Sir Michael, at any rate, pacing the streets of
Pera, saw the woman that she was passing fair, and fell
in love with her outright at some dervish entertainment.
But being a very well-behaved old man, combining a
liking for Orientals with a British taste for the highest
respectability, he had the girl baptized and made into
a proper Christian first; and then he married her off-
hand and brought her home with him as my Lady
Ewes to England. She was presented at Court, to
George the Second; and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
stood her sponsor on the occasion."
"But how did it all turn out ?" the manager asked,
with an air of intelligent historical interest.)'
"Turn out? Well, it turned out in a thumping big
family of thirteen children," the Colonel answered;
"most of whom, happily for the father, died young.
But the five who survived, and who married at last
into very good connections, all had one peculiarity,
which they transmitted to all their female descendants.
Very odd these hereditary traits, to be sure. Very
singular! Very singular!"


CHaP. XIII.]
119
BUSINESS FIRST.
"Ah, to be sure," the manager answered, turning
over a pile of letters. "And what was the hereditary
trait handed down, as you say, in the family of the
Koumanian lady?"
"Why, in the first place," the Colonel continued,
leaning back in his chair, and making himself perfectly
comfortable, "all the girls of the Ewes connection, to
the third and fourth generation, have olive-brown com-
plexions, creamy and soft, but clear as crystal. Then
again, they've all got most extraordinary intuition—a
perfectly marvellous gift of reading faces. By George,
sir," the Colonel exclaimed, growing hot and red at the
memory of that afternoon on the Holkers' lawn, "I
don't like to see those women's eyes fixed upon my
cheek when there's anything going on I don't want
them to know. A man's transparent like glass before
them. They see into his very soul. They look right
through him."
"If the lady who founded the family habits was a
fortune-teller," the manager interposed, with a scientific
air, "that's not so remarkable; for fortune-tellers must
always be quick-witted people, keen to perceive the
changes of countenance in the dupes who employ them,
and prompt at humouring all the fads and fancies of
their customers, mustn't they?"
"Quite so," the Colonel echoed. "You've hit it on
the nail. And this particular lady—Esmeralda they
call her, so that Elma, which is short for Esmeralda,
understand, has come to be the regular Christian name


120 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xiii.
-
among all her -women descendants—this particular lady
belonged to what you might call a caste or priestly
family, as it were, of hereditary fortune-tellers, every
one of whose ancestors had been specially selected for
generations for the work, till a kind of transmissible
mesmeric habit got developed among them. And they
do say," the Colonel went on, lowering his voice a little
more to a confidential whisper, "that all the girls
descended from Madame Esmeralda—Lady Ewes of
Charlwood, as she was in England—retain to this day
another still odder and uncannier mark of their peculiar
origin; but, of course, it's a story that would be hard to
substantiate, though I've heard it discussed more than
once among the friends of the family."
"Dear me! What's that ?" the manager asked, in a
tone of marked curiosity.
"Why, they do say," the Colonel went on, now fairly
launched upon a piece of after-dinner gossip, "that the
eastern snake-dance of Madame Esmeralda's people is
-hereditary even still among the women of the family,
and that, sooner or later, it breaks out unexpectedly in
every one of them. When the fit comes on, they shut
themselves up in their own rooms, I've been told, and
twirl round and round for hours like dancing dervishes,
with anything they can get in their hands to represent
a serpent, till they fall exhausted with the hysterical
effort. Even if a woman of Esmeralda's blood escapes
it at all other times, it's sure to break out when she first
sees a real live snake, or falls in love for the first time.


chap, xiii.] BUSINESS FIRST.
Then the dormant instincts of the race come over her with
a rush, at the very dawn of womanhood, all quickened
and aroused, as it were, in the general awakening."
"That's very curious!"the manager said,leaning back
in his chair in turn, and twirling his thumbs, "very
curious indeed; and yet, in its way, very probable,
very probable. For habits like those must set themselves
deep in the very core of the system, don't you think,
Colonel? If this woman, now, was descended from a
whole line of ancestresses, who had all been trained
for their work into a sort of ecstatic fervour, the ecstasy
and all that went with it must have got so deeply
ingrained"
"I beg your pardon," the Colonel interrupted, con-
sulting his watch and seizing his hat hastily—for as a
Kelmscott, he refused point-blank to be lectured—" I've
an appointment at my club at half-past three, and I
must not wait any longer. Well, you'll get these young
men's address for me, then, at the very earliest possible
opportunity?"
The manager pocketed the snub, and bowed his fare-
well. "Oh, certainly," he answered, trying to look as
pleased and gracious as his features would permit. "Our
confidential clerk will hunt them up immediately.
We're delighted to be of use to you. Good morning.
Good morning."
And as soon as the Colonel's back was turned, the
manager rang twice on his sharp little bell for the con-
fidential clerk to receive his orders.


122 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [ohap. xhi.
Mr. Montague Nevitt immediately presented himself
in answer to the summons.
"Mr. Nevitt," the manager said, with. a dry, small.
cough, "here's a bit of business of the most domestic
kind—strict seal of secrecy, not a word on any account.
Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate wants to know where two
young men, named Guy and Cyril Waring, keep their
banking account, if any; and, as soon as he knows, he
wishes to pay in a substantial sum, quite privately, to
their credit."
Mr. Montague Nevitt bowed a bow of assent, without
the faintest sign of passing recognition. "Guy and
Cyril Waring," he repeated to himself, looking close at
the scrap of paper his chief had handed him; "Guy
and Cyril Waring, Staple Inn, Holborn. I can find out
to-day, sir, if you attach any special and pressing im-
portance to promptitude in the matter."


( 123 )
CHAPTER XIV.
MUSIC HATH POWER.
For Mr. Montague Nevitt was a cautious, cool, and
calculating person. He knew better than most of us
that knowledge is power. So when the manager men-
tioned to him casually in the way of business the
names of Guy and Cyril Waring, Mr. Montague Nevitt
didn't respond at once, "Oh, dear yes; one of them's
my most intimate personal friend, and the other's his
brother," as a man of less discretion might have been
tempted to do. For, in the first place, by finding out,
or seeming to find out, the facts about the Warings that
very afternoon, he could increase his character with his
employers for zeal and ability. And, in the second
place, if he had let out too soon that he knew the
Warings personally, he might most likely on that very
account have been no further employed in carrying into
execution this delicate little piece of family business.
So Nevitt held his peace discreetly, like a wise man
that he was, and answered merely, in a most submis-
sive voice, "I'll do my best to ascertain where they
bank, at once," as if he had never before in his life
heard the name of Waring.


124
WHAT'S BRKD IK THE BONE. tcHAP. xiv.
For the self-same reason, Mr. Montague Nevitt didn't
hint that evening to Guy that he had become possessed
during the course of the day of a secret of the first
importance to Guy's fortune and future. Of course, a
man so astute as Montague Nevitt jumped at once at
the correct conclusion, that Colonel Kelmscott must be
the two Warings' father. But he wasn't going to be
fool enough to chuck his chance away by sharing that
information with any second person. A secret is far
too valuable a lever in life to be carelessly flung aside
by a man of ambition. And Montague Nevitt saw this
secret in particular was doubly valuable to him. He-
could use it, wedge-wise, with both the Warings in all
his future dealings, by promising to reveal to one or
other of them a matter of importance and probable
money-value, and he could use it also as a perpetual
threat to hold over Colonel Kelmscott, if ever it should
be needful to extort blackmail from the possessor of
Tilgate, or to thwart his schemes by some active inter-
ference.
So when Nevitt strolled round about nine o'clock
that night to Staple Inn, violin-case in hand, and
cigarette in mouth, he gave not a sign of the curious
information he had that day acquired, to the person
most interested in learning the truth as to the precise
genealogy of the Waring family.
There was no great underlying community of interests
between the clever young journalist and his banking
companion. A common love for music was the main


CHAP. XIV.]
125
MUSIC HATH POWKI!.
bond of union between the two men. Yet Montague
Nevitt exercised over Guy a strange and fatal fascina-
tion which Cyril always found positively unaccountable.
And on this particular evening, as Nevitt stood swaying
himself to and fro upon the hearth-rug before the empty
grate, with his eyes half closed, drawing low, weird
music with his enchanted bow from those submissive
strings, Guy leaned back on the sofa and listened,
entranced, with a hopeless feeling of utter inability
ever to approach the wizard-like and supreme execution
of that masterly hand and those superhuman ringers.
How he twisted and turned them as though his bones
were india-rubber. His palms were all joints, and his
eyes all ecstasy. He seemed able to do what he liked
with his violin. He played on his instrument, indeed,
as he played on Guy—with the consummate art of a
skilful executant.
"That's marvellous, Nevitt," Guy broke out at last;
"never heard even Sarasate himself do anything quite
so wild and weird as that. What's the piece called?
It seems to have something almost impish or sprite-
like in its wailing music. It's Hungarian, of course,
or Polish or Greek; I detect at once the Oriental tinge
in it."
"Wrong for once, my dear boy," Nevitt answered,
smiling, "it's English, pure English, and by a lady
what's more—one of the Eweses of Kenilworth. She's
a distant relation of Cyril's Miss Clifford, I believe.
An Elma, too; name runs in the family. But she


126
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xiv.
composes wonderfully. Everything she writes is in that
mystic key. It sounds like a reminiscence of some
dim and lamp-lit eastern temple. The sort of thing a
nautch-girl might be supposed to compose, to sing to
the clash and clang of cymbals, while she was perform-
ing the snake-dance before some Juggernaut idol!"
"Exactly," Guy answered, shutting his eyes dreamily.
"That's just the very picture it brings up before my
mind's eye—as you render it, Nevitt. I seem to see
vague visions of some vast and dimly-lighted rock-
hewn cavern, with long vistas of pillars cut from the
solid stone, while dark-limbed priestesses, clad in white
muslin robes, swing censers in the foreground to solemn
music. Upon my word, the power of sound is some-
thing simply wonderful. There's almost nothing, I
believe, good music wouldn't drive me to—or rather
lead me to; for it sways one and_guides even more
than it impels one."
"And yet," Nevitt mused, in slow tones to himself,
taking up his violin again, and drawing his bow over
the chords, with half-closed eyes, in a seemingly listless,
aimless manner, " I don't believe music's your real first
love, Guy. You took it up only to be different from
Cyril. The artistic impulse in both of you is the same
at bottom. If you'd let it have it's own way, you'd
have taken, not to this, I'm sure, but to painting. But
Cyril painted, so, to make yourself different, you went
in for music. That's you all over! You always have
such a hankering after being what you are not!"


rmp. xiv] MUSIC HATH POWER. 127
"Well, hang it all, a man wants to have some indi-
viduality," Guy answered apologetically. "He doesn't
like to be a mere copy or repetition of his brother."
Nevitt reflected quietly to himself that Cyril never
wanted to be different from Guy, his was by far the
stronger nature of the two: he was content to be him-
self without regard to his brother. But Nevitt didn't
say so. Indeed, why should he? He merely went on
playing a few disconnected bars of a very lively, hopeful
Utopian sort of a tune—a tune all youth and health,
and go and gaiety—as he interjected from time to time
some brief financial remarks on the numerous good
strokes he'd pulled off of late in his transactions in the
- City.
"Can't do them in my own name, you know," he
observed lightly, at last laying down his bow, and
replacing the dainty white rose in his left top button-
hole. "Not official for a bank employe to operate on
the Stock Exchange. The chiefs object to it. So I do
my little ventures in Tom's name instead, my brother-
in-law, Tom Whitley's. Those Cedulas went up another
eighth yesterday. Well hit again: I'm always lucky.
And that was a good thing I put you on last week, too,
wasn't it? Did you sell out to-day? They're up at
96, and you bought in at 80."
"No, I didn't sell to-day," Guy answered, with a
yawn. "I'm holding on still for a further rise. I
thought I'd sell out when they reached the even
hundred."


128 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai-. xiv.
"My dear fellow, you're wrong," Nevitt put in
eagerly. "You ought to have sold to-day. It's the
top of the market. They'll begin to decline soon, and
when once they begin they'll come down with a crash,
as P.L.'s did on Saturday. You take my advice and
sell out first thing to-morrow morning. You'll clear
sixteen pounds on each of your shares. That's enough
for any man. You bought ten shares, I think, didn't
you? Well, there you are, you see; a hundred and
sixty off-hand for you on your bargain."
Guy paused and reflected a doubtful moment. "Yes,
I'll sell out to-morrow, Nevitt," he said, after a struggle,
"or what comes to the same thing, you can sell out
for me. But, do you know, my dear fellow, I some-
times fancy I'm a fool for my pains, going in for all
this silly speculation. Better stick to my guinea a
column in the Morning Mail. The risks are so great,
and the gains so small. I don't believe outsiders ought
to back their luck at all like this on the Stock
Exchange."
Montague Nevitt acquiesced with cheerful prompti-
tude. "I agree with you down to the ground," he said,
lighting a cigarette, and puffing away at it vigorously.
"Outsiders ought not to back their luck on the Stock
Exchange. That, I take it, is a self-evident proposition.
But the point is, here, that you're not an outsider; and
you don't back your luck, which alters the case, you'll
admit, somewhat. You embark on speculations on my
advice only, and I'm in a position to judge, as well as


OHAP. XIv.]
129
MUSIC HATH POWER.
any other expert in the City of London, what things
are genuine and what things are not worth a wise man's
attention."
He stretched himself on the sofa with a lazy,
luxurious air, and continued to puff away in silence at
his cigarette for another ten minutes. Then he drew
unostentatiously from his pocket a folded sheet of
foolscap paper, printed after the fashion of the common
company prospectus. For a second or two he read it
over to himself in silence, till Guy's curiosity was
sufficiently roused by his mute proceeding.
"What have you got there?" the journalist asked
at last, eyeing it inquiringly, as the fly eyes the
cobweb.
"Oh, nothing," Nevitt answered, folding the paper
up neatly and returning it to his pocket. "You've
sworn off now, so it does not concern you. Just the
prospectus of a little fresh thing coming out next week
—a very exceptional chance—but you don't want to
go in for it. I mean to apply for three hundred shares
myself, I'm so certain of its success; and I had thought
of advising you to take a hundred and fifty on your
own account as well, with that hundred and fifty you
cleared over the Cordova Cattle bonds. They're ten-
pound shares, at a merely nominal price—ten bob on
application and ten on allotment—so you could take a
hundred and fifty as easy as look at it. No further
calls will ever be made. It's really a most remarkable
investment."


130
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai\ xiv.
r. "Let me see the prospectus," Guy murmured, falter-
ing, the fever of speculation once more getting the
better of him.
. Nevitt pretended to hang back like a man with fine
scruples. "It's the Eio Negro Diamond and Sapphire
Mine, Limited," he said, with a deprecatory air. "But
you'd better not go in for it. I expect to make a pot
out of the thing myself. It's a unique occasion. Still,
no doubt you're right, and I don't like the responsibility
of advising any other fellow. Though you can see for
yourself what the promoters say. Very first-class
names. And Klink thinks most highly of it."
He handed Guy the paper/and took up his violin as
if by pure accident, while Guy scanned it closely.
The journalist bent over the prospectus with eager
eyes, and Nevitt poured forth strange music as he read,
music like the murmur of the stream of Pactolus. It
was. an inspiring strain; the violin seemed to possess
the true Midas touch; gold flowed like water in liquid
rills from its catgut. Guy finished, and rose, and dipped
a pen in the ink-pot. "All right," he said low, half
hesitating still. "I'll give you an order to sell out at
once, and I'll fill up this application for three hundred
shares—why not three hundred? I may as well go as
many as you do. If it's really such a good thing as
you say, why shouldn't I profit by it? Send this to
, Klink to-morrow early; strike while the iron's hot,
and get the thing finished."
Nevitt looked at the paper with an attentive eye.


OUAP. XIv.]
131
MUSIC HATH POWER.
"How curious it is," he said, regarding the signature
narrowly, "that you and Cyril, who are so much alike
in everything else, should write so differently. I should
have expected your hands to be almost identical."
"Oh, don't you know why that is?" Guy answered,
with an innocent smile. "I do it on purpose. Cyril
writes sloping forward, the ordinary way, so I slope
backward just to prevent confusion. And I form all
my letters as unlike his as I can, though if I follow my
own bent they turn out the same; his way is more
natural to me, in fact, than the way I write myself.
But I must do something to keep our letters apart.
That's why we always bank at a different banker's. If
I liked I could write exactly like Cyril. See, here's
his own signature to his letter this morning, and here's
my imitation of it, written off-hand, in my own natural
manner. No forger on earth could ever need anything
more absolutely identical."
Montague Nevitt took it up, and examined it with
interest. "Well, this is wonderful," he said, comparing
the two, stroke for stroke, with the practised eye of an
expert. "The signatures are as if written by the self-
same hand. Any cashier in England would accept
your cheque at sight for Cyril's."
He didn't add aloud that such similarity was very
convenient. But, none the less, in his own mind he
thought so.


132
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xv.
CHAPTER XV.
THE PATH OF DUT Y.
Down at Tilgate, meanwhile, Elma Clifford had met
more than once with Cyril Waring at friends' houses
around, for ever since the accident, Society had made
up its mind that Elma ought to marry her companion
in the tunnel; and, when Society once makes up its
mind on a question of this sort, why, it does its level
best in the long run to insure the fulfilment of its own
prediction.
Wherever Elma had met her painter, however, during
those few short weeks, she had seen him only before
the quizzing eyes of all the world; and though she
admitted to herself that she liked him very much, she
was nevertheless so thoroughly frightened by her own
performance after the Holkers' party that she almost
avoided him, in spite of officious friends—partly, it is
true, from a pure feeling of maidenly shame, but partly
also from a deeper-seated and profoundly moral belief
• that with this fierce mad taint upon her as she naturally
thought, it would be nothing short of wrong in her
even to marry. She couldn't meet Cyril now without
thinking at once of that irresistible impulse which had


CHAP. XV.]
133
THE PATH OF DUTY.
seized her by the throat, as it were, and bent her to
its wild will in her own room after their interview at
the Holkers'; and the thought did far more than bring
a deep blush into her rich brown cheek—it made her
feel most acutely she must never dream of burdening
him with that terrible uncertainty and all it might
enclose in it of sinister import.
For Elma felt sure she was mad that night. And,
if so, oh, how could she poison Cyril Waring's life with
so unspeakable an inheritance for himself and his
children?
She didn't know, what any psychologist might at
once have told her, that no one with the fatal taint of
madness in her blood could ever even have thought
of that righteous self-denial. Such scruples have no
place in the selfish insane temperament; they belong
only to the highest and purest types of moral nature.
One morning, however, a few weeks later, Elma had
strolled off by herself into Chetwood Forest, without
any intention of going anywhere in particular, save for
a solitary walk, when suddenly, a turn round the corner
of a devious path brought her face to face all at once
with a piece of white canvas, stretched opposite her
on an easel; at the other side of which, to her profound
dismay, an artist in a grey tweed suit was busily
working.
The artist, as it happened, didn't see her at once,
for the canvas stretched between them, shutting her
out from his eyes, and Elma's light footstep on the


134
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xv.
mossy ground hadn't aroused his attention. So the
girl's first impulse was to retrace her way unobtrusively
without exchanging a word, and retire round the
corner again before Cyril could recognise her. But
somehow, when she came to try, she couldn't. Her
feet refused point blank to obey her will. And this
time, in her own heart, she knew very well why. For
there in the background, coiled up against the dense
wall of rock and fern, Sardanapalus lay knotted in
sleepy folds, with his great ringed back shining blue
in the sunlight that struggled in round patches through
the shimmering foliage. More consciously now than
even in the train, the beautiful deadly creature seemed
to fascinate Elma and bind her to the spot. For a
moment she hesitated, unable to resist the strange,
inexplicable attraction that ran in her blood. That
brief interval settled it. Even as she paused, Cyril
glanced round at the snake to note the passing effect
of a gleam of light that fell slantwise through the
leaves to dapple his spotty back—and caught sight
of Elma. The poor' girl gave a start. It was too late
now to retreat. She stood there rooted.
Cyril moved forward to meet her with a frankly
outstretched hand. "Good morning, Miss Clifford," he
said, in his cheery manly voice. "So you've dropped
down by accident upon my lair here, have you? Well,
I'm glad you've happened to pass by to-day, for this,
do you know, is my very last morning. I'm putting
the finishing touches upon my picture now before I


CHAP. Xv.]
135
THE PATH OP DUTY,
take it back to town. I go away to-morrow, perhaps
to North Wales, perhaps to Scotland."
Elma trembled a little at those words, in spite of
resolution; for though she could never, never, never
marry him, it was nice, of course, to feel he was near
at hand, and to have the chance of seeing him, and
avoiding him as far as possible, on other people's lawns
at garden parties. She trembled and turned pale. She
could never marry him, to be sure; but then she could
never marry any one else either; and that being so, she
liked to see him now and again,- on neutral ground,
as it were, and to know he was somewhere that she
could meet him occasionally. Wales and Scotland are
so distant from Surrey. Elma showed in her face at
once that she thought them both unpleasantly remote
from Craighton, Tilgate.
With timid and shrinking steps, she came in front
of the picture, and gazed at it in detail long and atten-
tively. Never before did she know how fond she was
of art.
"It's beautiful," she said, after a pause; "I like it
immensely. That moss is so soft, and the ferns are
so delicate. And how lovely that patch of rich golden
light is on Sardanapalus's shoulder."
The painter stepped back a pace or two and ex-
amined his own handicraft, with his head on one side,
in a very critical attitude. "I don't know that I'm
quite satisfied after all with the colour-scheme," he
said, glancing askance at Elma. "I fancy it's, perhaps,


138
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. it.
just a trifle too green. It looks all right, of course,
out here in the open; but the question is, when it's
hung in the Academy, surrounded by warm reds, and
purples, and blues, won't it look by comparison much
too cabbagey and too grassy?"
Elma drew a deep breath.
"Oh, Mr. Waring," she cried, in a deprecating tone,
holding her breath for awe.
It pained her that anybody—even Cyril himself—
should speak so lightly about so beautiful a picture.
"Then you like it?" Cyril asked, turning round to
her full face and fronting her as she stood there, all
beautiful blushes through her creamy white skin.
"Like it? I love it," Elma answered enthusiasti-
cally. "Apart from its being yours, I think it simply
beautiful."
"And you like me, too, then?" the painter asked,
once more, making a sudden dash at the question that
was nearest to both their hearts, after all, that moment.
He was going away to-morrow, and this was a last
opportunity. Who could tell how soon somebody
might come up through the woods and interrupt their
interview? He must make the best use of his time.
He must make haste to ask her.
Elma let her eyes drop, and her heart beat hard.
She laid her hand upon the easel to steady herself as
she answered slowly, "You know I like you, Mr.
Waring; I like you very, very much indeed. You
were so kind to me in the tunnel. And I felt your


oHAt. XV.]
137
THE PATH OF DUTY.
kindness. You could see that day I was—very, very
grateful to you."
"When I asked you if you liked my picture, Elma,"
the young man said reproachfully, taking her other
hand in his, and looking straight into her eyes, "you
said,' Like it? I love it.' But when I ask you if you
like me—ask you if you will take me—you only say
you're very, very grateful."
Elma let him take her hand, all trembling, in his.
She let him call her by her name. She let him lean
forward and gaze at her, lover-like. Her heart throbbed
high. She couldn't refuse him. She knew she loved
him. But to marry him—oh no. That was quite
another thing. There duty interposed. It would be
cruel, unworthy, disgraceful, wicked.
She drew herself back a little with maidenly dignity,
as she answered low, "Mr. Waring, we two saw into
one another's hearts so deep in the tunnel that day we
spent together, that it would be foolish for us now to
make false barriers between us. I'll tell you the plain
truth." She trembled like an aspen-leaf. "I love
you, I think; but I can never marry you."
She said it so simply, yet with such an earnestness of
despair, that Cyril knew with a pang she really meant it.
"Why not?" he cried eagerly, raising her hand to
his lips, and kissing it with fervour. "If you tell me
you love me, Elma, all the rest must come. Say that,
and you say all. So long as I've gained your heart, I
don't care for anything."


138
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xv.
Elma drew her hand away with stately reserve. "I
mean it, Mr. Waring," she said slowly, sitting down
on the bank, and gasping a little for air, just as she
had done in the tunnel. "I really mean it. I liked
you in the train that day; 'I was grateful to you in the
accident; I knew I loved you the afternoon we met at
the Holkers'. There, I've told you that plainly—more
plainly than I thought I ever could tell it to any man
on earth—because we knew one another so well when
we thought we were dying side by side, and because—
because I can see you really love me. . . . Well, it
can never be. I can never marry you."
She gazed at him wistfully. Cyril sat down by her
side, and talked it all over with her from a hundred
points of view. He pressed his suit hard, till Elma
felt, if words could win, her painter would have won
her. 'But she couldn't yield, she said for his sake a
thousand times more than for her own, she must never
marry. As the man grew more earnest the girl in
turn grew more frank and confiding. She could never
marry him, to be sure, she said fervently, but then she
could never, never, never marry any one else. If she
married at all she would marry Cyril. He took her
hand again. Without one shadow of resistance she let
him take it and hold it. Yes, yes, he might love her,
if he liked, no harm at all in that; and she, she would
always, always love him. All her life through, she
cried, letting her passionate southern nature get the
better of her at last, she would love him every hour


chap, xv.] THE PATH OF DUTY. 139
of every day in the year, and love him only. But she
could never marry him. Why, she must never say.
It was no use his trying to read her secret. He must
never find it out; never, never, never. But she, for
her part, could never forget it.
So Cyril, eagerly pressing his suit with every art he
knew, was forced in the end to content himself with
that scanty measure. She would love him, she would
write to him, even; but she would never marry him.
At last the time came when they must really part,
or she would be late for lunch, and mamma would
know all; mamma would read everything. He looked
her wistfully in the face. Elma held out her lips,
obedient to that mute demand, with remorseful blush
of maidenly shame on her cheek. "Only once," she
murmured. "Just to seal our compact. For the first
and last time. You go away to-morrow."
"That was before you said you loved me," Cyril cried
with delight, emboldened by success. "Mayn't I stay
on now, just one little week longer?"
At the proposal, Elma drew back her face in haste
before he had time to kiss it, and answered, in a very
serious voice—
"Oh no, don't ask me. After this, I daren't stand
the strain of seeing you again—at least not just now—
not so very, very soon. Please, please, don't ask me.
Go to-morrow, as you said. If you don't, I can't let
you," she blushed, and held out her blushing face once
more. "Only if you promise me to go to-morrow,


140 WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap, St.
mind," she said, with a half-coquettish, half-tearful
smile at him. k
Cyril hesitated for a second. He was inclined to
temporize. "Those are very hard terms," he said.
Then impulse proved too much for him. He bent
forward, and pressed his lips just once on that olive-
brown cheek. "But I may come back again very
soon," he murmured, pushing home his advantage.
Elma seized his hand in hers, wrung it hard and
tremulously, and then turned and ran like a frightened
fawn, without pausing to look back, down the path
homeward. Yet she whispered one broken sentence
through her tears, for all that, before she went.
"I shall love you always; but spare me, spare me."
And Cyril was left behind by himself in the wood,
completely mystified.


( 141 )
CHAPTER XVI.
STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.
Elma hurried home full of intense misgivings. She
dreaded having to meet her mother's eye. How on
earth could she hide from that searching glance the
whole truth as to what had happened in the wood
that morning? When she reached home, however, she
learned to her relief, from the maid who opened the
door to her, that their neighbour, Mr. Gilbert Gilder-
sleeve, the distinguished Q.C., had dropped in for lunch,
and this chance diversion supplied Elma with a little
fresh courage to face the inevitable. She went straight
up to her own room the moment she entered the
house, without seeing her mother, and there she
waited, bathing her face copiously till , some minutes
after the lunch bell had rung. For she felt sure she
would blush crimson when she met her mother; but
as she blushed habitually when strangers came in, the
cause of it might thus, perhaps, she vainly flattered
herself, escape even those lynx-like eyes of Mrs.
Clifford's.
The great Q.C., a big, overbearing man, with a pair
of huge burly hands that somehow seemed to form his


142
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [uhap, xvi.
chief feature, was a little bit blustering in his talk, as
usual; the more so because he had just learned in-
cidentally that something had gone wrong between
his daughter Gwendoline and Granville Kelmscott.
For though that little episode of private wooing had
run its course nominally without the knowledge or
consent of either family, Mr. Gilbert Gildersleeve, at
least, had none the less been aware for many weeks
past of the frequent meetings between Gwendoline
and Granville in the dell just beyond the disputed
boundary line. And as Mr. Gildersleeve disliked
Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate Park, for a pig-headed
esquire, almost as cordially as Colonel Kelmscott dis-
liked Mr. Gildersleeve in return for a rascally lawyer,
it had given the great Q.C. no little secret satisfaction
in his own soul to learn that his daughter Gwendoline
was likely to marry the Colonel's son and heir, directly
against the wishes and consent of his father.
Only that very morning, however, poor Mrs. Gilder-
sleeve, that tired, crushed wife, had imparted to her
lord and master, in fear and trembling, the unpleasant
intelligence that, so far as she could make out, there
was something wrong between Granville and Gwen-
doline. And this something wrong she ventured to
suggest was no mere lover's tiff of the ordinary kiss-
and-make-it-up description, but a really serious diffi-
culty in the way of their marriage. So Mr. Gilder-
sleeve, thus suddenly deprived of his expected triumph,
took it out another way by more than even his wonted


chap. xvl] STRUGGLE AND VICTOEY.
143
boisterousness of manner in talking about the fortunes
of the Kelmscott family.
".I fancy, myself, you know, Mrs. Clifford," he was
saying, very loud, as Elma entered, "there's a screw
loose just now in the Kelmscott affairs—something
rotten somewhere in the state of Denmark. That
young fellow, Granville, who's by no means such a bad
lot as his father all round—too good for the family, in
fact; too good for the family—Granville's been accus-
tomed of late to come over into my grounds, beyond
the boundary wall, and being anxious above all things
to cultivate friendly relations with all my neighbours
in the county, I've allowed him to come—I've allowed
him, and I may even say to a certain extent I've en-
couraged him. There at times he's met by accident
my daughter Gwendoline. Oh, dear no "—with uplifted
hand, and deprecating lips—" I assure you, nothing of
that sort, my dear Mrs. Clifford. Gwendoline's far too
young, and I couldn't dream of allowing her to marry
into Colonel Kelmscott's family. But, however, be that
as it may, he's been in the habit of coming there, till
very recently, when all of a sudden, only a week or ten
days back, to my immense surprise he ceased at once,
and ever since has dropped into the defensive, exactly
as he used to do. And I interpret it to mean"
Elma heard no more of that pompous speech. Her
knees shook under her. For she was aware only of
Mrs. Clifford's eyes, fixed mildly and calmly upon her
face, not in anger, as she feared, or reproach, but rather


144
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONK. [chap. xvi.
in infinite pity. For a second their glances met in
mute intercourse of soul, then each dropped their eye-
lashes as suddenly as before. Through the rest of that
lunch Elma sat as in a maze, hearing and seeing nothing.
What she ate, or drank, or talked about, she knew not.
Mr. Gildersleeve's pungent and embellished anecdotes
of the Kelmscott family and their unneighbourly pride
went in at one ear and out at the other. All she was
conscious of was her mother's sympathetic yet unerring
eye; she felt sure that at one glance that wonderful
thought-reader had divined everything, and seen through
and through their interview that morning.
After lunch, the two men strolled upon the lawn to
enjoy their cigars, and Elma and her mother were left
alone in the drawing-room.
For some minutes neither could make up her mind
to break the ice and speak. They sat shame-faced
beside one another on the sofa, like a pair of shy and
frightened maidens. At last Mrs. Clifford braced her-
self up to interrupt the awkward silence. "You've
been in Chetwood Forest, Elma," she murmured low,
looking down and averting her eyes carefully from her
trembling daughter.
"Yes, mother," Elma answered, all aglow with
conscious blushes. "In Chetwood Forest."
"And you met him, dear?" The mother spoke
tenderly and sympathetically.
Elma's heart stood still. "Yes, mother, I met him."
"And he had the snake there?"


chap, xvi.] STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.
145
Elma started in surprise. Why dwell upon that seem-
ingly unimportant detail ?" Oh yes," she answered,
still redder and hotter than ever. "He had it there.
He was painting it."
Mrs. Clifford paused a minute. Then she went on,
with pain. "And he asked you, Elma?"
Elma bowed her head. "Yes, he asked me—and I
refused him," she answered, with a terrible wrench.
"Oh, darling; I know it," Mrs. Clifford cried, seizing
both cold hands in hers. "And I know why, too.
But, Elma, believe me, you needn't have done it. My
daughter, my daughter, you might just as well have
taken him."
"No, never," Elma cried, rising from her seat and
moving towards the door in an agony of shame. "I
couldn't. I daren't. It would be wrong. It would
be cruel. But, mother, don't speak to me of it. Don't
mention it again. Even before you it makes me more
wretched and ashamed than I can say to allude to it."
She rushed from the room, with cheeks burning like
fire. Come what might, she never could talk to any
living soul again about that awful episode.
But Mrs. Clifford sat on, on the sofa where Elma left
her, and cried to herself silently, silently, silently.
What a mother should do in these hateful circumstances
she could hardly even guess. She only knew she could
never speak it out, and even if she did, Elma would
never have the courage or the heart to listen to her.
That same evening, when Elma went up to bed, a
L


146
WHAT'S 6RED IN THE BONE. tohaP. xvt.
strange longing came across her to sit up late, and think
over to herself again all the painful details of the
morning's interview. She seated herself by her bedside
in her evening dress, and began to think it all out again,
exactly as it happened. As she did so, the picture of
Sardanapalus, on his bed of fern, came up clear in her
mind, just as he lay coiled round in Cyril Waring's
landscape. Beautiful Sardanapalus, so sleek and smooth
and glossy, if only she had him here now—she paused
and hesitated. In a moment, the wild impulse rushed
upon her once more. It clutched her by the throat; it
held her fast as in a vice. She must get up and dance;
she must obey the mandate; she must whirl till she
fell in that mystical ecstasy.
She rose, and seemed for a moment as though she
must yield to the temptation. The boa—the boa was
in the lower drawer. Eeluctantly, remorsefully, she
opened the drawer and took it out in her hands. Fluff
and feathers, fluff and feathers—nothing more than
that! But oh, how soft, how smooth, how yielding,
how serpentine! With a violent effort she steadied
herself, and looked round for her scissors. They lay on
the dressing-table. She took them up with a fixed and
determined air. "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it
off," she thought to herself. Then she began ruthlessly
hacking the boa into short little lengths of a few inches
each, which she gathered up in her hands as soon as she
had finished, and replaced with care in the drawer where
she had originally found them.


chap. xvi.] STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.
147
After that her mind felt somewhat more at ease and
a trifle less turbulent. She loved Cyril Waring—oh
yes, she loved him with all her heart; it was hard to
give him up; hard not to yield to that pressing impulse
in such a moment of doubt and despondency. The boa
had said to her, as it were, "Come, dance, go mad, and
forget your trouble!" But she had resisted the tempta-
tion. And now—
Why, now, she would undress, and creep into bed,
like any other good English girl under similar circum-
stances, and cry herself asleep with thoughts of Cyril.
And so she did in truth. She let her emotion take
its natural outlet. She lay awake for an hour or two,
till her eyes were red and sore and swollen. Then at
last she dropped off, for very weariness, and slept
soundly an unbroken sleep till morning.
At eight o'clock, Mrs. Clifford knocked her tentative
little knock at the door. "Come in, mother," Elma
cried, starting up in her surprise; and her mother, much
wondering, turned the handle and entered.
When she reached the bed, she gave a little cry of
amazement. "Why, Elma," she exclaimed, staring her
hard and long in the face; "my darling, what's this?
Your eyes are red! How strange! You've been
crying!"
"Yes, mother," Elma answered, turning her face to
the wall, but a thousand times less ashamed than she
had been the day before when her mother spoke to her.
"I couldn't help it, dearest." She took that soft white


148 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xvl.
hand in hers and pressed it hard in silence. "It's no
wonder, you -know," she said at last, after a long deep
pause. "He's going away from Chetwood to-day—
and it was so very, very hard to say good-bye to him
for ever."
"Oh yes, I know, darling," Mrs. Clifford answered,
eyeing her harder than ever now. with a half-incredulous
look. "I know all that. But—you've had a good night
in spite of everything, Elma."
Elma guessed what she meant. They two could
converse together quite plainly without words. "Well,
yes, a better night," she answered, hesitating, and
shutting her eyes under the bed-clothes for very shame.
"A little disturbed—don't you know—just at first; but
I had a good cry very soon, and then that mended
everything."
t Her mother still looked at her, half doubting and
half delighted. "A good cry's the right thing," she
said slowly, in a very low voice. "The exact right
thing, perfectly proper and normal. A good cry never
did any girl on this earth one atom of harm. It's the
best safety-valve. You're lucky, Elma, my child, in
being able to get one."
"Yes, dear," Elma. answered, with her head still
buried. "Very lucky indeed. So I think, too, mother."
Mrs. Clifford's eye fell aimlessly upon certain tiny
bits of feathery fluff that flecked the floor here and
there like floating fragments of thistledown. In a
second, her keen instinct divined what they meant.


ciiap. xvi.] STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.
149
Without one word she rose silently and noiselessly, and
opened the lower drawer, where the boa usually reposed
among the furs and feathers. One glimpse of those
mangled morsels showed her the truth at a glance. She
shut the drawer again noiselessly and silently as she
had opened it. But Elma, lying still with her eyes
closed tight, yet knew perfectly well how her mother
had been occupied.
Mrs. Clifford came back, and, stooping over her
daughter's bed, kissed her forehead tenderly. "Elma,
darling," she said, while a hot tear or two fell silently
upon the girl's burning cheek, "you're very, very
brave. I'm so pleased with you, so proud of you! I
couldn't have done it myself. You're stronger-minded
than I am. My child, he kissed you for good-bye
yesterday. You needn't say yes, you needn't say no.
I read it in your face. No need for you to tell me of
it. Well, darling, it wasn't good-bye after all, I'm
certain of that. Believe me, my child, he'll come back
some day, and you'll know you can marry him."
"Never!" Elma cried, hiding her face still more
passionately and wildly than before beneath great folds
of the bed-clothes. "Don't speak to me of him any
more, mother! Never! Never! Never!"


150
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [ciur. xvn.
CHAPTEE XVII.
VISIONS OF WEALTH.
Cybil Waring, thus dismissed, and as in honour
bound, hurried up to London with a mind preoccupied
by many pressing doubts and misgivings. He thought
much of Elma, but he thought much, too, of sundry
strange events that had happened of late to his own
private fortunes. For one thing he had sold, and sold
mysteriously, at a very good price, the picture of
Sardanapalus in the glade at Chetwpod. A well-known
London dealer had written down to him at Tilgate
making an excellent offer for the unfinished work, as
soon as it should be ready, on behalf of a customer
whose name he didn't happen to mention. And who
could that customer be, Cyril thought to himself, but
Colonel Kelmscott? But that wasn't all. The dealer
who had offered him a round sum down for " The Rajah's
Rest" had also at the same time commissioned him to
go over to the Belgian Ardennes to paint a picture or
two, at a specified price, of certain selected scenes upon
the Meuse and its tributaries. The price offered for the
work was a very respectable one, and yet—he had some
internal misgivings, somehow, about this mysterious


CHAP. XVII.]
151
VISION'S OF WEALTH.
commission. Could it be to get rid of him? He had
an uncomfortable suspicion in the back chambers of his
mind, that whoever had commissioned the pictures
might be more anxious to send him well away from
Tilgate than to possess a series of picturesque sketches
on the Meuse and its tributaries.
And who could have an interest in keeping him far
from Tilgate? That was the question. Was there any-
body whom his presence there could in any way incom-
mode? Could it be Elma's father who wanted to send
him so quickly away from England?
And what was the meaning of Elma's profound
resolution, so strangely and strongly expressed, never,
never to marry him?
A painful idea flitted across the young man's puzzled
brain. Had the Cliffords alone discovered the secret of
his birth ? and was that secret of such a disgraceful sort
that Elma's father shrank from owning him as a pros-
pective son-in-law, while even Elma herself could not
bring herself to accept him as her future husband? If
so, what could that ghastly secret be? Were he and
Guy the inheritors of some deadly crime? Had their
origin been concealed from them, more in mercy than
in cruelty, only lest some hideous taint of murder or of
madness might mar their future and make their whole
lives miserable?
When he reached Staple Inn, he found Guy and
Montague Nevitt already in their joint rooms, and
arrears of three days' correspondence awaiting him,


152
WHAT'S BRKD IN THE BONE. [chap, xviii-
A close observer—like Elma Clifford—might perhaps
have noted in Montague Nevitt's eye certain well-
restrained symptoms of suppressed curiosity. But Cyril
Waring, in his straightforward, simple English manli-
ness, was not sharp enough to perceive that Nevitt
watched him close while he broke the envelopes and
glanced over his letters; or that Nevitt's keen anxiety
grew at once far deeper and more carefully concealed as
Cyril turned to one big missive with an official-looking
seal and a distinctly important legal aspect. On the
contrary, to the outer eye or ear all that could be
observed in Montague Nevitt's manner was the nervous
way he went on tightening his violin strings with a
tremulous hand and whistling low to himself a few soft
and tender bars of some melancholy scrap from Miss
Ewes's refectory.
As Cyril road through that letter, however, his breath
came and went in short little gasps, and his cheek
flushed hotly with a sudden and overpowering flood of
emotion.
"What's the matter?" Guy asked, looking over his
shoulder curiously. And Cyril, almost faint with the
innumerable ideas and suspicions that the tidings
conjured up in his brain at once, said with an evident
effort, " Eead it, Guy; read it."
Guy took the letter and read, Montague Nevitt
gazing at it by his side meanwhile with profound
interest.
As soon as they had glanced through its carefully-


chap, xvii.] VISIONS OF WEALTH.
153
worded sentences, each drew a long breath and stared
hard at the other. Then Cyril added in a whirl, "And
here's a letter from my own bankers saying they've
duly received the six thousand pounds and put it to my
credit."
Guy's face was pale, but he faltered out none the less
with ashy lips, staring hard at the words all the time,
"It isn't only the money, of course, one thinks about,
Cyril; but the clue it seems to promise us to our father
and mother."
"Exactly," Cyril answered, with a responsive nod.
"The money I won't take. I don't know what it means.
But' the clue I'll follow up till I've run to earth the
whole truth about who we are and where we come from."
Montague Nevitt glanced quickly from one to the
other with an incredulous air. "Not take the money,"
he exclaimed, in cynical surprise. "Why, of course
you'll take it. Twelve thousand pounds isn't to be
sneezed at: in these days, I can tell you. And as for
the clue, why, there isn't any clue. Not a jot or a tittle,
a ghost or a shadow of it. The unnatural parent, who-
ever he may be—for I take it for granted the unnatural
parent's the person at the bottom of the offer—takes
jolly good care not to let you know who on earth he is.
He wraps himself up in a double cloak of mystery.
Drummonds pay in the money to your account at your
own bank, you see, and while they're authorized to
receive your acknowledgment of the sum remitted,
they are clearly not authorized to receive to the sender's


151
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [cuai-. xvii.
credit any return cheque for the amount or cash in
repayment. The unnatural parent evidently intends to
remain, for the present at least, strictly anonymous.
"Couldn't you find out for us at Drummond, Coutts
and Barclay's who the sender is?" Guy asked, with
some hesitation, still turning over in his hand the
mysterious letter.
Nevitt shook his head with prompt decision. "No,
certainly not," he answered, assuming an air of the
severest probity. "It would be absolutely impossible.
The secrets in a bank are secrets of honour. We are
the depositaries of tales that might ruin thousands, and
we never say a word about one of them to anybody."
As for Cyril, he felt himself almost too astonished for
words. It was long before he could even discuss the
matter quietly. The whole episode seemed so strange,
so mysterious, so uncanny. And no wonder he hesitated.
For the unknown writer of the letter with the legal seal
had proposed a most curious and unsatisfactory arrange-
ment. Six thousand pounds down on the nail to Cyril,
six thousand more in a few weeks to Guy. But not for
nothing. As in all law business, " valuable considera-
tion" loomed large in the background. They were both
to repair, on a given day, at a given hour, to a given
office, in a given street, where they were to sign with-
out inquiry, and even without perusal, whatever docu-
ments might then and there be presented to them. This
course, the writer pointed out, with perspicuous plain-
ness, was all in the end to their own greater advantage.


eiiAp. xvii.]
155
VISIONS OF WEALTH.
For unless they signed, they would get nothing more,
and it would be useless for them at attempt the unravel-
ling of the mystery. But if they consented to sign,
then, the writer declared, the anonymous benefactor at
whose instigation he wrote would leave them by his
will a further substantial sum, not one penny of which
would ever otherwise come to them.
And Montague Nevitt, as a man of business, looking
the facts in the face, without sentiment or nonsense,
advised them to sign, and make the best of a good
bargain.
For Montague Nevitt saw at once in his own mind
that this course would prove the most useful in the end
for his own interests, both as regards the Warings and
Colonel Kelmscott.
The two persons most concerned, however, viewed
the matter in a very different light. To them, this
letter, with its obscure half-hints, opened up a chance
of solving at last the mystery of their position which
had so long oppressed them. They might now perhaps
find out who they really were, if only they could follow
up this pregnant clue; and the clue itself suggested so
many things.
"Whatever else it shows," Guy said emphatically,
"it shows we must be the lawful sons of some person
of property, or else why should he want us to sign away
our rights like this, all blindfold? And whatever
the rights themselves may be, they must be very con-
siderable, or else why should he bribe us so heavily to


156
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai\ xvii.
sign ourselves out of them? Depend upon it, Nevitt,
it's an entailed estate, and the man who dictated that
letter is in possession of the property, which ought to
belong to Cyril and me. For my part, I'm opposed to
all bargaining in the dark. I'll sign nothing, and I'll
give away nothing, without knowing what it is. And
that's what I advise Cyril to write back and tell him."
Cyril, however, was revolving in his own mind mean-
while a still more painful question. Could it be any
blood-relationship between himself and Elma, unknown
to him, but just made known to her, that gave rise to
her firm and obviously recent determination never to
marry him? A week or two since, he was sure, Elma
knew of no cause or just impediment why they should
not be joined together in holy matrimony. Could she
have learned it meanwhile, before she met him in the
wood? and could the fact of her so learning it have
thus pricked the slumbering conscience of their un-
known kinsman or their supposed supplanter?
They sat there long and late, discussing the question
from all possible standpoints—save the one thus silently
started in his own mind by Cyril. But, in the end,
Cyril's resolution remained unshaken. He would leave
the six thousand pounds in the bank, untouched; but
he would write back at once to the unknown sender,
declining plainly, once for all, to have anything to do
with it or with the proposed transactions. If anything
was his by right, he would take it as of right, but he
would be no party to such hole-and-corner renuncia-


cHAf. xvii.] Visions of Wealth. 157
tions of unknown contingencies as the writer suggested.
If the writer was willing to state at once all the facts
of the case, in clear and succinct language, and to come
to terms thus openly with himself and his brother, why
then, Cyril averred, he was ready to promise they would
deal with his claims in a spirit of the utmost generosity
and consideration. But if this was an attempt to do
them out of their rights by a fraudulent bribe, he for
one would have nothing to say to it. He would there-
fore hold the six thousand pounds paid in to his account
entirely at his anonymous correspondent's disposition.
"And as there isn't any use in my wasting the
summer, Guy," he said, in conclusion, " I won't let this
red-herring, trailed across my path, prevent me from
going over at once, as I originally intended, to Dinant
and Spa, and fulfilling the commission for those pictures
of Dale and Norton's. You and Nevitt can see mean-
while what it's possible for us to do in the matter of
hunting up this family mystery. You can telegraph if
you want me, and I'll come back at once. But more
than ever now I feel the need of redeeming the time
and working as hard as I can go at my profession."
"Well, yes," Guy answered, as if both their thoughts
ran naturally in the self-same channel. "I agree with
you there. She's been accustomed to luxury. No man
has a right to marry any girl if he can't provide for her
in the comfort and style she's always been used to.
And from that point of view, when one looks it in the
face, Cyril, six thousand pounds would come in handy."


158
WHAT'S BRED IN tHE fcONE. [ciuf, ittnti
CHAPTER XVIII.
GENTLE WOOER.
Mr. Montague Nevitt rubbed his hands with delight
in the sacred privacy of his own apartment. Mr. Nevitt,
indeed, had laid his plans deep. He had everybody's
secrets all round in his hands, and he meant to make
everybody pay dear in the end for his information.
Mr. Nevitt was free. His holidays were on at Drum-
mond, Coutts and Barclay's, Limited. He loved the
sea, the sun, and the summer. He was off that day on
a projected series of short country runs, in which it was
his intention strictly to combine business and pleasure.
Dartmoor, for example, as everybody knows, is a most
delightful and bracing tourist district; but what more
amusing to a man of taste than to go a round of the
Moor with its heather-clad tors, and at the same time
hunt up the parish registers of the neighbourhood for
the purpose of discovering, if possible, the supposed
marriage record of Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate with
the Warings' mother? For that there was a marriage
Montague Nevitt felt certain in his own wise mind, and
having early arrived at that correct conclusion, why,
he had quietly offered forthwith, in Plymouth papers, a


rfiAt. xviit.] GENTLE WOOER.
159
considerable reward to parish clerks and others who
would supply him with any information as to the
births, marriages, or deaths of any person or persons of
the name of Waring for some eighteen months or so
before or after the reputed date when Guy and Cyril
began their earthly pilgrimage.
For deaths, Nevitt said to himself, with a sinister
smile, were every bit as important to him as births or
marriages. He knew the date of Colonel Kelmscott's
wedding with Lady Emily Croke, and if at that date
wife number one was no.t yet dead, when the Colonel
took to himself wife number two, who now did the
honours of Tilgate Park for him, why, there you had as
clear and convincing a case of bigamy as any man could
wish to find out against another, and to utilize some
day for his own good purposes.
As he thought these thoughts, Montague Nevitt gave
the last delicate twirl, the final touch of art, to the
wire-like ends of his waxed moustache, in front of his
mirror, and, after surveying the result in the glass with
considerable satisfaction, proceeded to set out, on very
good terms with himself, for his summer holiday.
Devonshire, however, wasn't his first destination.
Montague Nevitt, besides being a man of business and
a man of taste, was also in due season a man of feeling.
A heart beat beneath that white rosebud in his left top
button-hole. All his thoughts were not thoughts of
greed and of gain. He was bound to Tilgate to-day,
and to see a lady.


160
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. rvm.
It isn't so easy in England to see a lady alone. But
fortune favours the brave. Luck always attended Mr.
Montague Nevitt's most unimportant schemes. Hardly
had he got into the field path across the meadows
between Tilgate station and the grounds of Woodlands
than, at the seat by the bend, what should he see but a
lady sitting down in an airy white summer dress, her
head leaning on her hand, most pensive and melan-
choly. Montague Nevitt's heart gave a sudden bound.
In luck once more. It was Gwendoline Gildersleeve.
"Good morning !" he said briskly, coming up before
Gwendoline had time to perceive him—and fly. "This
is really most fortunate. I've run down from town to-
day on purpose to see you, but hardly hoped I should
have the good fortune to get a tete-a-tete with you—at
least so easily. I'm so glad I'm in time. Now, don't
look so cross. You must at any rate admit, you know,
my persistence is flattering."
"I don't feel flattered by it, Mr. Nevitt," Gwendoline
answered coldly, holding out her gloved hand to him
with marked disinclination. "I thought last time I
had said good-bye to you for good and for ever."
Nevitt took her hand, and held it in his own a trifle
longer than was strictly necessary. "Now don't talk
like that, Gwendoline," he said coaxingly. "Don't
crush me quite flat. Eemember at least that you once
were kind to me. It isn't my fault, surely, if / still
recollect it."
Gwendoline withdrew her hand from his with yet


ctup. xviii.] GENTLE WOOER. 161
more evident coolness. "Circumstances alter cases,"
she said severely. "That was before I really knew
you."
"That was before you knew Granville Kelmscott,
you mean," Nevitt responded with an unpleasantly
knowing air. "Oh yes, you needn't wince; I've heard
all about that. It's my business to hear and find out
everything. But circumstances alter cases, as you
justly say, Gwendoline. And I've discovered some
circumstances about Granville Kelmscott that may
alter the case as regards your opinion of that rich
young man, whose estate weighed down a poor fellow
like me in what you've graciously pleased to call your
affections."
Gwendoline rose, and looked down at the man con-
temptuously. "Mr. Nevitt," she said, in a chilling
voice, "you've no 'right to call me Gwendoline any
longer now. You've no right to speak to me of Mr.
Granville Kelmscott. I refused your advances, not
for any one else's sake, or any one else's estate, but
simply and solely because I came to know you better
than I knew you at first; and the more I knew of
you the less I liked you. I am not engaged to Mr.
Granville Kelmscott. I don't mean to see him again.
I don't mean to marry him."
Nevitt took his cue at once, like a clever hand that
he was, and followed it up remorselessly. "Well, I'm
glad to hear that anyhow," he answered, assuming a
careless air of utter unconcern," for your sake as well as
M


162
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xviii.
for his, Miss Gildersleeve; for Granville Kelmscott,
as I happen to know in the course of business, is a
ruined man—a ruined man this moment. He isn't,
and never was, the heir of Tilgate. And I'm sure it
was very honourable of him, the minute he found he
was a penniless beggar, to release you from such an
unequal engagement."
He had played his card well. He had delivered his
shot neatly. Gwendoline, though anxious to withdraw
from his hateful presence, couldn't help but stay and
learn more about this terrible hint of his. A light
broke in upon her even as the fellow spoke. Was it
this, then, that had made Granville talk so strangely
to her that morning by the dell in the Woodlands?
Was it this which, as he told her, rendered their
marriage impossible? Why, if that were all—Gwen-
doline drew a deep breath and clasped her hands
together in a sudden access of mingled hope and
despair. "Oh, what do you mean, Mr. Nevitt," she
cried eagerly. "What can Granville have done?
Don't keep me in suspense! Do tell me what you
mean by it."
Montague Nevitt, still seated, looked up at her with
a smile of quiet satisfaction. He played with her for
a moment as a cat plays with a mouse. She was such a
beautiful creature, so tall and fair and graceful, and
she was so awfully afraid, and he was so awfully fond
of her, that he loved to torture her thus and hold
her dangling in his power. "No, Gwendoline," he


chap. xviiij GENTLE WOOER.
163
said slowly, drawing his words out by driblets, so as
to prolong her suspense, " I oughtn't to have mentioned
it at all. It's a professional secret. I retract what
I said. Forget that I said it. Excuse me on the
ground of my natural reluctance to see a woman I
still love so deeply and so purely—whatever she may
happen to think of me—throw herself away on a man
without a name or a penny. However. as Kelmscott
seems to have done the honourable thing of his own
accord, and given you up the minute he knew he
couldn't keep you in the way you've been accustomed
to—why, there's no need, of course, of any warning
from me. I'll say no more on the subject."
His studied air of mystery piqued and drew on his
victim. Gwendoline knew in her own heart she ought
to go at once; her own dignity demanded it, and she
should consult her dignity. But still, she couldn't
help longing to know what Nevitt's half-hints and
innuendoes might mean. After all, she was a woman!
"Oh, do tell me," ^she cried, clasping her hands in
suspense once more; "what have you heard about
Mr. Kelmscott? I'm not engaged to him; I don't
want to know for that, but "she broke down,
blushing crimson, and Montague Nevitt, gazing fixedly
at her delicate peach-like cheek, remarked to himself
how extremely well that blush became her.
"No, but remember," he said in a very grave voice,
in his favourite impersonation of the man of honour,
"whatever I tell you—if I give way at all and tell you


164 WHAT'S BftED iN THE BONE. [chap. xVtii.
anything—you must hear in confidence, and must
repeat to nobody. If you do repeat it, you'll get me
into very serious trouble. And not only so, but as
nobody knows it except myself, you'll as good as pro-
claim to all the world that you heard it from me. If
I tell you what I know, will you promise me this—
not to breathe a syllable of what I say to anybody?"
Gwendoline, glancing down, and thoroughly ashamed
of herself, yet answered in a very low and trembling
voice, "I'll promise, Mr. Nevitt."
"Then the facts are these," the man of feeling went
on, with an undercurrent of malicious triumph in his
musical voice. "Kelmscott is not his father's eldest
son; he's not, and never was, the heir of Tilgate.
More than that, nobody knows] these facts but myself.
And 1 know the true heirs, and I can prove their title.
Well, now, Miss Gildersleeve—if it's to be Miss Gilder-
sleeve still—this is the circumstance that alters the
case as regards Granville Kelmscott. I have it in my
hands to ruin Kelmscott. And what I've taken the
trouble to come down and say to you to-day is simply
this for your own advantage; beware, at least, how
you throw yourself away upon a penniless man, with
neither name nor fortune! When you've quite got
over that dream, you'll be glad to return to the man
you threw overboard for the rich squire's son. No
circumstances have ever altered him. He loved you
from the first, and he will always love you."
Gwendoline looked him back in the face again, as


chap, xviii.] GENTLE WOOER.
165
pale as death. "Mr. Nevitt," she said scornfully, un-
moved by his tale, "I do not love you, and I will
never love you. You have no right to say such things
to me as this. I'm glad you've told me, for I now know
what Mr. Kelmscott meant. And if he was as poor
as a church mouse, I'd marry him to-morrow—I said
just now I didn't mean to marry him. I retract that
word. Circumstances alter cases, and what you've just
told me alters this one. I withdraw what I said. I'll
marry Granville Kelmscott to-morrow if he asks me."
She looked down at him so proudly, so defiantly,
so haughtily, that Montague Nevitt, sitting there with
his cynical smile on his thin red lips, flinched and
wavered before her. He saw in a moment the game
was up. He had played the wrong card; he had mis-
taken his woman and tried false tactics. It was too
late now to retreat. An empty revenge was all that
remained to him. "Very well," he said sullenly, look-
ing her back in the face with a nasty scowl—for indeed
he loved that girl and was loath to lose her—" remember
your promise, and say nothing to anybody. You'll
find it best so for your own reputation in the end. But
mark my words; be sure I won't spare Granville Kelm-
scott now. I'll play my own game. I'll ruin him
ruthlessly. He's in my power, I tell you, and I'll crush
him under my heel. Well, that's settled at last. I'm
off to Devonshire to-morrow—on the hunt of the
records—to the skirts of Dartmoor, to a place in the
wilds by the name of Mambury." He raised his hat,


166
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xyiii.
and, curling his lip maliciously, walked away, without
even so much as shaking hands with her. He knew
it was all up. That game was lost. And, being a man
of feeling, he regretted it bitterly.
Gwendoline, for her part, hurried home, all aglow
with remorse and excitement. When she reached the
house, she went straight up in haste to her own bedroom.
In spite of her promise, all woman that she was, she
couldn't resist sitting down at once and inditing a
hurried note to Granville Kelmscott.
"Dearest Granville," it said, in a very shaky hand,
not unblurred by tears, " I know all now, and I wonder
you thought it could ever matter. I know you're not
the eldest son, and that somebody else is the heir of
Tilgate. And I care for all that a great deal less than
nothing. I love you ten thousand times too dearly to
mind one pin whether you're rich or poor. And, rich
or poor, whenever you like, I'll marry you.
"Yours ever devotedly and unalterably,
"Gwendoline."
She sealed it up in haste and ran out with it, all
tremors, to the post by herself. Her hands were hot.
She was in a high fever. But Mr. Montague Nevitt,
that man of feeling, thus balked of his game, walked
off his disappointment as well as he could by a long
smart tramp across the springy downs, lunching at a
wayside inn on bread and cheese and beer, and descend-


168
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [oui-. xix.
CHAPTER XIX.
SELF OK BEARER.
At Charing Cross Station Montague Nevitt bought a
Financial Neivs and proceeded forthwith to his own
rooms to read of the sudden collapse of his pet specula-
tion. It was only too true. The Eio Negro Diamond
and Sapphire Mines had gone entirely in one of the
periodical South American crashes which involved
them in the liabilities of several other companies. A
call would be made at once to the full extent of the
nominal capital. And he would have to find three
thousand pounds down to meet the demand on his
credit immediately.
Nevitt hadn't three thousand pounds in the world
to pay. The little he possessed beyond his salary was
locked up, here and there, in speculative undertakings,
where he couldn't touch it except at long notice. It
was a crushing blow. He had need of steadying.
Some men would have flown in such a plight to brandy.
Montague Nevitt flew, instead, to the consolations of
music.
For some minutes, indeed, he paced his room up and
down in solemn silence, Then his eye fell by accident


CHap. XIX.]
169
SELF OR BEAKER.
on the violin case in the comer. Ah, that would do!
That beloved violin would inspire him with ideas j was
it suicide or fraud? or some honest way out: be it
this plan or that the violin would help him. Screwing
up the strings for a minute with those deft, long,
double-jointed fingers of his, he took the bow in his
right hand, and, still pacing the room with great
strides, like a wild beast in its cage, began to discourse
low passionate music to himself from one of those
serpentine pieces of Miss Ewes's of Leamington.
As he played and played, his whole soul in his
fingers, a plan began to frame itself, vaguely, dimly at
first, then more and more definitely by slow degrees—
shape, form, and features—as it grew and developed.
A beautiful chord, that last! Oh, how subtle, how
beautiful! It seemed to curl and glide on like a
serpent through the grass, leaving strange trails behind
as of a flowing signature; a flowing signature with
bold twirls and flourishes—twirls and flourishes—
twirls and flourishes — twirls, twirls, twirls and
flourishes; the signature to a cheque; to a cheque for
money; three thousand pounds at Drummond, Coutts
and Barclay's.
It ran through his head, keeping time with the bars.
Four thousand pounds; five thousand; six thousand.
The longer he played the clearer and sharper the
plan stood out. He saw his way now as clear as day-
light. And his way too, to make a deal more in the
end by it.


170 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [eiiap. xix.
"Pay self or bearer six thousand pounds! Six
thousand pounds; signed, Cyril Waring!"
For hours he paced up and down there, playing long
and low. Oh, music, how he loved it; it seemed to
set everything straight all at once in his head. With
bow in hand and violin at rest, he surpassed himself
that evening in ingenuity of fingering. He trembled
to think of his own cleverness and skill. What a
miracle of device! What a triumph of cunning! Not
an element was overlooked. It was safe as houses.
He could go to bed now, and drop off like a child;
having arranged before he went to make Guy Waring
his cat's paw, and turn this sad stroke of ill-luck in
the end to his own ultimate greater and wider
advantage.
And he was quite right too. He did sleep as he
expected. Next morning he woke in a very good
humour, and proceeded at once to Guy Waring's rooms
the moment after breakfast.
He found Guy, as he expected, in a tumult of excite-
ment, having only just that moment received by post
the final call for the Eio Negro capital.
When other men are excited the wise man takes
care to be perfectly calm. Montague Nevitt was calm
under this crushing blow. He pointed out blandly
that everything would yet go well. All was not lost.
They had other irons in the fire. And even the Eio
Negros themselves were not an absolute failure. The
diamonds, the diamonds themselves, he insisted, were


chap. xix.] SELF OR BEARER. 171
still there, and the sapphires also. They studded the
soil, they were to be had for the picking. Every bit
of their money would come back to them in the end.
It was a question of meeting an immediate emergency
only.
"But I haven't three thousand pounds in the world
to meet it with," Guy exclaimed in despair. "I shall
be ruined, of course. I don't mind about that; but I
never shall be able to make good my liabilities!"
Nevitt lighted a cigarette with a philosophical smile.
The hotter Guy waxed, the faster did he cool down.
"Neither have I, my dear boy," he said, in. his most
careless voice, puffing out rings of smoke in the interval
between his clauses; "but I don't, therefore, go mad.
I don't tear my hair over it; though, to be sure, I'm
a deal worse off than you. My position's at stake. If
Drummonds were to hear of it—sack—sack instanter.
As to making yourself responsible for what you don't
possess, that's simply speculation. Everybody on the
Stock Exchange always does it. If they didn't there'd
be no such thing as enterprise at all. You can't make
a fortune by risking a ha'penny."
"But what am I to do ?" Guy cried wildly. "How-
ever am I to raise three thousand pounds? I should
be ashamed to let Cyril know I'd defaulted like this. If
I can't find the money I shall go mad or kill myself."
Montague Nevitt played him gently, as an ex-
perienced angler plays a plunging trout, before pro-
ceeding to land him. At last, after offering Guy much


172
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xix.
sympathetic advice, and suggesting several intentionally
feeble schemes, only to quash them instantly, he
observed with a certain apologetic air of unobtrusive
friendliness, "Well, if the worst comes to the worst,
you've one thing to fall back upon: There's that six
thousand, of course, coming in by-and-by from the
unknown benefactor."
Guy flung himself down in his easy-chair with a
look of utter despondency upon his handsome face.
"But I promised Cyril," he exclaimed, with a groan,
"I'd never touch that. If I were to spend it I don't
know how I could ever face Cyril."
"I was told yesterday," Nevitt answered, with a
bitter little smile, "and by a lady, too, many times
over, that circumstances alter cases, till I began to
believe it. When you 'promised Cyril you weren't face
to face with a financial crisis. If you were to use the
money temporarily—mind, I say only temporarily; for
to my certain knowledge Eio Negros will pull through
all right in the end—if you were to use it temporarily
in such an emergency as this, no blame of any sort
could possibly attach to you. The unknown benefactor
won't mind whether your money's at your banker's, or
employed for the time being in paying your debts.
Your creditors will. If I were you, therefore, I'd use
it up in paying them."
"You would ?" Guy inquired, glancing across at him,
with a faint gleam of hope in his eye.
Nevitt fixed him at once with his strange cold stare.


chap, xix.] SELF OR BEARER. 173
He had caught his man now. He could play upon him
as readily as he could play his violin.
"Why, certainly I would," he answered, with con-
fidence, striking the new chord full. "Cyril himself
would do the same in your place, I'll bet you. And
the proof that he would is simply this—you yourself
will do it. Depend upon it, if you can do anything,
under given circumstances, Cyril would do it too, in
the same set of conditions. And if ever Cyril feels
inclined to criticise what you've done, you can answer
him back, 'I know your heart as you know mine. In
my place, I know you'd have acted as I did.'"
"Cyril and I are not absolutely identical," Guy
answered slowly, his eyes still fixed on Montague
Nevitt's. "Sometimes I feel he does things I wouldn't
do."
"He has more initiative than you," Nevitt answered,
as if carelessly, though with deep design in his heart.
"He acts where you debate. You're often afraid to
take a serious step. Cyril never hesitates. You draw
back and falter; Cyril goes straight ahead. But all
the more reason, accordingly, that Cyril should admit
the Tightness of whatever you do, for if you do any-
thing—anything in the nature of a definite step, I mean
—why, far more readily, then, would Cyril, in like case,
have done it."
"You think he has more initiative?" Guy asked,
with a somewhat nettled air. He hated to be thought
less individual than Cyril.


174 WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap. xix.
"Of course he has, my dear boy," Nevitt answered,
smiling. "He'd use the money at once, without a
second's hesitation."
"But I haven't got the money to use," Guy con-
tinued, after a short pause.
"Cyril has, though," Nevitt responded, with a
significant nod.
Guy perused his boots, and made no immediate
answer. Nevitt wanted none just then; he waited
some seconds, humming all the while an appropriate
tune. Then he caught Guy's eye again, and fixed him
a second time.
"It's a pity we don't know Cyril's address in
Belgium," he said, in a musing tone. "We might
telegraph across for leave to use his money meanwhile.
Bemember, I'm just as deeply compromised as you, or
even more so. It's a pity we should both be ruined,
with six thousand pounds standing at this very moment
to Cyril's account at the London and West Country.
But it can't be helped. There's no time to lose. The
money must be paid in sharp by this evening."
"By this evening!" Guy exclaimed, starting up
excitedly.
Nevitt nodded assent. "Yes, by this evening, of
course," he answered unperturbed, "or we become ipso
facto defaulters and bankrupts."
That was a lie to be sure; but it served his purpose.
Guy was a child at business, and believed whatever
nonsense Nevitt chose to foist upon him.


chap. xix.] SELF OR BEARER.
175
The journalist rose and paced the room twice or
thrice with a frantic air of unspeakable misery.
"I shall lose my place at our bank, no doubt," Nevitt
went on, in a resigned tone. "But that doesn't much
matter. Though a temporary loan—I could pay every
penny in six weeks if I'd time—a temporary loan
would set things all straight again."
"I wish to heaven Cyril was here," Guy exclaimed,
in piteous tones.
"He is, practically, when you're here," Nevitt
answered, with a knowing smile. "You can act as his
deputy."
"How do you mean?" Guy asked, turning round
upon him open-mouthed.
Nevitt paused, and smiled sweetly.
"This is his cheque-book, I think," he replied, in the
oblique retort, picking it up and looking at it. He
tore out a cheque, as if pensively and by accident.
"That's a precious odd thing," he went on, "that
you showed me the other day, don't you know,
about your signature and Cyril's being so absolutely
identical."
Guy gazed at him in horror. "Oh, don't talk about
that!" he cried, running his hand through his hair.
"If I were even to entertain such an idea for a moment,
my self-respect would be gone for ever."
"Exactly so," Nevitt put in, with a satirical smile.
"I said so just now. You've no initiative. Cyril
wouldn't be afraid. Knowing the interests at stake,


176
WHAT'S BItED Itf THE BOtfE. tcHAp. ttt.
he'd take a firm stand and act off-hand on his own
discretion."
"Do you think so?" Guy faltered, in a hesitating
voice.
Nevitt held him with his eye.
"Do I think so?" he echoed, " do I think so? I
know it. Look here, Guy, you and Cyril are practically
one. If Cyril were here we'd ask him at once to lend
us the money. If we knew where Cyril was we'd
telegraph across and get his leaye like a bird. But as
he isn't here, and as we don't know where he is, we
must show some initiative; we must act for once on
our own responsibility, exactly as Cyril would. It's
only for six weeks. At the end of that time the
unknown benefactor stumps up your share. You
needn't even tell Cyril, if you don't like, of this little
transaction. See! here's his cheque. You fill it in
and sign it. Nobody can tell the signature isn't
Cyril's. You take the money and release us both. In
six weeks' time you get your own share of the unnatural
parent's bribe. You pay it in to his credit, and not a
living soul on earth but ourselves need ever be one
penny the wiser."
Guy tried to look away, but he couldn't. He couldn't.
Nevitt held him fixed with his penetrating gaze. Guy
moved uneasily. He felt as if he had a stiff neck, so
hard was it to turn. Nevitt took a pen, and dipped it
quick in the ink.
"Just as an experiment," he said firmly, yet in a


CHAP. XIX.]
177
SELF OE BEARER.
coaxing voice, "sit down and sign. Let me see what it
looks like. There. Write it just here. Write 'Cyril
Waring.'"
Guy sat down as in a maze, and took the pen from
his hand like an obedient schoolboy. For a second the
pen trembled in his vacillating fingers; then he wrote
on the cheque, in a free and flowing hand, where the
signature ought to be, his brother's nama He wrote it
without stopping.
"Capital! Capital!" Nevitt cried in delight, looking
over his shoulder. "It's a splendid facsimile! Now
date and amount if you please. Six thousand pounds.
It's your own natural hand after all. Ah, capital,
capital!"
As he spoke, Guy framed the fatal words like one
dreaming or entranced, on the slip of paper before him.
"Pay Self or Bearer Six Thousand Pounds (£6,000),
Cyril Waring."
Nevitt looked at it critically. "That'll do all right,"
he said, with his eye still fixed in between whiles on
Guy's bloodless face. "Now the only one thing you
have still left to do is, to take it to the bank and get it
cashed instanter."
N


178
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. 5X.
CHAPTER XX.
MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
Guy rose mechanically, and followed him to the door.
Nevitt still held the forged cheque in his hand. Guy
thought of it so to himself in plain terms, as the
forgery. Yet somehow, he knew not why, he followed
that sinister figure through the passage and down the
stairs like one irresistibly and magnetically drawn
forward. Why, he couldn't let any one go forth upon
the streets of London—with the cheque he himself had
forged in his hands—unwatched and unshadowed.
Nevitt called a cab; and jumped in, and beckoned
him. Guy, still as. in a dream, jumped after him
hastily.
"To the London and West Country Bank, in Lombard
Street," Nevitt called through the flap.
The cab drove off; and Guy Waring leaned back, all
trembling and irresolute, with his head on the cushions.
At last, after a short drive, during which Guy's head
seemed to be swimming most dreamily, they reached
the bank—that crowded bank in Lombard Street.
Nevitt thrust the cheque bodily into his companion's
hand.


chap. xx.] MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
179
"Take it in, now, and cash it," he said with an
authoritative air. "Do you hear what I say? Take it
in—and cash it."
Guy, as if impelled by some superior power, walked
inside the door, and presented it timidly.
The cashier glanced at the sum inscribed on the
cheque with no little surprise.
"It's a rather large amount, Mr. Waring," he said,
scanning his face closely. "How will you take it?"
Guy trembled violently from head to foot as he
answered, in a voice half choked with terror, "Bank of
England hundreds, if you please. It is a large sum, as
you say; but I'm placing it elsewhere."
The cashier retired for a few minutes; then he
returned once more, bringing a big roll of notes, and a
second clerk by his side—just to prevent mistake—stared
hard at the customer. "All square," the second clerk
said, in a half-whispered aside. "It's him right enough."
And the cashier proceeded to count out the notes
with oft-wetted fingers.
Guy took them up mechanically, like a drunken man,
counted them over one by one in a strange, dazed way;
and staggered out at last to the cab to Nevitt.
Nevitt leaned forward and took the bundle from his
hands. Guy stood on the pavement and looked
vacantly in at him !" That's right," Nevitt said, clasp-
ing the bundle tight. "Eio Negro Diamond arid
Sapphire Mines, cabby, 127, Knatchbull Street, Cheap-
side."


180
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xx.
The cabman whipped up his horse and disappeared
round the corner, leaving Guy Waring alone—like a
fool—on the pavement. .'
For a minute or two the dazed and dazzled journalist
stood there awaking by degrees as from some trance or
stupefaction. At first he could only stand still and
gaze vacantly down the street after the disappearing
cab; but as his brain cleared slowly, and the mist that
hung over his mind dispelled itself bit by bit, he was
able to walk a few steps at a time towards the nearest
shops, where he looked in at the windows intently with
a hollow stare, and tried to collect his scattered wits
for a great effort at understanding this strange trans-
action.
All at once, as he looked, the full folly of his deed
burst in its true light upon his muddled brain. He had
handed Nevitt six thousand pounds in Bank of England
notes; to waste, or lose, or speculate, or run away
with.
Six—thousand—pounds of Cyril's money! Not that
for one moment he suspected Nevitt. Guy Waring
was too innocent to suspect anybody. But as he woke
up more fully now to the nature of his own act, a
horrible sense of guilt and pollution crept slowly over
him. He put his hand [to his forehead. Cold sweat
stood in clammy small drops upon his brow. Bit by
bit, the hateful truth dawned clearly upon him. Nevitt
had lured him by strange means, he knew not how, into
hateful crime—into a disgraceful conspiracy. Word by


chap. xx.] MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
181
word, the self-accusing sentence framed itself upon his
lips.
He spoke it out, aloud: "Why—this—is forgery!"
Dazzled and stunned by the intensity of that awful
awaking from some weird possession [or suggestion of
evil by a stronger mind, Guy Waring began to walk on
in a feverish fashion, fast, fast, oh, so fast, not knowing
where he went, but conscious only that he must keep
moving, lest an accusing conscience should gnaw his
very heart out.
Whither, he hadn't as yet the faintest idea. His
whole being for the moment was centred and summed
up in that unspeakable remorse. He had done a great
wrong. He had made himself a felon. And now, in
the first recoil of his revolted nature, he must go after
the man who held the evidences of his guilt, and by
force or persuasion demand them at once from him.
Those notes were Cyril's. He must get them. He must
get them.
Possessed by this one idea, with devouring force, but
still in a very nebulous and hazy form, Guy began
walking towards the Strand and the Embankment, at
the hot top of his speed, to get the notes back—at
Montague Nevitt's chambers. He had walked with
fiery zeal in that wrong direction for nearly a mile, his
heart burning within him all the way, and his brain in
a whirl, before it began to strike him, in a flash pf
common sense, that Montague Nevitt wouldn't be there
at all. He had driven off to the office. Guy clapped


182
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap, xx.
his hand to his forehead once more, in an agony of
remorse. Great heavens, what folly! He had heard
him tell the cabman the address himself—" 127, Knatch-
bull Street, Cheapside."
Even now he hadn't sense enough to hail a cab and
go after him. His faculties were still numbed and
entranced by that horrible spell of Montague Nevitt's
eye. He had but one thought—to walk on, walk
hastily. He tramped along the streets in the direction
of Cheapside, straining every muscle to arrive at the
office before Nevitt had parted with Cyril's six thousand
—but he never even thought of saving the precious
moments by driving the distance between instead of
walking it. Montague Nevitt's personality still weighed
down half his brain, and rendered his mind almost
childish or imbecile.
Hurrying on so through the crowded streets, now
walking, now running, now pausing, now panting,
knocking up here against a little knot of wayfarers,
and delayed again there by an untimely block at some
crowded crossing, he turned the corner at last with a
beating heart into the narrow pavement of an alley
marked up as Knatchbull Street. Number 127 was
visible from afar.
A mob of excited people marked its site by loitering
about the door. Two policemen held off the angrier
spirits among the shareholders. But, nothing daunted
by the press, Guy forced his way in and looked around
the room trembling, for Montague Nevitt. Too late!


chap. xx.] MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
183
Too late! Nevitt wasn't there. The unhappy dupe
turned to the clerk in charge.
"Has Mr. Montague Nevitt been here ?" he asked, in
a voice all tremulous with emotion.
"Mr. Montague Nevitt?" the clerk responded.
"Just gone ten minutes ago. Came to settle Mr.
Whitley's call—his brother-in-law's. Went off in a
cab. Can I do anything for you?"
"He's paid in six thousand pounds?" Guy gasped
out interrogatively.
The clerk gazed at him hard with a suspicious
glance. "Are you a shareholder?" he asked, with
one eye on the policeman. "What do you want to
know for?"
"Yes, I'm a shareholder, unfortunately," Guy an-
swered, still in a maze. "I hold three hundred original
shares. My name's Guy Waring. You've got me on
your books. Mr. Nevitt has paid three thousand in
Mr. Whitley's name, and three thousand for me. That
was our arrangement."
The clerk glanced hard at him again. "Waring!"
he repeated, turning over the leaves of his big book for
further verification. "Waring! Waring! Waring >
Ah, here it is; Waring, Guy; journalist; 22, Staple
Inn; 300 shares. Three hundred pounds paid. Then
we call up to three thousand. No, Mr. Nevitt didn't
settle for you, sir. He paid Mr. Whitley's call in full.
That was all. Nothing else. You're still our debtor."
"He didn't pay up!" Guy exclaimed, clapping his


184 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xx.
hands to his head, all the black guile and treachery of
the man coming home to him at once, at one fell blow.
"He didn't pay up for me! Oh, this is too, too
terrible!"
He paused for a moment. Floods of feeling rushed
over him. He knew now that he had committed that
forgery for nothing. Cyril's money was gone. And
Montague Nevitt had stolen the three thousand Guy
intrusted to him at the bank for the second payment.
Yet Guy knew he had no legal remedy save by acknow-
ledging the forgery! This was almost more than
human nature could stand. If Montague Nevitt had
been by his side that moment Guy would have leapt
at his throat, and it would have gone hard with him
if he had left the villain living.
He clapped his hands to his ears in the horror and
agony of that hideous disclosure.
"The thief!" he cried aloud, in a choking voice.
"Did he pay what he paid from a big roll of notes, and
did he take the rest of the notes in the roll away with
him?"
"Yes, just so," the clerk answered calmly. "He
didn't mention your name. But perhaps he's coming
back by-and-by to settle for you."
Guy knew better. He saw through the man's whole
black nature at once.
"I've been robbed," he said slowly. "I've been
robbed and deserted. I must follow the man and com-
pel him to disgorge. When I've got the cash back I'll


chap, xx.] MONTAGUE NEVITT FINESSES.
185
return and pay you. . . . No, I won't, though. I
forgot. I'll take it home to the bank for Cyril."
The clerk gazed at him with a smile of pitying con-
tempt. Mad, mad; quite mad! The loss of his fortune
had, no doubt, unhinged this shareholder's reason. But
Guy, never heeding Lhim, rushed out into the street and
hailed a passing cab.
"Temple Flats," he cried aloud, and drove to Nevitt's
chambers. Too late, once more! The housekeeper
told him Mr. Nevitt was out. He'd just started off,
portmanteau and all, as hard as a hansom could drive,
to Waterloo Station.
"Waterloo, then!" Guy shouted, in wild despair, to
the cabman. ."We must follow this man post haste.
Alive or dead, I won't rest till I catch him!"
It was an unhappy phrase. In the events that came
after, it was remembered against him.


186
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxt
CHAPTER XXI.
COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S PUNISHMENT.
While Montague Nevitt was thus congenially engaged
in pulling off his treble coup of settling his own share
in the Eio Negro deficit, pocketing three thousand
pounds, pro tern, for incidental expenses, and getting
Guy Waring thoroughly into his power by his know-
ledge of a forgery, two other events were taking place
elsewhere, which were destined to prove of no small
importance to the future of the twins and their
immediate surroundings. Things generally were con-
verging towards a crisis in their affairs. Colonel Kelm-
scott's wrong-doing was bearing first-fruit abundantly.
For as soon as Granville Kelmscott received that
strangely-worded note from Gwendoline Gildersleeve,
he proceeded, as was natural, straight down, in his
doubt, to his father's library. There, bursting into the
room, with Gwendoline's letter still crushed in his
hand in the side pocket of his coat, and a face like
thunder, he stood in the attitude of avenging fate
before his father's chair, and gazed down upon him
angrily.
"What does this mean?" he asked, in a low but


188 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxt.
leaning forward in his anguish and clutching the oak
chair, "you don't mean to tell me those fellows, the
Warings, that we met at Chetwood Court, are your
lawful sons—and that that was why you bought the
landscape with the snake in it?"
Kelmscott, of Tilgate, bent his proud head down to
the table unchecked. "My son, my son," he cried, in
his despair, "you have said it yourself. Your own
mouth has suggested it. What use my trying to keep
it from you any longer? These lads—are Kelmscotts."
"And—my mother ?" Granville Kelmscott burst out,
in a very tremulous voice. The question was almost
more than a man dare ask. But he asked it in the
first bitterness of a terrible awakening.
"Your mother," Colonel Kelmscott answered, lifting
his head once more, with a terrible effort, and looking
his son point-blank in the face—" your mother is just
what I have always called her—my lawful wife—Lady
Emily Kelmscott. The mother of these lads, to whom
I was also once duly married, died before my marriage
with my present wife—thank God I can say so. I
may have acted foolishly, cruelly, criminally; but at
least I never acted quite so basely and so ill as you
impute to me, Granville."
"Thank Heaven for that," his son answered fervently,
with one hand on his breast, drawing a deep sigh as
he spoke. "You're my father, sir, and it isn't for me
to reproach you; but if you had only done that—oh,
my mother! my mother! I don't know, sir, I'm sure,


chap. xxi.l COLONEL KELMSOOTT'S PUNISHMENT. 189
how I could ever have forgiven you; I don't know how
I could ever have kept my hands off you."
Colonel Kelmscott straightened himself up, and
looked hard at his son. A terrible pathos gleamed in
his proud brown eyes. His white moustache had more
dignity than ever.
"Granville," he said slowly, like a broken man, " I
don't ask you to forgive me; you can never forgive
me; I don't ask you to sympathise with me; a father
knows better than to accept sympathy from a son;
but I do ask you to bear with me while I try to ex-
plain myself."
He braced himself up, and with many long pauses,
and many inarticulate attempts to set forth the facts
in the least unfavourable aspect, told his story all
through, in minute detail, to that hardest of all critics,
his own dispossessed and disinherited boy.
"If you're hard upon me, Granville," he cried at
last as he finished, looking wistfully for pity into his
son's face, "you should remember, at least, it was for
your sake I did it, my boy; it was for your sake I did
it—yours, yours, and your mother's."
Granville let him relate his whole story in full to the
bitter end, though it was with difficulty at times that
that proud and grey-haired man nerved himself up to
tell it. Then, as soon as all was told, he looked in
his father's face once more, and said slowly, with the
pitilessness of sons in general towards the faults and
failings of their erring parents—


190
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxi.
"It's not my place to blame you, I know. You did
it, I suppose, as you say so, for me and my mother.
But it is my place to tell you plainly, father, that I,
for one, will have nothing at all to do with the fruits
of your deception. I was no party to the fraud; I will
be no party either to its results or its clearing up. I,
too, have to think, as you say, of my mother. For her
sake, I won't urge you to break her heart at once by
disinheriting her son, now and here, too openly. You
can make what arrangements you like with these
blood-sucking Warings. You can do as you will in
providing them with hush-money. Let them take
their black-mail! You've handed them over half the
sum you got for Dowlands already, I suppose. You
can buy them off for awhile by handing them over the
remainder. Twelve thousand will do. Leeches as they
are, that will surely content them, at least for the
present."
Colonel Kelmscott raised one hand and tried hard
to interrupt him; but Granville would not be inter-
rupted.
"No, no," he went on sternly, shaking his head and
frowning. "I'll have my say for once, and then for
ever keep silence. This is the first and last time as
long as we both live I will speak with you on the
subject. So we may as well understand one another,
once and for ever. For my mother's sake, as I said,
there need be just at present no open disclosure. You
have years to live yet; and as long as you live, these


chap, xxi.] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S PUNISHMENT. 191
Waring people have no claim upon the estate in any
way. You've given them as much as they've any right
to expect. Let them wait for the rest till, in the course
of nature, they come into possession. As for me, I
will go to carve out for myself a place in the world
elsewhere by my own exertions. Perhaps, before my
mother need know her son was left a beggar by the
father who brought him up like the heir to a large
estate, I may have been able to carve out that place
for myself so well that she need never really feel the
difference. I'm a Kelmscott, and can fight the world
on my own account. But, in any case, I must go.
Tilgate's no longer a fit home for me. I leave it to
those who have a better right to it."
He rose as if to depart, with the air of a man who
sets forth upon the world to seek his fortune. Colonel
Kelmscott rose too, and faced him, all broken.
"Granville," he said, in a voice scarcely audible
through the stifled sobs he was too proud to give vent
to, "you're not going like this. You're not going
without at least shaking hands with your father!
You're not going without saying good-bye to your
mother!"
Granville turned, with hot tears standing dim in
his eyes—like his father, he was too proud to let them
trickle down his cheek—and taking the Colonel's
weather-beaten hand in his, wrung it silently for some
minutes with profound emotion.
Then he looked at the white moustache, the grizzled


192
WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chai-. xxi.
hair, the bright brown eyes suffused with answering
dimness, and said, almost remorsefully, "Father, good-
bye. You meant me well, no doubt. You thought
you were befriending me. But I wish to Heaven in
my soul you had meant me worse. It would have been
easier for me to bear in the end. If you'd brought me
up as a nobody—as a younger son's accustomed"
He paused and drew back, for he could see his words
were too cruel for that proud man's heart. Then he
broke off suddenly.
"But I can't say good-bye to my mother," he went
on, with a piteous look. "If I tried to say good-bye
to her, I must tell her all. I'd break down in the
attempt. I'll write to her from the Cape. It'll be
easier so. She won't feel it so much then."
"From the Cape!" Colonel Kelmscott exclaimed,
drawing back in horror. "Oh, Granville, don't tell me
you're going away from us to Africa!"
"Where else?" his son asked, looking him back in
the face steadily. "Africa it is! That's the only
opening left nowadays for a man of spirit. There,
I may be able to hew out a place for myself at last,
worthy of Lady Emily Kelmscott's son. I won't come
back till I come back able to hold my own in the
world with the best of them. These Warings shan't
crow over the younger son. Good-bye, once more,
father." He wrung his hand hard. "Think kindly
of me when I'm gone; and don't forget altogether I
once loved Tilgate."


chap, xxi.] COLONEL KELMSCOTT'S PUNISHMENT. 193
He opened the door and went up to his own room
again. His mind was resolved. He wouldn't even
say good-bye to Gwendoline Gildersleeve. He'd pack
a few belongings in a portmanteau in haste, and go
forth upon the world to seek his fortune in the South
African diamond fields.
But Colonel Kelmscott sat still in the library, bowed
down in his chair, with his head between his hands,
in abject misery. A strange feeling seemed to throb
through his weary brain; he had a sensation as though
his skull were opening and shutting. Great veins on
his forehead beat black and swollen. The pressure
was almost more than the vessels would stand. He
held his temples between his two palms as if to keep
them from bursting. All ahead looked dark as night;
the ground was cut from under him. The punishment
of his sin was too heavy for him to bear. How could
he ever tell Emily now that Granville was gone? A
horrible numbness oppressed his brain. Oh, mercy!
mercy! his head was flooded,
0


194
.WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxn.
CHAPTER XXII.
CROSS PURPOSES.
At the Gildersleeves', too, the house that day was alive
with excitement.
Gwendoline had thrown herself into a fever of alarm
as soon as she had posted her letter to Granville
Kelmscott. She went up to her own room, flung
herself wildly on the bed, and sobbed herself into a
half-hysterical, half-delirious state, long before dinner-
time. She hardly knew herself at first how really ill
she was. Her hands were hot and her forehead burn-
ing. But she disregarded such mere physical and
medical details as those, by the side of a heart too full
for utterance. She thought only of Granville, and of
that horrid man who had threatened with such evident
spite and rancour to ruin him.
She lay there some hours alone, in a high fever,
before her mother came up to her room to fetch
her. Mrs. Gildersleeve was a subdued and soft-voiced
woman, utterly crushed, so people said, by the stronger
individuality of that blustering, domineering, head-
strong man, her husband. And to say the truth, the


CBAT. XXII.3
195
CROSS PURPOSES.
eminent Q.C. had taken all the will out of her in
twenty-three years of obedient slavery. She was
pretty still, to be sure, in a certain faded, jaded, un-
assuming way; but her patient face wore a constant
expression of suppressed terror, as if she expected
every moment to be the victim of some terrible and
unexplained exposure. And that feature at least in
her idiosyncrasy could hardly be put down to Gilbert
Gildersleeve's account; for hectoring and strong-
minded as the successful Q.C. was known to be, nobody
could for a moment accuse him in any definite way of
deliberate unkindness to his wife or daughter. On the
contrary, he was tender and indulgent to them to the
last degree, as he understood those virtues. It was
only by constant assertion of his own individuality,
and constant repression or disregard of theirs, that he
had broken his wife's spirit and was breaking his
daughter's. He treated them as considerately as one
treats a pet dog, doing everything for them that care
and money could effect, except to admit for a moment
their claim to independent opinions and actions of
their own, or to allow the possibility of their thinking
and feeling on any subject on earth one nail's breadth
otherwise than as he himself did.
At sight of Gwendoline, Mrs. Gildersleeve came over
to the bed with a scared and startled air, felt her
daughter's face tenderly with her hands for a moment,
and then cried in alarm, "Why, Gwennie, what's thi3?
Your cheeks are burning! Who on earth has been


CHaP. XXII.]
197
CROSS PURPOSES.
them to make one do whatever he chooses. I see how
it is. He wants to force us into letting him marry
you—into making you marry him! Oh, Gwennie, this
is hard. Didn't he tell you at all what it was he
knew? Didn't he give you a hint what sort of secret
he was driving at?"
Gwendoline looked up once more, and murmured low
through her sobs, " No, he didn't say what it was. He's
too cunning for that. But I think—I think it was
something about Granville. Mother, I never told you,
but you know I love him! I think it was something
about him, though I can't quite make sure. Some
secret about somebody not being properly married, or
something of that sort. I didn't quite understand.
You see, he was so discreetly vague and reticent."
Mrs. Gildersleeve drew back her face all aghast with
horror. "Some secret—about somebody—not being
properly married!" she repeated slowly, with wild
terror in her eyes.
"Yes, mother," Gwendoline gasped out, with an
effort once more. "It was about somebody not being
really the proper heir; he made me promise I wouldn't
tell; but I don't know how to keep it. He was
immensely full of it; it was an awful secret; and he
said he would ruin us—ruin us ruthlessly. He said
we were in his power, and he'd crush us under his
heel. And, oh, when he said it, you should have seen
his face. It was horrible, horrible. I've seen nothing
else since. It dogs me—it haunts me."


198 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxu.
Mrs. Gildersleeve sat down by the bedside wringing
her hands in silence. "It's too late to-night," she said
at last, after a long deep pause, and in a voice like a
woman condemned to death, "too late to do anything;
but to-morrow your father must go up to town and try
to see him. At all costs we must buy him off. He
knows everything—that's clear. He'll ruin us. He'll
ruin us!"
"It's no use papa going up to town, though," Gwen-
doline answered half dreamily. "That dreadful man
said he was going away for his holiday to the country
at once. He'll be gone to-morrow."
"Gone? Gone where?" Mrs. Gildersleeve cried, in-
the same awestruck voice.
"To Devonshire," Gwendoline replied, shutting her
eyes hard and still seeing him.
Mrs. Gildersleeve echoed the phrase in a startled cry.
"To Devonshire, Gwendoline! To Devonshire! Did
he say to Devonshire?"
"Yes," Gwendoline went on slowly, trying to recall
his very words. "To the skirts of Dartmoor, I think,
he said; to a place in the wilds by the name of.
Mambury.".
"Mambury!" • • . •
The terror and horror that frail and faded woman
threw into the one word fairly startled Gwendoline.
She opened her eyes and stared aghast at her mother.
And well she might, for the effect was electrical. Mrs.
Gildersleeve was sitting there, transfixed with awe and.


chap, xxii.] CROSS PURPOSES.
201
Mrs. Gildersleeve persisted with a stony stare. "He's
gone down to Devonshire, she said; to the borders of
Dartmoor, on a hunt after the records; to a place in
the wilds by the name of Mambury. Those were her
very words. I could stake my life on each syllable.
I give them to you precisely as she gave them to
me."
Mr. Gildersleeve gazed across at her with the
countenance which had made so many a nervous wit-
ness quake at the Old Bailey. "Are you quite sure of
that, Minnie?" he asked, in his best cross-examining
tone. "Quite sure she said Mambury, all of her own
accord? Quite sure you didn't suggest it to her, or
supply the name, or give her a hint of its whereabouts,
or put her a leading question?"
"Is it likely I'd suggest it to her?" the meekest of
women answered, aroused to retort for once, and with
her face like a sheet. "Is it likely I'd tell her? Is it
likely I'd give my own girl the clue? She said it all
of herself, I tell you, without one word of prompting.
She said it just as I repeated it—to a place in the
wilds by the name of Mambury."
Gilbert Gildersleeve whistled inaudibly to himself.
'Twas his way when he felt himself utterly nonplussed.
This was very strange news. He didn't really under-
stand it. But he rose and confronted his wife anxiously.
That overbearing big man was evidently stirred by this
untoward event to the very depths of his nature.
"Then Gwennie knows all!" he cried, the blood


202 WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. Tchap, xxii.
rushing purple into his ruddy flushed cheeks. "The
wretch! The brute! He must have told her every-
thing!"
"Oh, Gilbert," his wife answered, sinking into a
chair in her horror, "even he couldn't do that—not to
my own very daughter! And he didn't do it, I'm sure.
He didn't dare—coward as he is, he couldn't be quite
so cowardly. She doesn't guess what it means. She
thinks it's something, I believe, about Granville
Kelmscott. She's in love with young Kelmscott, as I
told you long ago, and everything to her mind takes
some colour from that fancy. I don't think it ever
occurred to her, from what she says, this has anything
at all to do with you or me, Gilbert."
The Q.C. reflected. He saw at once he was in a tight
corner. That boisterous man, with the burly big hands,
looked quite subdued and crestfallen now. He could
hardly have snubbed the most unassuming junior.
This was a terrible thing, indeed, for a man so unscrupu-
lous and clever as Montague Nevitt to have wormed
out of the registers. How he could ever have wormed
it out Gilbert Gildersleeve hadn't the faintest idea.
Why, who on earth could have shown him the entry
of that fatal marriage—Minnie's first marriage—the
marriage with that wretch who died in Portland prison
—the marriage that was celebrated at St. Mary's, at
Mambury? He couldn't for a moment conceive, for
nobody but themselves, he fondly imagined, had ever
identified Mrs. Gilbert Gildersleeve, the wife of the


chap, xxii.] CROSS PURPOSES. 203
eminent Q.C., with that unhappy Mrs. Eead, the con-
vict's widow. The convict's widow. Ah, there was the
rub. For she was really a widow in name alone when
Gilbert Gildersleeve married her.
And Montague Nevitt, that human ferret, with his
keen sharp eyes, and his sleek polite ways, had found
it all out in spite of them—had hunted up the date of
Read's death and their marriage, and had bragged how
he was going down to Mambury to prove it!
All the Warings and Eeads always got married at
Widdicombe or Mambury. There were lots of them on
the books there, that was one comfort, anyhow. He'd
have a good search to find his needle in such a pottle
of hay. But to think the fellow should have had the
double-dyed cruelty to break the shameful secret first
of all to Gwendoline! That was his vile way of trying
to force a poor girl into an unwilling consent. Gilbert
Gildersleeve lifted his burly big hands in front of his
capacious waistcoat, and pressed them together angrily.
If only he had that rascal's throat well between them
at that moment! He'd crush the fellow's windpipe till
he choked him on the spot, though he answered for it
before the judges of assize to-morrow!
"There's only one thing possible for it, Minnie," he
said at last, drawing a long deep breath. "I must go
down to Mambury to-morrow to be beforehand with
him. And I must either buy him off; or else, if that
won't do"
"Or else what, Gilbert?"


204 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxil.
She trembled like an aspen leaf.
"Or else get at the books in the vestry myself/' the
Q.C. muttered low between his clenched teeth, "before
the fellow has time to see them and prove it."


( 205 )
CHAPTER XXIII.
GUY IN LUCK.
Guy Waring reached Waterloo ten minutes too late.
Nevitt had gone on by the West of England express.
The porter at the labelling place " minded the gentle-
man well." He was a sharp-looking gentleman, with
a queer look about the eyes, and a dark moustache
curled round at the corners.
"Yes, yes," Guy cried eagerly, "that's him right
enough. The eyes mark the man. And where was he
going to?"
"He had his tilings labelled," the porter said, "for
Plymouth."
"And when does the next train start?" Guy inquired,
all on fire.
The porter, consulting the time-table in the muddle-
headed way peculiar to railway porters, and stroking
his chin with his hand to assist cerebration, announced,'
after a severe internal struggle, that the 3.45 down,
slow, was the earliest train available.
There was nothing for it then, Guy perceived, but to
run home to his rooms, possessing his soul in patience,
pack up a few things in his Gladstone bag, and return


206
WHAT'S BBED 1ST THE BONE. [chap. xxiii.
at his leisure to catch the down train thus unfavourably
introduced to his critical notice.
If Guy had dared, to be sure, he might have gone
straight to a police-station, and got an inspector to
telegraph along the line to stop the thief with his booty
at Basingstoke or-Salisbury. But Guy didn't dare. For
to interfere with Nevitt now by legal means would be
to risk the discovery of his own share in the forgery.
And from that risk the startled and awakened young
man shrank for a thousand reasons; though the chief
among them all was certainly one that never would
have occurred to any one but himself as even probable.
He didn't wish Elma Clifford to know that the man
she loved, and the man who loved her, had become that
day a forger's brother.
, To be sure, he had only seen Elma once—that after-
noon at the Holkers' garden-party. But, as Cyril him-
self knew, he had fallen,in love with her at first sight
—far more immediately, indeed, than even Cyril himself
.had done. Blood, as usual, was thicker than water.
The points that appealed to one brother appealed also
to the other, but with this characteristic difference, that
Guy, who was the more emotional and less strong-
willed of the two, yielded himself up at the very first
glance to the beautiful stranger, while Cyril required
some further acquaintance before quite giving way and
losing his heart outright to her. And from that first
meeting forward, Guy had carried Elma Clifford's image
engraved upon his memory—as he would carry it, he


CHAP. XXIII.]
207
GUY IX LUCK.
believed, to his dying day. Not, to be sure, that he
ever thought for a moment of endeavouring to win her
away from his brother. She was Cyril's discovery, and'
to Cyril, therefore, he yielded her up, as of prior right,
though with a pang of reluctance. But now that he
stood face to face at last with his own accomplished
crime, the first thought that rose in his mind sponta-
neous was for Elma's happiness. He must never let
Elma Clifford know that the man she loved, and would
doubtless marry, was now by his act—a forger's brother;
Three forty-five arrived at last, and Guy set off, all
trembling, on his fatal quest. As he sped along, indig-
nant at heart with Nevitt's black treachery, on the line
to Plymouth, he had plenty of time to revolve these1
things abundantly in his own soul. And when, after a
long and dusty drive, he reached Plymouth, late at
night, he could learn nothing for the moment about
Montague Nevitt's movements. So he was forced to go
quietly for the evening to the Duke of Devonshire
Hotel, and there wait as best he might to see how
events would next develop themselves.
A day passed away—two days—but nothing turned
up. ' Guy wasted much time in Plymouth making
various inquiries before he learnt at last that a man
with a queer look about the eyes, and a moustache with
waxed ends, had gone down a night or so earlier by the
other line to a station at the foot of Dartmoor, by the
name of Mambury.
No sooner, however, had he learnt this promising


208 WHAT'S BKED IX THE BONE. [ihat. xxiii.
news, than he set off at once, hot at heart as ever, to
pursue the robber. That wretch shouldn't get away
scot free with his booty; Guy would follow him and
denounce him to the other end of the universe' When
he reached Mambury, he went direct to the village inn
and asked, with trembling lips, if Mr. Montague Nevitt
was at present staying there. The landlord shook his
head with a stubborn, rustic negative. "No, we arn't
a-got no gentleman o' thik there name in the house,"
he said; "fact is, zur, to tell 'ee the truth, we arn't
a-had nobody stoppin' in the Arms at all lately, 'cep'
it might be a gentleman come down from London, an'
it was day afore yesterday as he did come, an' he do
call 'unself McGregor."
Quick as lightning, Guy suspected Nevitt might be
passing under a false name. What more likely, indeed,
seeing he had made off with Guy's three thousand
pounds?
"And what sort of a man is this McGregor?" he
asked hastily, putting his suspicion into shape. "What
age? What height? What kind of a person to look at?"
"Wull, he's a vine upstandin' zart of a gentleman,"
the landlord answered glibly in his own dialect; "as
proper a gentleman as you'd wish to zee in a day's
march; med be about your height, zur, or a trifle more,
has his moustaches curled round zame as if it med be a
bellick's hams; an' a strange zart o' a look about his
eyes, too, as if ur could zee right drew an' drew 'ee."
"That's him!" Guy exclaimed, with a start, in pro-


CHAP. XXIII.]
209
GUY IN LUCK.
found excitement. "That's the fellow, sure enough. I
know him. I know him. And where is he now, land-
lord? Is he in the house? Can I see him?"
"Well, no, 'ee can't zee him, zur," the landlord
answered, eyeing the stranger askance; "he be out,
jest at present. He do go vur a walk, mostly, down
yonner in the bottom alongside the brook. Mebbe if
you was to vollow by river-bank you med come up wi'
him by-an'-by . . . and mebbe, agin, you medn't."
"I'll follow him," Guy exclaimed, growing more
excited than ever, now this quarry was almost well
within sight; "I'll follow him till I find him, the con-
founded rascal. I'll follow him to his grave. He shan't
get away from me."
The landlord looked at him with a dubious frown.
That one could smile and smile and be a villain didn't
enter into his simple rustic philosophy.
"He's a pleasant-spoken gentleman is Maister
McGregor," the honest Devonian said, with a tinge of
disapprobation in his thick voice. "What vur do 'ee
want to vind 'un? That's what I wants to know. He
don't look like one as did ever hurt a vlea. Such a soft
zart of a voice. An' he do play on the viddle that
beautiful—that beautiful, why, 'tis the zame if he war
a angel from heaven. Viddler Moore, he wur up here
wi' his music last night; an' Maister McGregor, he took
the instrument vrom un, an' 'Let me have a try, my
vrend,' says he, all modest and unassoomin''; and vf
that, he wounded it up, an' he begun to play. Lard,
r


210
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxtii.
how he did play. Never heard nothing like it in all my
barn days. It is the zame, vor all the world, as you do
hear they viddler chaps that plays by themselves in the
Albert Hall up to London. Depend upon it, zur, there
ain't no harm in him. A vullow as can play on the
viddle like thik there, why, he couldn't do no hurt, not
to child nor chicken."
Guy turned away from the door, fretting and fuming
inwardly. He knew better than that. Nevitt's con-
summate mastery of his chosen instrument was but of
a piece, after all, with the way he could play on all the
world, as on a familiar gamut. It was the very skill
of the man that made him so dangerous and so devilish.
Guy felt that under the spell of Nevitt's eye he himself
was but as clay in the hands of the potter.
But Nevitt should never so trick him and twist him
again. To that his mind was now fully made up. He
would never let that cold eye hold him fixed as of yore
by its steely glance. Once for all, Nevitt had proved
his power too well. Guy would take good care he never
subjected himself in future to that uncanny influence.
One forgery was enough. Henceforth he was adamant.
And yet? And yet he was going to seek out Nevitt;
going to stand face to face with that smiling villain
again; going to tax him with his crime; going to ask
him what he meant by this double-dyed treachery.
The landlord had told him where Nevitt was most
likely to be found. He followed that direction. At a
gate that turned by the river-bank, twenty minutes


WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxm.
arched with hazels on every side, while a little brawling
brook ran along hard by, more heard than seen, in the
bottom of the dingle. Thick bramble obscured the
petty rapids from view and half trailed their lush shoots
here and there across the pathway. It was just such
a mossy spot as Cyril would have loved to paint; and
Guy, himself half an artist by nature, would in any
other mood have paused to gaze delighted on its tangled
greenery.
As it was, however, he was in no mood to loiter long
over ferns and mosses. He walked down that narrow
way, where luxuriant branches of fresh green blackberry
bushes encroached upon the track, still seething in soul,
and full of the bitter wrong inflicted upon him by the
man he had till lately considered his dearest friend.
At each bend of the footpath, as it threaded its way
through the tortuous dell, following close the elbows
of the bickering little stream, he expected to come full
in sight of Nevitt. But, gaze as he would, no Nevitt
appeared. He must have gone on, C4uy thought, and
come out at the other end, into the upland road, of
which the porters at Mambury Station had told him.
At last he arrived at a delicious green nook, where
the shade of the trees overhead was exceptionally dense,
and where the ferns by the side were somewhat torn
and trodden. Casting his eye on the ground to the left,
a metal clasp, gleaming silvery among the bracken,
happened to attract his cursory attention. Something
about that clasp looked strangely familiar. He paused


CHAP. XXIII.]
213
GUY IN LUCK.
and stared hard at it. Surely, surely he had seen those
metal knobs before. A flash of recognition ran electric
through his brain. Why, yes; it was the fastener of
Montague Nevitt's pocket-book—the pocket-book in
which he carried his most private documents; the
pocket-book that must have held Cyril's stolen six
thousand. Guy stooped down to pick it up with a
whirling sense of surprise. Great heavens! what was
this? Not only the clasp, but the pocket-book itself—
the pocket-book filled full and crammed to bursting
with papers. Ah, mercy, what papers? Yes, incredible
—the money! Hundred-pound notes! Not a doubt
upon earth of it. The whole of the stolen and re-stolen
three thousand.
For a minute or two Guy stood there, unable to
believe his own swimming eyes. What on earth could
have happened? Was it chance or design? Had
Nevitt deliberately thrown away his ill-gotten gains?
Were detectives on the track? Was he anxious to
conceal his part in the theft? Had remorse got the
better of him? Or was he frightened at last, thinking
Guy was on his way to recover and restore Cyril's
stolen property?
But no, the pocket-book was neither hidden in the
ferns nor yet studiously thrown away. From the place
where it lay, Guy felt confident at once it had fallen
unperceived from Nevitt's pocket, and been trodden by
his heel unawares into the yielding leaf-mould.
Had he pulled it out accidentally with his handker-


214
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. Kin.
chief? Very likely, Guy thought. But then, how
strange and improbable that a man so methodical and
calculating as Nevitt should carry such valuable belong-
ings as those in the self-same pocket. It was certainly
most singular. However, Guy congratulated himself,
after a moment's pause, that so much at least of the
stolen property was duly recovered. He could pay
back one-half of the purloined sum now to Cyril's credit.
So he went on his way through the rest of the wood
in a somewhat calmer and easier frame of mind. To be
sure, he had still to hunt down that villain Nevitt, and
to tax him to his face with his double-dyed treachery.
But it was something, nevertheless, to have recovered
a part, at any rate, of the stolen money. And Nevitt
himself need never know by what fortunate accident he
had happened to recover it.
He emerged on the upland road, and struck back
towards Mambury. All the way round, he never saw
his man. Weary with walking, he returned in the end
to the Talbot Arms. Had Mr. McGregor come back?
No, not yet; but he was sure to be home for dinner.
Then Guy would wait, and dine at the inn as well.
He might have to stop all night, but he must see
McGregor.
As the day wore on, however, it became gradually
clear to him that Montague Nevitt didn't mean to
return at all. Hour after hour passed by, but nothing
was heard of him. The landlord, good man, began to
express his doubts and fears most freely. He hoped no


CHaP. XXIII.]
215
GUY IN LUCK.
harm hadn't come to the gentleman in the parlour; he
had a powerful zight o' money on un for a man to carry
about; the landlord had zeen it when he took out his
book from his pocket to pay the porter. Volks didn't
ought to go about with two or dree hundred pound or
more in the lonely lanes on the edge of the moorland.
But Guy, for his part, put a different interpretation
on the affair at once. In some way or other Montague
Nevitt, he thought, must have found out he was being
tracked, and, fearing for his safety, must have dropped
the pocket-book and made off, without note or notice
given, on his own sound legs, for some other part of
the country.
So Guy made up his mind to return next morning
by the very first train direct to Plymouth, and there
inquire once more whether anything further had been
seen of the noticeable stranger.


216
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [cHap. xxiv.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.
On the very same day that Guy Waring visited Mam-
bury, where his mother was married, Montague Nevitt
had hunted up the entry of Colonel Kelmscott's wedding
in the church register.
Nevitt's behaviour, to say the truth, wasn't quite so
black as Guy Waring painted it. He had gone off
with the extra three thousand in his pocket, to be
sure; but he didn't intend to appropriate it outright
to his own uses. He merely meant to give Guy a
thoroughly good fright, as it wasn't really necessary the
call should be met for another fortnight; and then, as
soon as he'd found out the truth about Colonel Kelm-
scott and his unacknowledged sons, he proposed to use his
knowledge of the forgery as a lever with Guy, so as to
force him to come to advantageous terms with his sup-
posed father. Nevitt's idea was that Guy and Cyril
should drive a hard bargain on their own account with
the Colonel, and that he himself should then receive
a handsome commission on the transaction from both
the brothers, under penalty of disclosing the true facts


r Hap. xxiv ] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 217
about the cheque by whose aid Guy had met their joint
liability to the Rio Negro Diamond Mines.
It was with no small joy, therefore, that Nevitt saw
at last in the parish register of St. Mary's at Mambury,
the interesting announcement, "June 27th, Henry
Lucius Kelmscott, of the parish of Plymouth, bachelor,
private in the Regiment of Scots Greys, to Lucy
Waring, spinster, of this parish."
He saw at a glance, of course, why Kelmscott of
Tilgate had chosen to describe himself in this case as
a private soldier. But he also saw that the entry was
an official document, and that here he had one firm
hold the more on Colonel Kelmscott, who must falsely
have sworn to that incorrect description. The great
point of all, however, was the signature to the book;
and though nearly thirty years had elapsed since those
words were written, it was clear to Nevitt, when he
compared the autograph in the register with one of
Colonel Kelmscott's recent business letters, brought
with him for the purpose, that both had been penned
by one and the same person.
He chuckled to himself with delight to think how
great a benefactor he had proved himself unawares to
Guy and Cyril. At that very moment, no doubt, his
misguided young friend whom he had compelled to
assist him with the sinews of war for this important
campaign was reviling and objurating him in revengeful
terms as the blackest and most infamous of double-
dyed traitors. Ah, well! ah, well! the good are inured


218 WHAT'S DRED IN THE BONE. [chap xxiv.
to gross ingratitude. Guy little knew, as he, Montague
Nevitt, stood there triumphant in the vestry, blandly
rewarding the expectant clerk for his pains with a
whole Bank of England five-pound note—the largest
sum that functionary had ever in his life received all
at once in a single payment—Guy little knew that
Nevitt was really the chief friend and founder of the
family fortunes, and was prepared to compel the " un-
known benefactor" (for a moderate commission) to
recognise his unacknowledged firstborn sons before all
the world as the heirs to Tilgate. But yesterday, they
were nameless waifs and strays, of uncertain origin,
ashamed of their birth, and ignorant even whether they
had been duly begotten in lawful wedlock; to-day, they
were the legal inheritors of an honoured name and a
great estate, the first and foremost among the landed
gentry of a wealthy and beautiful English county.
He smiled to think what a good turn he had done
unawares to those ungrateful youths—and how little
credit, as yet, they were prepared to give him for it.
In such a mood he returned to the inn to lunch. His
spirits were high. This was a good day's work, and
he could afford, indeed, to make merry with his host
over it. He ordered in a bottle of wine—such wine as
the little country cellar could produce, and invited
that honest man, the landlord, to step in and share it
with him. He had tasted worse sherry on London
dinner-tables, and he told his host so. An affable man
with inferiors, Mr. Montague Nevitt! Then he strolled


chap. kit.] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 219
out by himself down the path by the brook. It was a
pleasant walk, with the water making music in little
trickles by its side, and Montague Nevitt, as a man of
taste, found it suited exactly with his temper for the
moment. He noted an undercurrent of rejoicing and
triumphant cheeriness in the tone of the stream as it
plashed among the pebbles on its precipitous bed that
suggested to his mind some bars of a symphony which
he determined to compose as soon as he got home
again to his beloved fiddle.
So he walked along by himself, elate, and with a
springy step, on thoughts of ambition intent, till he
came at last to a cool and shadowy place, where as yet
the ferns were not broken down and trampled under
foot, though Guy Waring found them so some twenty
minutes later.
At that spot he looked up, and saw advancing along
the path in the opposite direction the burly figure of a
man, in a light tourist suit, whom he hadn't yet
observed since he came to Mambury. The very first
point he noticed about the man, long before he recog-
nised him, was a pair of overgrown, obtrusive hands
held somewhat awkwardly in front of him—just like
Gilbert Gildersleeve's. The likeness, indeed, was so
ridiculously close that Montague Nevitt smiled quietly
to himself to observe it. If he'd been in the Tilgate
district now, he'd have declared, without the slightest
hesitation, that the man on the path ivas Gilbert Gilder-
sleeve.


220 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxiv.
One second later, he pulled himself up with a jerk
in alarmed surprise. "Great heavens," he cried to
himself, a weird sense of awe creeping over him piece-
meal, "either this is a dream or else it is, it must be
Gilbert Gildersleeve."
And so, indeed, it was. Gilbert Gildersleeve himself.
in his proper person. But the eminent Q.C., better
versed in the wiles of time and place than Guy 'Waring
in his innocence, had not come obtrusively to Mambury
village or asked point-blank at the Talbot Arms by
his own right name for the man he was in search of.
Such simplicity of procedure would never even have
occurred to that practised hand at the Old Bailey.
Mr. Gilbert Gildersleeve appeared on that woodland
path in the general guise of the common pedestrian
tourist with his head-quarters at Ivybridge, walking
about on the congenial outskirts of the Moor in search
of the picturesque, and coming and going by mere
accident through Mambury. He had hovered around
the neighbourhood for two days, off and on, in search
of his man; and now, by careful watching, like an
amateur detective, he had run his prey to earth by a
dexterous flank-movement and secured an interview
with him where he couldn't shirk or avoid it.
To Montague Nevitt, however, the meeting seemed
ut first sight but the purest accident. He had no
reason to suppose, indeed, that Gilbert Gildersleeve
had any special interest in his visit to Mambury,
further than might be implied in its possible connection


chap. xxiv.] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 221
with Granville Kelmscott's affairs; and he didn't
believe Gwendoline, in her fear of her father, that
blustering man, would ever have communicated to him
the personal facts of their interview at Tilgate. So he
advanced to meet his old acquaintance, the barrister,
with frankly outstretched hand.
"Mr. Gildersleeve!" he exclaimed in some surprise.
"No, it can't be you. Well, this is indeed an unex-
pected pleasure."
Gilbert Gildersleeve gazed down upon him from the
towering elevation of his six feet four. Montague
Nevitt was tall enough, as men go in England, but with
his slim, tailor-made form, and his waxed moustaches,
he looked by the side of that big-built giant, like a
Bond Street exquisite before some prize-fighting Goliath.
The barrister didn't hold out his huge hand in return.
On the contrary, he concealed it, as far as was possible,
behind his burly back, and, looking down from the full
height of - his contempt upon the sinister smirking
creature who advanced to greet him with that false
smile on his face, he asked severely,
"What are you doing here? That's what / have to
ask. What foxy ferreting have you come down to
Manibury for?"
"Foxy ferreting," Montague Nevitt repeated, drawing
back as if stung, and profoundly astonished. "Why,
what do you mean by that, Mr. Gildersleeve? I don't
understand you." The home-thrust was too true:—after
the great cross-examiner's well-known bullying manner


222
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxiv.
.—not to pierce him to the quick. "Who dares to say
I go anywhere ferreting?"
"/ do/' Gilbert Gildersleeve answered, with assured
confidence. "I say it, and I know it. You pitiful
sneak, don't deny it to me. You were in the vestry this
morning looking up the registers. Even you, with your
false eyes, sir, daren't look me in the face and tell me
you weren't. I saw you there myself. And I know
you found in the books what you wanted; for you paid
the clerk an extravagant fee. ... What's that? you
rat, don't try to interrupt me. Don't try to bully me.
It never succeeds. Montague Nevitt, I tell you, I toon't
be bullied." And the great Q.C. put his foot down on
the path with an elephantine solidity that made the
prospect of bullying him seem tolerably unlikely. "I
know the facts, and I'll stand no prevarication. Now,
tell me, what vile use did you mean to make of your
discovery this morning?"
Montague Nevitt drew back, fairly nonplussed for
the moment by such a vigorous and unexpected attack
on his flank. Resourceful as he was, even his cunning
mind came wholly unprepared to this sudden cross-
questioning. He felt his own physical inferiority to
the big Q.C. more keenly just then than he could ever
have conceived it possible for a man of his type to feel
it. After all, mind doesn't always triumph over matter.
Montague Nevitt was aware that that mountain of a
man, with his six feet four of muscular humanity, fairly
cowed and overawed him at such very close quarters.


chap. xxiv.] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.
223
"I don't see what business it is of yours, Mr. Gilder-
sleeve," he murmured, in a somewhat apologetic voice.
"I may surely be allowed to hunt up questions of
pedigree, of service in the end to myself and my
friends, without your interference."
Gilbert Gildersleeve glared at him, and flared up
all at once with righteous indignation.
"Of service in the end to yourself and your friends!"
he cried, with unfeigned scorn, putting his own inter-
pretation, as was natural, on the words. "Why, you
cur! you reptile! you unblushing sneak! Do you mean
to say openly you avow your intention of threatening
and blackmailing me? here—alone—to my face! You
extortionate wretch! I wouldn't have believed even
you in your heart would descend to such meanness."
Montague Nevitt, flurried and taken aback as he
was, yet reflected vaguely with some wonder, as he
listened and looked, what this sudden passion of dis-
interested zeal could betoken. Why such burning
solicitude for Colonel Kelmscott's estate on the part
of a man who was his avowed enemy? Even if Gwen-
doline meant to marry the young fellow Granville, with
her father's consent, how could Nevitt himself levy
blackmail upon Gilbert Gildersleeve by his knowledge
of the two Warings' claim to the property? A com-
plication surely. Was there not some unexpected
intricacy here which the cunning schemer himself
didn't yet understand, but which might redound, if
unravelled, to his greater advantage?


224
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxit.
"Blackmail you, Mr. Gildersleeve,'" he cried, with a
righteously indignant air. "That's an ugly word. I
blackmail nobody; and least of all the father of a lady
whom I still regard, in spite of all she can say or do
to make my life a blank, with affection and respect as
profound as ever. How can my inquiries into the two
Warings' affairs"
Gilbert Gildersleeve crushed him with a sudden out-
burst of indignant wrath.
"You cad !" he cried, growing red in the face with
horror and disgust. "You dare to speak so to me, and
to urge such motives! But you've mistaken your man.
I won't be bullied. If what you want is to use this
vile knowledge you've so vilely ferreted out, as a lever
to compel me to marry my daughter to you against her
will—I can only tell you, you sneak, you're on the
wrong tack. I will never consent to it. You may do
your worst, but you will never bend me. I'm not a
man to be bent or bullied—I won't be put down. I'll
withstand you and defy you. You may ruin me, if
you like, but you'll never break me. I stand here
firm. Expose me, and I'll fight you to the bitter end:
I'll fight you, and I'll conquer you."
He spoke with a fiery earnestness that Nevitt was
only just beginning to understand. There was some-
thing in this. Here was a clue indeed to follow up
and investigate. Surely, a menace to Granville Kelm-
scott's prospects could never have moved that heavy,
phlegmatic, pachydermatous man to such an outburst
of anger and suppressed fear.


chap. xxiv.] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 225
"Expose you?" Nevitt repeated, in a dazed and
startled voice. "Expose you, my dear sir! I assure
you, in truth, I don't understand you."
The barrister gazed down upon him with immea-
surable scorn. "You liar!" he broke forth, almost
choking at the words. "How dare you so pretend and
prevaricate to my face? I know it's not true. My
own daughter told me. She told me what you said
to her—every word of your vile threats. You had the
incredible meanness to terrify a poor helpless and
innocent girl by threatening to expose her mother's
disgrace publicly. Only you could have done it; but
you did it, you abject thing, you did it. She told me
with her own lips you threatened to come down to
Mambury, to hunt up the records. And she told me
the truth; for I've seen you doing it."
A light broke slowly upon Montague Nevitt's mind.
He drew a deep breath. This was good luck incredible.
What Gilbert Gildersleeve meant he hadn't as yet, to
be sure, the faintest conception. But it was clear they
two were at cross-questions with one another. The
secret Gilbert Gildersleeve thought he had come down
to Mambury to discover was not the secret he had
actually found out in the register that morning. It
was nothing about the Kelmscotts or Guy and Cyril
Waring; it was something about the great Q.C. and
his wife themselves—presumably some unknown and
disgraceful fact in Mrs. Gilbert Gildersleeve's early
history.
Q


226 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. Iohap. xxit.
. . And here was the cleverest lawyer at the English
criminal bar just giving himself away—giving himself
away unawares and telling him the secret, bit by bit,
unconsciously.
This chance was too valuable for Mr. Montague
Nevitt to lose. At all risks he must worm it out. He
paused and temporized. His cue was now not to let
Gilbert Gildersleeve see he didn't know his secret. He
must draw on the Q.C. by obscure half hints till he
was inextricably entangled in a complete confession.
"I had no intention of terrifying Miss Gildersleeve,
I'm sure," he said, in his blandest voice, with his best
company smile, now recovering his equanimity exactly
in proportion as the barrister grew angrier. "I merely
desired to satisfy myself as to the salient facts, and
to learn their true bearing upon the family history.
If I spoke to her at all as to any knowledge I might
possess with regard to any other lady's early ante-
cedents"
Gilbert Gildersleeve's brow was black as night. His
great hands trembled and twitched convulsively. Was
ever blackguard so cynically candid in his avowal of
the basest crimes as this fine-spoken specimen of the
culture of Pall Mall in his open confession of that
disgusting insult to a young girl's innocence? Gilbert
Gildersleeve, who was at heart an honest man, loathed
and despised and scorned and detested him.
"Do you dare to hint to me, then," he cried, every
muscle of his body quivering with just horror, "that


Ciiap. xxiv.] A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 227
you told ray own daughter you thought you had reason
to suspect her own mother's early antecedents?"
Montague Nevitt looked up at him with a quietly
sarcastic smile. "All's fair in love and war, you
know," he said, not caring to commit himself.
That smile sealed his fate. With an irrepressible
impulse, Gilbert Gildersleeve sprang upon him. He
didn't mean to hurt the man: he sprang upon him
merely as the sole outlet for his own incensed and
outraged feelings. Those great hands seized him for
a second by the dainty white throat, and flung him
back in anger. Montague Nevitt fell heavily on a
thick mass of bracken. There was a gurgle, a gasp;
then his head lolled senseless. He was very much
hurt. That at least was certain. The barrister stood
over him for a minute, still purple in the face. Mon-
tague Nevitt was white—very white and death-like.
All at once it occurred to the big strong man that his
hands—those great hands—were very fierce and power-
ful. He had clutched Nevitt by the throat, half
unconsciously, with all his might, just to give him a
purchase as he flung the man from him. He looked
at him again. Great heavens—what was this? It
burst over him at once. He awoke to it with a wild
start. The fellow was dead! And this was cleaily
manslaughter!
Justifiable homicide, if the jury knew all. But no
jury now could ever know all. And he had killed
him unawares! A great horror came over him. The


228
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap xxiv.
man was dead—the man was dead; and he, Gilbert
Gildersleeve, had unconsciously choked him.
He had no time to think. He had no time to
calculate. His wrath was still hot, though rapidly
cooling down before this awful discovery. Hide it!
Hide it! Hide it! That was all he could think. He
lifted the body in his arms, as easily as most men
would lift a baby. Then he laid it down among the
brambles close beside the stream. Something heavy
fell out of the pocket as he carried it. The barrister
took no heed. Little matter for that. He laid it down
in fear and trembling. As soon as it was hidden, he
fled for his life. By trackless ways, he walked over
the Moor, and returned to Ivybridge unseen very late
in the evening. Ten minutes after he left the spot,
Guy Waring passed by and picked up the pocket-book.


( 229 )
CHAPTER XXV.
LEAD TRUMPS.
Naturally, under these circumstances, it was all in
vain that Guy Waring pursued his investigations into
Montague Nevitt's whereabouts. Neither at Plymouth
nor anywhere else along the skirts of Dartmoor could
he learn that anything more had been seen or heard of
the man who called himself "Mr. McGregor." And
yet Guy felt sure Nevitt wouldn't go far from Mambury,
as things stood just then; for as soon as he missed
the pocket-book containing the three thousand pounds,
he would surely take some steps to recover it.
Two days later, however, Gilbert Gildersleeve sat in
the hotel at Plymouth, where he had moved from
Ivybridge after—well, as he phrased it to himself, after
that unfortunate accident. The blustering Q.G. was
like another man now. For the first time in his life
he knew what it meant to be nervous and timid.
Every sound made him suppress an involuntary start;
for as yet he had heard no whisper of the body being-
discovered. He couldn't leave the neighbourhood,
however, till the murder was out. Dangerous as he
felt it to remain on the spot, some strange spell seemed


230 WHAT'S BREO IN THE BONE. [cHAp. xxr.
to bind him against his will to Dartmoor. He must
stop and hear what local gossip had to say when the
body came to light. And above all, for the present,
he hadn't the courage to go home; he dared not face
his own wife and daughter.
So he stayed on and lounged, and pretended to
interest himself with walks over the hills and up the
Tamar valley.
As he sat there in the billiard-room, that day, a
young fellow entered whom he remembered to have
seen once or twice in London, at evening parties, with
Montague Nevitt. He turned pale at the sight—
Gilbert Gildersleeve turned pale, that great red man.
At first he didn't even remember the young fellow's
name; but it came back to him in time that he was
one Guy Waring. It was a hard ordeal to meet him,
but Gilbert Gildersleeve felt he must brazen it out.
To slink away from the young man would be to rouse
suspicion. So they sat and talked for a minute or
two together, on indifferent subjects, neither, to say
truth, being very well pleased to see the other under
such peculiar circumstances. Then Guy, who had the
least reason for concealment of the two, sauntered out
for a stroll, with his heart still full of that villain
Nevitt, whose name, of course, he had never mentioned
to Gilbert Gildersleeve. And Gilbert Gildersleeve, for
his part, had had equal cause for a corresponding
reticence as to their common acquaintance.
. Just as Guy left the room, the landlord dropped in
■
-


CHaP. XXV.]
233
LEAD TRUMPS.
a very long pause—were retained by-and-by for the
prosecution.
Gilbert Gildersleeve drew a deep breath, unperceived.
That was all, was it? The pause had unnerved him.
He talked some minutes, as unconcernedly as he could,
though trembling inwardly all the while, about the
murder and the murderer. The landlord listened with
profound respect to the words of legal wisdom as they
dropped from his lips ; for he knew Mr. Gildersleeve by
common repute as one of the ablest and acutest of
criminal lawyers in all England. Then, after a short
interval, the big burly man, moving his guilty fingers
nervously over the seal on his watch-chain, and assuming
as much as possible his ordinary air of blustering self-
assertion, asked, in an off-hand fashion, "By the way,
let me see, I've some business to arrange; what's the
number of my friend Mr. Billington's bedroom?"
The landlord looked up with a little start of surprise.
"Mr. Billington ?" he said, hesitating. "We've got no
Mr. Billington."
Gilbert Gildersleeve smiled a sickly smile. It was
neck or nothing now. He must go right through with
it. "Oh yes," he answered, with prompt conviction,
playing a dangerous card well—for how could he know
what name this young man Waring might possibly be
passing under? "The gentleman who was talking to
me when you came in just now. His name's Billington
—though, perhaps," he added, after a pause, with a
reflective air, "he may have given you another one.


234 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxv.
Young men will be young men. They've often some
reason, when travelling, for concealing their names.
Though Billington's not the sort of fellow, to be sure,
who's likely to be knocking about anywhere incognito."
The landlord laughed. "Oh, we've plenty of that
sort," he replied good-humouredly. "Both ladies and
gentlemen. It all makes trade. But your friend ain't
one of 'em. To tell you the truth, he didn't give any
name at all when he came to the hotel; and we didn't
ask any. Billington, is it? Ah, Billington, Billington.
I knew a Billington myself once, a trainer at New-
market. Well, he's a very pleasant young man, nice-
spoken, and that; but I don't fancy he's quite right in
his head, somehow."
With instinctive cleverness, Gilbert Gildersleeve
snatched at the opening at once. "Ah no, poor
fellow," he said, shaking his head sympathetically.
"You've found that out already, have you? Well,
he's subject to delusions a bit; mere harmless delu-
sions; but he's not at all dangerous. Excitable, very,
when anything odd turns up; he'll be calling himself
Waring and giving himself in charge for this murder,
I dare say, when he comes to hear of it. But as good-
hearted a fellow as ever lived, though; only, a trifle
obstinate. If you've any difficulty with him at any
time, just send for me. I've known him from a boy.
He'll do anything I tell him."
It was a critical game, but Gilbert Gildersleeve saw
something definite must be don«, and he trusted to


CHAP. XXv.]
235
LEAD TRUMPS.
bluster, and a well-known name, to carry him through
with it. And, indeed, he had said enough. From that
moment forth, the landlord's suspicions were never
even so much as aroused by the innocent young man
with the preoccupied manner, who knew Mr. Gilder-
sleeve. The great Q.C.'s word was guarantee enough—
for any one but himself. And the great Q.C. himself
knew it. Why, a chance word from his lips was
enough to protect Guy Waring from suspicion. Who
would ever believe, then, anything so preposterously
improbable as that the great Q.C. himself was the
murderer?
Not the police, you may be sure; nor the Plymouth
landlord.
He went out into the town, with his mind now filled
full of a curious scheme. A plan of campaign loomed
up visibly before him. Waring was suspected. There-
fore Waring must somehow have given cause for sus-
picion. Well, Waring was a friend of Montague
Nevitt's, and had evidently been at Mambury, either
with him or without him, immediately before the—h'm
—the unfortunate accident. But as soon as Waring
came to learn of the discovery of the body, which he
would be sure to do from the paper that evening at
latest, he would see at once the full strength of what-
ever suspicions might tell against him. Now, Gilbert
Gildersleeve's experience of criminal cases had abun-
dantly shown him that a suspected person, even when
innocent, always has one fixed desire in his head—to


236 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. Tchap. xxt.
gain time, anyhow. So Waring would naturally wish
to gain time, at whatever cost. There were evidently
circumstances connecting Waring with the crime; there
were none at all, known to the outer world, connecting
the eminent lawyer. Therefore, the eminent lawyer
argued to himself, as coolly almost as if it had been
somebody else's case, not his own, he was conducting—
therefore, if an immediate means of escape is provided
for Waring, Waring will almost undoubtedly fall blind-
fold into it.
Not that he meant to let Guy pay the penalty in the
end for his own rash crime. He was no hardened
villain. He had still a conscience. If the worst came
to the. worst, he said to himself, he would tell all,
openly, rather than let an innocent man suffer. But,
like every one else, in accordance with his own infer-
ence from his observation of others, he, too, wanted
to gain time, anyhow; and if he could but gain time
by kindly helping Guy to escape for the present, why,
he would gladly do so. An innocent man may be
suspected for the moment, Gilbert Gildersleeve thought
to himself, with a lawyer's blind confidence; but under
our English law he need never at least fear that the
suspicion will be permanent. For lawyers repeat their
own incredible commonplaces about the absolute per-
fection of English law so often that at last, by a sort
of retributive nemesis, they really almost come to
believe them.
Filled with these ideas, then, which rose naturally


CHAP. XXv.]
237
LEAD TRUMPS.
up in his mind without his taking the trouble, as it
were, definitely to prove them, Gilbert Gildersleeve
hurried on through the crowded streets of Plymouth
town, till he reached the office of the London and
South African Steamship Company. There he entered
with an air of decided business, and asked to take a
passage to Cape Town at once by the steamer Cetewayo,
due to call at Plymouth, outward bound, that evening.
He had looked up particulars of sailing in the papers
at the hotel, and asked now, as if for himself, for a
large and roomy berth, with all his usual self-possession
and boldness of manner. The clerk gazed at him care-
lessly; that big and burly man with the great awkward
hands raised no picture in his brain of the supposed
murderer of McGregor in the wood at Mambury as
that murderer had been described to him by the police
that morning, from a verbal portrait after the landlord
of the Talbot Arms. This colossal, red-faced, loud-
spoken person, who required a large and roomy berth,
was certainly not the rather slim young man, a little
above the medium height, with a dark moustache and
a gentle musical voice, whom the inn-keeper had seen
in an excited mood on the hunt for McGregor along
the slopes of Dartmoor.
"What name?" the clerk asked briskly, after
Gilbert Gildersleeve had selected his state-room from
the plan, with some show of interest as to its being
well amidships and not too near the noise of the
engines.


238 WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. Jchap. xsv.
"Billington," the barrister answered, without a
glimmer of hesitation. "Arthur Standish Billington,
if you want the full name. Thirty-two will suit me
very well, I think, and I'll pay for it now. Go aboard
when she's sighted, I suppose; nine o'clock or there-
abouts."
The clerk made out the ticket in the name he was
told. "Yes, nine o'clock," he said curtly. "All
luggage to be on board the tender by eight, sharp.
You've left taking your passage very late, Mr. Billing-
ton. Lucky we've a room that'll suit you, I'm sure.
It isn't often we have berths left amidships like this
on the day of sailing."
Gilbert Gildersleeve pretended to look unconcerned
once more. "No, I suppose not," he answered, in a
careless voice. "People generally know their own
minds rather longer beforehand. But I'd a telegram
from the Cape this morning that calls me over imme-
diately."
He folded up his ticket, and put it in his pocket.
Then he pulled out a roll of notes and paid the amount
in full. The clerk gave him change promptly. Nobody
could ever have suspected so solid a man as the great
Q.C. of auy more serious crime or misdemeanour than
shirking the second service on Sunday evening. There
was a ponderous respectability about his portly build
that defied detection. The agents of all the steamboat
companies had been warned that morning that the slim
young man of the name of Waring might try to escape


CHAP. xxvj
230
LEAD TRUMPS.
at the last moment. But who could ever suspect this
colossal pile, in the British churchwarden style of
human architecture, of aiding and abetting the escape
of the young man Waring from the pervasive
myrmidons of English justice? The very idea was
absurd. Gilbert Gildersleeve's waistcoat was above
suspicion.
And when Guy Waring returned to his room at the
Duke of Devonshire Hotel half an hour later, in com-
plete ignorance as yet of the bare fact of the murder,
he found on his table an envelope addressed, in an
unknown hand, "Guy Waring, Esq.," while below in
the corner, twice underlined, were the importunate
words, "Immediate! Important!"
Guy tore it open in wonder. What on earth could
this mean? He trembled as he read. Could Cyril
have learnt all? Or had Nevitt, that double-dyed
traitor, now trebled his treachery by informing against
the man whom he had driven into a crime? Guy
couldn't imagine what it all could be driving at, for
there, before his eyes, in a round schoolboy hand, very
carefully formed, without the faintest trace of anything
like character, were the words of this strange and
startling message, whose origin and intent were alike a
mystery to him.
"Guy Waring, a warrant is out for your appre-
hension. Fly at once, or things may be worse for
you. It is something always to gain time for the


240
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE, [chap, xxv.
moment. You will avoid suspicion, public scandal,
trial. Enclosed find a ticket for Cape Town by the
Cetewayo to-night. She sails at nine. Luggage to be
on board the tender by eight sharp. If you go, all
can yet be satisfactorily cleared up. If you stay, the
danger is great, and may be very serious. Ticket is
taken (and paid for) in the name of Arthur Standish
Billington. Settle your account at the hotel in that
name and go.
"Yours, in frantic haste,
"A Sincere Well-wisher."
Guy gazed at the strange missive long and dubiously.
"A warrant is out." He scarcely knew what to do.
Oh, for time, time, time! Had Cyril sent this? Or
was it some final device of that fiend, Nevitt?


242
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [cHAp. xxvi.
sound in his pocket, and those at least he could send
back to Cyril. With them he could send a cheque on
his own banker for three thousand more; not that
there were funds there at present to meet the demand;
but if the unknown benefactor should pay in the six
thousand he promised within the next few weeks, then
Cyril could repay himself from that hypothetical
fortune. On the other hand, Guy didn't disguise from
himself the strong probability that the unknown bene-
factor might now refuse to pay in the six thousand. In
that case, Guy said to himself with a groan, he would
take to the diamond fields, and never rest day or night
in his self-imposed task till he had made enough to
repay Cyril in full the missing three thousand, and to
make up the other three thousand he still owed the
creditors of the Eio Negro Company. After which, he
would return and give himself up like a man, to stand
his trial voluntarily for the crime he had committed.
It was a young man's scheme, very fond and youth-
ful; but with the full confidence of his age he pro-
ceeded at once to put it in practice. Indeed, now he
came to think upon it, he fancied to himself he saw
something like a solution of the mystery in the
presence of the great Q.C. at Plymouth that morning.
Cyril had found out all, and had determined to save
him. The bankers had found out all, and had deter-
mined to prosecute. They had consulted Gildersleeve.
Gildersleeve had come down on a holiday trip, and
run up against him at Plymouth by pure accident,


244
WHAT'S BRED IK THE BONE. [chai>. xxvi.
said; he didn't try to explain, for explanation would
be impossible. How he came to do it, he had no idea
himself. A sudden suggestion—a strange unaccount-
able impulse—a minute or two of indecision—and
almost before he knew it, under the spell of that strange
eye, the thing was done, irretrievably done for ever.
The best he could offer now was to express his profound
and undying regret at the wrong he had committed,
and by which he had never profited himself a single
farthing. Nevitt had deceived him with incredible
meanness; he could never have believed any man
would act as Nevitt had acted. Nevitt had stolen
three thousand pounds of the sum, and applied them
to paying off his own debt to the Eio Negro creditors.
The remaining three thousand, sent herewith, Guy had
recovered, almost by a miracle, from that false creature's
grasp, and he returned them now, in proof of the fact,
in Montague Nevitt's own pocket-book, which Cyril
would no doubt immediately recognise. For himself,
he meant to leave England at once, at least for the
present. Where he was going he wouldn't as yet let
Cyril know. He hoped in a new country to recover
his honour and rehabilitate his name. Meanwhile, it
was mainly for Cyril's sake that he fled—and for one
other person's too—to avoid a scandal. He hoped
Cyril would be happy with the woman of his choice;
for it was to insure their joint happiness that he was
accepting the offer of escape so unexpectedly tendered
him.


chap, xxvi.] A CHANCE MEETING. 24")
He sealed up the letter—that incriminating letter,
that might mean so much more than he ever put into
it—and took it out to the post, with the three thousand
pounds and Montague Nevitt's pocket-book in a separate
packet. Proud Kelmscott as he was by birth and
nature, he slunk through the streets like a guilty man,
fancying all eyes were fixed suspiciously upon him.
Then he returned to the hotel in a burning heat, went
into the smoking room on purpose like an honest man,
and rang the bell for the servant boldly.
"Bring my bill, please," he said to the waiter who
answered it. "I go at seven o'clock."
"Yes, sir," the waiter replied, with official prompti-
tude. "Directly, sir. What number?"
"I forget the number," Guy answered, with a beating
heart; "but the name's Billington."
"Yes, sir," the waiter responded once more, in the
self-same unvaried tone, and went off to the office.
Guy waited in profound suspense, half expecting the
waiter to come back for the number again; but to his
immense surprise and mystification, the fellow didn't.
Instead of that, he returned some minutes later, all
respectful attention, bringing the bill on a salver, duly
headed and lettered, "Mr. Billington, number 40." In
unspeakable trepidation, Guy paid it and walked away.
Never before in all his life had he been surrounded so
close on every side by a thick hedge of impenetrable
and inexplicable mystery.
. Then a new terror seized him. Was he running his


246
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxvr.
head into a noose, blindfold? Who was the Billington
he was thus made to personate, and who must really
be staying at the very same time in the Duke of
Devonshire? Was this just another of Nevitt's wily
tricks? Had he induced his victim to accept without
question the name and character of some still more
open criminal?
There was no time now, however, to draw back or
to hesitate. The die was cast; he must stand by its
arbitrament. He had decided to go, and on that hasty
decision had acted in a way that was practically irre-
vocable. He put his things together with trembling
hands, called a cab by the porter, and drove off alone
in a turmoil of doubt, to the landing-stage in the
harbour.
Policemen not a few were standing about on the
pier and in the streets as he drove past openly. But
in spite of the fact that a warrant had been issued for
his apprehension, none of them took the slightest
apparent notice of him. He wondered much at this.
But there was really no just cause for wonder. For
at least an hour earlier the police had ceased to look
out any longer for Nevitt's murderer. And the reason
they had done so was simply this: a telegram had
come down from Scotland Yard in the most positive
terms, " Waring arrested this afternoon at Dover. The
murdered man McGregor is now certainly known to be
Montague Nevitt, a bank clerk in London. Endeavour
to trace Waring's line of retreat from Mambury to


chap. xxvi.] A CHANCE MEETING. 247
Dover by inquiry of the railway officials. We are
sure of our man. Photographs will be forwarded you
by post immediately."
And, as a matter of fact, at the very moment when
Guy was driving down to the tender, in order to escape
from an imaginary charge of forgery, his brother Cyril,
to his own immense astonishment, was being conveyed
from Dover Pier to Tavistock, under close police escort,
on a warrant charging him with the wilful murder of
Montague Nevitt, two days before, at Mambury, in
Devon.
If Guy had only known that, he would never have
fled. But he didn't know it. How could he, indeed,
in his turmoil and hurry? He didn't even know
Montague Nevitt was dead. He had been too busy
that day to look at the papers. And the few facts he
knew from the boys crying in the street he naturally
misinterpreted, by the light of his own fears and
personal dangers. He thought he was "wanted" for
the yet undiscovered forgery, not for the murder, of
which he was wholly ignorant.
Nevertheless, we can never in this world entirely
escape our own personality. As Guy went on board,
believing himself to have left his identity on shore,
he heard somebody, in a voice that he fancied he knew,
ask a newsboy on the tender for an evening paper.
Guy was the only passenger who embarked at Plymouth;
and this person unseen was the newsboy's one customer.
Guy couldn't discover who he was at the moment,


248
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE. [chap, xxvi.
for the call for a paper came from the upper deck; he
only heard the voice, and wasn't certain at first that
he recognised even that any more than in a vague and
indeterminate reminiscence. No doubt the sense of
guilt made him preternaturally suspicious. But he
began to fear that somebody might possibly recognise
him. And he had bought the paper with news about
the warrant. That was bad; but 'twas too late to draw
back again now. The tender lay alongside a while,
discharging her mails, and then cast loose to go. The
Getewayo's screw began to move through the water.
With a dim sense of horror, Guy knew they were off.
He was well under way for far distant South Africa.
But he did not know or reflect that while he ploughed
his path on over that trackless sea, day after day,
without news from England, there would be ample
time for Cyril to be tried, and found guilty, and
perhaps hanged as well, for the crime that neither of
them had really committed.
The great ship steamed out, cutting the waves with
her prow, and left the harbour lights far, far behind
her. Guy stood on deck and watched them disappear-
ing with very mingled feelings. Everything had been
so hurried, he hardly knew himself as yet how his
flight affected all the active and passive characters in
this, painful drama. He only knew he was irrevocably
committed to the voyage now. There would be no
chance of turning till they reached Cape Town, or at
the very least Madeira.


CHAP. XXvI.]
249
A CHANCE MEETING.
He stood on deck and looked back. Somebody else
in an ulster stood not far off, near a light by the saloon,
conversing with an officer. Guy recognised at once
the voice of the man who had asked in the harbour for
an evening paper. At that moment a steward came
up as he stood there, on the look-out for the new pas-
senger they'd just taken in. "You're in thirty-two,
sir, I think," he said, "and your name"
"Is Billington," Guy answered, with a faint tremor
of shame at the continued falsehood.
The man who had bought the paper turned round
sharply and stared at him. Their eyes met in one
quick flash of unexpected recognition. Guy started in
horror. This was an awful meeting. He had seen the
man but once before in his life, yet he knew him at
a glance. It was Granville Kelmscott.
For a minute or two they stood and stared at one
another blankly, those unacknowledged half-brothers,
of whom one now knew, while the other still ignored,
the real relationship that existed between them. Then
Granville Kelmscott turned away without one word
of greeting. Guy trembled in his shame. He knew
he was discovered. But before his very eyes, Granville
took the paper he had been reading by that uncertain
light, and, raising it high in his hand, flung it over
into the sea with spasmodic energy. It was the
special edition containing the account of the man
McGregor's death and Guy Waring's supposed con-
nection with the murder. Granville Kelmscott, indeed,


250
WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxvi.
couldn't bring himself to denounce his own half-
brother. He stared at him coldly for a second with
a horrified face.
Then he said, in a very low and distant voice, " I
know your identity, Mr. Billington," with a profoundly
sarcastic accent on the assumed name, "and I will not
betray it. I know your secret, too; and I will keep
that inviolate. Only, during the rest of this voyage,
do me the honour, I beg of you, not to recognise me
or speak to me in any way at any time."
Guy slunk away in silence to his own cabin.
Never before in his life had he known such shame.
He felt that his punishment was indeed too heavy for
him.


( 251 )
CHAPTER XXVII.
SOMETHING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE.
At Tilgate and Chetwood next morning, two distin-
guished households were thrown into confusion by the
news in the papers. To Colonel Kelmscott and to
Elma Clifford alike that news came with crushing
force and horror. A murder, said the Times, had been
committed in Devonshire, in a romantic dell, on the
skirts of Dartmoor. No element of dramatic interest
was wanting to the case; persons, place, and time were
all equally remarkable. The victim of the outrage
was Mr. Montague Nevitt, confidential clerk to Messrs.
Drummond, Coutts, and Barclay, the well-known
bankers, and himself a familiar figure in musical
society in London. The murderer was presumably a
young journalist, Mr. Guy Waring, not unknown him-
self in musical circles, and brother of that rising land-
scape painter, Mr. Cyril Waring, whose pictures of
wild life in forest scenery had lately attracted con-
siderable attention at the Academy and the Grosvenor.
Mr. Guy Waring had been arrested the day before on
the pier at Dover, where he had just arrived by the
Ostend packet. It was supposed by the police that


252
WHAT'S BRED IX THE BONE. [chap, xxvii.
he had hastily crossed the Channel from Plymouth to
Cherbourg, soon after the murder, to escape detection,
and, after journeying by cross-country routes through
France and Belgium, had returned via Ostend to the
shores of England. It was a triumphant vindication
of our much maligned detective system that within a
few hours after the discovery of the body on Dart-
moor, the supposed criminal should have been recog-
nised, arrested, and detained among a thousand others,
in a busy port, at the very opposite extremity of
southern England.
Colonel Kelmscott that day was strangely touched,
even before he took up his morning paper. A letter
from Granville, posted at Plymouth, had just reached
him by the early maih to tell him that the only son
he had ever really loved or cared for on earth
had sailed the day before, a disinherited outcast, to
seek his fortune in the wild wastes of Africa. How
he could break the news to Lady Emily he couldn't
imagine. The Colonel, twisting his white moustache,
with a quivering hand on his tremulous lip, hardly
dared to realize what their future would seem like.
And then—he turned to the paper, and saw to his
horror this awful tale of a cold-blooded^ and cowardly
murder, committed on a friend by one who, however
little he might choose to acknowledge it, was after all
his own eldest son, a Kelmscott of Tilgate, as much as
Granville himself, in lawful wedlock duly begotten.
The proud but broken man gazed at the deadly


CHAR xxvii.] SOMETHING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE. 253
announcement in blank amaze and agony. His Nemesis
had come. Guy Waring was his own son—and Guy
Waring was a murderer.
He tried to argue with himself at first that this tragic
result in some strange way justified him, after the event,
for his own long neglect of his parental responsibilities.
The-young man was no true Kelmscott at heart, he was
sure, or such an act as that would have revolted and
appalled him. He was no true son in reality; his order
disowned him. Base blood flowed in his veins, and
made crimes like these conceivable.
"I was right after all," the Colonel thought, "not to
acknowledge these half low-born lads as the heirs of
Tilgate. Bad blood will out in the end—and this is the
result of it"
And then, with sudden revulsion he thought once
more—God help him! How could he say such things
in his heart even now of her, his pure, trustful Lucy?
She was better than him in her soul, he knew—ten
thousand times better. If bad blood came in anywhere,
it came in from himself, not from that simple-hearted,
innocent little country-bred angel.
And perhaps if he'd treated these lads as he ought,
and brought them up to their own, and made them
Kelmscotts indeed, instead of nameless adventurers,
they might never have fallen into such abysses of tur-
pitude. But he had let them grow up in ignorance of
their own origin, with the vague stain of a possible
illegitimacy hanging over their heads; and what wonder


254
WHATS BRED IN THE BOXE. [chap, xxvii.
if they forgot in the end how noblesse oblige, and sank at
last into foul depths of vice and criminality?
As he read on, his head swam with the cumulative
evidence of that deliberately planned and cruelly exe-
cuted yet brutal murder. The details of the crime
gave him a sickening sense of loathing and incredulity.
Impossible that his own son could have schemed and
carried out so vile an attack upon a helpless person,
who had once been his nearest and dearest companion.
And yet, the account in the paper gave him no alterna-
tive but to believe it. Nevitt and Guy Waring had
been inseparable friends. They had dined together,
supped together, played duets in their own rooms, gone
out to the same parties, belonged to the same club, in
all things been closer than even the two twin brothers.
Some quarrel seemed to have arisen about a matter of
speculations in which both had suffered. They sepa-
rated at once—separated in anger. Nevitt went down
to Devonshire by himself for his holiday. Then Waring
followed him, without any pretence at concealment;
inquired for him at the village inn with expressions of
deadly hate; tracked him to a lonely place in the adja-
cent wood; choked him, apparently with some form of
garotte or twisted rope—for the injuries seemed greater
than even the most powerful man could possibly inflict
with the hands alone; and hid the body of his mur-
dered friend at last in a mossy dell by the bank of the
streamlet. Nor was that all; for with callous effron-
tery he had returned to the inn, still inquiring after his


CHap. xxvii.] SOMETHING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE. 255
victim; and had gone off next morning early with a lie
on his lips, pretending even then to nurse his undying
wrath and to be bent on following up with' coarse
threats of revenge his stark and silent enemy.
So far the Times. But to Colonel Kelmscott, reading
in between the lines as he went, there was more in it
than even that. He saw, though dimly, some hint of a
motive. For it was at Mambury that all these things
had taken place; and it was at Mambury that the
secret of Guy Waring's descent lay buried, as he
thought, in the parish registers. What it all meant,
Colonel Kelmscott couldn't indeed wholly understand;
but many things he knew which the writer of the
account in the Times knew not. He knew that Nevitt
was a clerk in the bank where he himself kept his
account, and to which he had given orders to pay in
the six thousand to Cyril's credit, at Cyril's bankers.
He knew, therefore, that Nevitt might thus have been
led to suspect the real truth of the case as to the two
so-called Warings. He knew that Cyril had just
received the six thousand. Trying to put these facts
together and understand their meaning he utterly
failed; but this much at least was clear to him, he
thought—the reason for the murder was something con-
nected with a search for the entry of his own clandes-
tine marriage.
He looked down at the paper again. Great heavens,
what was this ?" It is rumoured that a further induce-
ment to the crime may perhaps be sought in the fact


256
AVHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE. [chap, xxvii.
that the deceased gentleman had a large sum of money
in his possession in Bank of England notes at the time
of his death. These notes he carried in a pocket-book
about his person, where they were seen by the landlord
of the Talbot Arms at Mambury, the night before, the
supposed murder. When the body was discovered by
the side of the brook, two days later, the notes were
gone. The pockets were carefully searched by order
of the police, but no trace of the missing money could
be discovered. It is now conjectured that Mr. Guy
Waring, who is known to have lost heavily in the Rio
Negro Diamond Mines, may have committed the crime
from purely pecuniary motives, in order to release
himself from his considerable and very pressing financial
embarrassments."
The paper dropped from Colonel Kelmscott's hands.
His eyes ceased to see. His arm fell rigid. This last
horrible suggestion proved too much for him to bear.
He shrank from it like poison. That a son of his
own, unacknowledged or not, should be a criminal—a
murderer—was terrible enough; but that he should
even be suspected of having committed murder for
such base and vulgar motives as mere thirst of gain
was more than the blood of the Kelmscotts could put
up with. The unhappy father had said to himself in
his agony at first that if Guy really killed that prying
bank clerk at all, it was no doubt in defence of his
mother's honour. That was a reason a Kelmscott could
understand. That, if not an excuse, was at least a


chap, xxvn.] SOMETHING TO THKIK ADVANTAGE. 257
palliation. But to be told he had killed him for a roll
of bank-notes—oh, horrible, incredible; his reason drew
back at it. That was a depth to which the Kelmscott
idiosyncrasy could never descend. The Colonel in his
horror refused to believe it.
He put his hands up feebly to his throbbing brow.
This was a ghastly idea—a ghastly accusation. The
man called Waring had dragged the honour of the
Kelmscotts through the mud of the street. There was
but one comfort left. He never bore that unsullied
name. Nobody would know he was a Kelmscott of
Tilgate.
The Colonel rose from his seat, and staggered across
the floor. Half-way to the door, he reeled and stopped
short. The veins of his forehead were black and
swollen. He had the same strange feeling in his head
as he experienced on the day when Granville left—
only a hundred times worse. The two halves of his
brain were opening and shutting. His temples seemed
too full; he fancied there was something wrong with
his forehead somewhere. He reeled once more, like a
drunken man. Then he clutched at a chair and sat
down. His brain was flooded.
He collapsed all at once, mumbling to himself some
inarticulate gibberish. Half an hour later, the servants
came in and found him. He was seated in his chair,
still doddering feebly. The house was roused. A
doctor was summoned, and the Colonel put to bed.
Lady Emily watched him with devoted care. But it
S


258 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxvii.
was all in vain. The doctor shook his head the moment
he examined him. "A paralytic stroke," he said
gravely; "and a very serious one. He seems to have
had a slighter attack some time since, and to have
wholly neglected it. A great blood-vessel in the brain
must have given way with a rush. I can hold out no
hope. He won't live till morning."
. And indeed, as it turned out, about ten that night
the Colonel's loud and stentorious breathing began to
fail slowly. The intervals grew longer and longer
between each recurrent gasp, and life died away at
last in imperceptible struggles.
By two in the morning, Kelmscott of Tilgate lay
dead on his bed; and his two unacknowledged and
unrecognised sons were the masters of his property.
But one of them was at that moment being tossed
about wildly on the waves of Biscay; and the other
was locked up on a charge of murder in the county
jail at Tavistock, in Devonshire.
Meanwhile, at the other house at Chetwood, where
these tidings were being read with almost equal interest,
Elma Clifford laid down the paper on the table with a
very pale face, and looked at her mother. Mrs. Clifford,
all solicitous watchfulness for the effect on Elma, looked
in return with searching eyes at her daughter. Then
Elma opened her lips like one who talks in her sleep,
and spoke out twice in two short disconnected sentences.
The first time she said simply, "He didn't do it, I
know," and the second time, with all the intensity of


CHAP. XXVIII.]
2G1
MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
the man's hand. "There must be some mistake some-
where."
The policeman smiled. "Oh yes," he answered
briskly, with some humour in his tone. "There's
always a mistake, of course, in all these arrests. You
never get a hold of the right man just at first. It's
sure to be a case of his twin brother. But there ain't
no mistake this time, don't you fear. I knowed you at
once, when I see you, by your photograph. Though
we were looking out for you, to be sure, going the other
way. But it's you all right. There ain't a doubt
about that. Warrant in the name of Guy Waring,
gentleman; wanted for the wilful murder of a man
unknown, said to be one McGregor, alias Montague
Nevitt, on the 27th instant, at Mambury, in Devon-
shire."
Cyril gave a sudden start at the conjunction of
names, which naturally increased his captor's suspicious.
"But there is a mistake, though," he said angrily,
"even on your own showing. You've got the wrong
man. It's not I that am wanted. My name's Cyril
Waring, and Guy is my brother's. Though Guy can't
have murdered Mr. Nevitt, either, if it comes to that;
they were most intimate friends. However, that's
neither here nor there. I'm Cyril, not Guy; I'm not
your prisoner."
"Oh yes, you are, though," the officer answered,
holding his arm very tight, and calling mutely for
assistance by a glance at the other policemen. "I've


CHAP. xxvin.] MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
263
trying to obstruct the police in the exercise of their
duty. If I can't take you up on the warrant as it
stands, well, anyhow, I can arrest you on suspicion
all the same, for looking so precious like the photo-
graph of the man as is wanted. Twin brothers ain't
got any call, don't you know, to sit, turn about, for
one another's photographs. It hinders the administra-
tion of justice; that's where it is. And remember,
whatever you choose to say may be used as evidence
at the trial against you."
Thus adjured, Cyril yielded at last to force majeure
and walked arm in arm between the two policemen,
followed by a large and admiring crowd, to the nearest
station.
But the matter was far less easily arranged than at
first imagined. An innocent man who knows his own
innocence, taken up in mistake for a brother whom he
believes to be equally incapable of the crime with
which he is charged, naturally expects to find no
difficulty at all in proving his identity and escaping
from custody on a false charge of murder. But the
result of a hasty examination at the station soon
effectually removed this little delusion. His own
admission that the photograph was a portrait of Guy,
and his resemblance to it in every leading particular,
made the authorities decide on the first blush of the
thing this was really the man Scotland Yard was in
search of. He was trying to escape them on the
ridiculous pretext that he was in point of fact his own


264
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai>. xxvra.
twin brother. The inspector declined to let him go
for the night. He wasn't going to repeat the mistake
that was made in the Lefroy case, he said very
decidedly. He would send the suspected person under
escort to Tavistock.
So to Tavistock Cyril went, uncertain as yet what
all this could mean, and ignorant of the crime with
which he was charged, if indeed any crime had
been really committed. All the way down, an endless
string of questions suggested themselves one by one
to his excited mind. Was Nevitt really dead? And
if so, who had killed him? Was it suicide to escape
from the monetary embarrassments brought about by
the failure of the Eio Negro Diamond Mines, or was
it accident or mischance? Or was it in fact a murder?
And in any case—strangest of all—where was Guy?
Why didn't Guy come forward and court inquiry?
For as yet, of course, Cyril hadn't received his brother's
letter, with the incriminating pocket-book and the
three thousand pounds; nor indeed, for several days
after, as things turned out, was there even a possibility
of his ever receiving it.
Next morning, however, when Cyril was examined
before the Tavistock magistrates, he began to realize
the whole strength of the case against him. The pro-
ceedings were purely formal, as the lawyers said; yet
they were quite enough to make Cyril's cheek turn
pale with horror. One witness after another came
forward and swore to him. The station-master at Mam-


chap, xxviii.] MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
263
bury gave evidence that he had made inquiries on the
platform after Nevitt by name; the inn-keeper deposed
as to his excited behaviour when he called at the
Talbot Arms, and his recognition of McGregor as the
person he was in search of; the boy of whom Guy had
inquired at the gate unhesitatingly set down the con-
versation to Cyril. None of them had the faintest
doubt in his own mind—each swore—that the prisoner
before the magistrates was the self-same person who
went over to Mambury on that fatal day, and who
followed Montague Nevitt down the path by the river.
As Cyril listened, one terrible fact dawned clearer
and clearer upon his brain. Every fragment of evidence
they piled up against himself made the case against
Guy look blacker and blacker.
The magistrates accepted the proofs thus tendered,
and Cyril, as yet unassisted by professional advice, was
remanded accordingly till next morning.
Just as he was about to leave the Sessions House in
a tumult of horror, fear, and suspense, somebody close
by tapped him on the shoulder gravely, after a few
whispered words with the chairman and the magistrates.
Cyril turned round, and saw a burly man with very
large hands, whom he remembered to have had pointed
out to him in London, and, strange to say, by Montague
Nevitt himself—as the eminent Q.C., Mr. Gilbert
Gildersleeve.
The great advocate was pale, but very sincere and
earnest. Cyril noticed his manner was completely


266
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxvnf.
changed. It was clear some overmastering idea pos-
sessed his soul.
"Mr. Waring," he said, looking him full in the
face, "I see you're unrepresented. This is a case in
which I take a very deep interest. My conduct's
unprofessional, I know—point-blank against all our
recognised etiquette—but perhaps you'll excuse it.
Will you allow me to undertake your defence in
this matter?"
Cyril turned round to him with truly heartfelt
thanks. It was a great relief to him, alone and in
doubt, and much wondering about Guy, to hear a
friendly word from whatever quarter.
And Cyril knew he was safe in Gilbert Gildersleeve's
hands: the greatest criminal lawyer of the day in
England might surely be trusted to set right such a
mere little error of mistaken identity. Though for
Guy—whenever Guy gave himself up to the police—
Cyril felt the position was far more dangerous. He
couldn't believe, indeed, that Guy was guilty; yet the
circumstances, he could no longer conceal from himself,
looked terribly black against him.
"You're too good," he cried, taking the lawyer's hand
in his with very fervent gratitude. "How can I thank
you enough? I'm deeply obliged to you."
"Not at all," Gilbert Gildersleeve answered, with
very blanched lips. He was ashamed of his duplicity.
"You've nothing to thank me for. This case is a
simple one, and I'd like to see you out of it. I've met


chap. xxvin.] MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
267
your brother; and the moment I saw you I knew you
weren't he, though you're very like him. I should
know you two apart wherever I saw you."
"That's curious," Cyril cried, "for very few people
know us from one another, except the most intimate
friends."
The Q.C. looked at him with a very penetrating
glance. "I had occasion to see your brother not long
since," he answered slowly, "and his features and
expression fastened themselves indelibly on my mind's
eye. I should know you from him at a glance. This
case, as you say, is one of mistaken identity. That's
just why I'm so anxious to help you well through it."
And indeed, Gilbert Gildersleeve, profoundly agitated
as he was, saw in the accident a marvellous chance for
himself to secure a diversion of police attention from
the real murderer. The fact was, he had passed twenty-
four hours of supreme misery. As soon as he learned
from common report that "the murderer was caught,
and was being brought to Tavistock," he took it for
granted at first that Guy hadn't gone to Africa at all,
but had left by rail for the East, and been arrested
elsewhere. That belief filled him full of excruciating
terrors. For Gilbert Gildersleeve, accidental man-
slaughterer as he was, was not by any means a depraved
or wholly heartless person. Big, blustering, and gruff,
he was yet in essence an honest, kind-hearted, un-
emotional Englishman. His one desire now was to
save his wife and daughter from further misery; and


268
WHAT'S BRED IN* THE BONE. [chap, xxviii.
if he could only save them, he was ready to sacrifice for
the moment, to a certain extent, Guy Waring's reputa-
tion. But if Guy Waring himself had stood before him
in the dock, he must have stepped forward to confess.
The strain would have been too great for him. He
couldn't have allowed an innocent man to be hanged
in his place. Come what might, in that case he must
let his wife and daughter go, and save the innocent by
acknowledging himself guilty. So, when he looked at
the prisoner, it gave him a shock of joy to see that
fortune had once more befriended him. Thank Heaven,
thank Heaven, it wasn't the man they wanted at all.
This was the other brother of the two—Cyril, the
painter, not Guy, the journalist.
In a moment the acute and experienced criminal
hand recognised that this chance told unconsciously in
his own favour. Like every other suspected person,
he wanted time, and time would be taken up in proving
an alibi for Cyril, as well as showing by concurrent
proof that he was not his brother. Meanwhile, suspicion
would fix itself still more firmly upon Guy, whose flight
would give colour to the charges brought against him
by the authorities.
So the great Q.C. determined to take up Cyril War-
ing's case as a labour of love, and didn't doubt he would
succeed in finally proving it.


( 269 )
CHAPTER XXIX.
woman's intuition.
Next morning, Cyril Waring appeared once more in
the Sessions House for the preliminary investigation
on the charge of murder. As he entered, a momentary
hush pervaded the room; then, suddenly, from a seat
beneath, a woman's voice burst forth, quite low, yet
loud enough to be heard by all the magistrates on the
bench.
"Why, mother," it said, in a very tremulous tone, "it
isn't Guy himself at all; don't you see it's Cyril?"
The words were so involuntarily spoken, and in such
hushed awe and amaze, that even the magistrates them-
selves, hard Devonshire squires, didn't turn their heads
to rebuke the speaker. As for Cyril, he had no need
to look towards a blushing face in the body of the court
to know that the voice was Elma Clifford's.
She sat there looking lovelier than he had ever before
seen her. Cyril's glance caught hers. They didn't need
to speak. He saw at once in her eye that Elma at least
knew instinctively he was innocent.
Next moment Gilbert Gildersleeve stood up to state
his defence, and gazed at her steadily. As he rose in


270
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxix.
his place, Elma's eye met his. Gilbert Gildersleeve's
'fell. He didn't know why, but in that second of time
the great blustering man felt certain in his heart that
Elma Clifford suspected him.
Elma Clifford, for her part, knew still more than that.
With the swift intuition she inherited from her long line
of Oriental ancestry, she said to herself at once, in
categorical terms, "It was that man that did it. I
know it was he. And he sees I know it. And he
knows I'm right. And he's afraid of me accordingly."
But an intuition, however valuable to its possessor, is
not yet admitted as evidence in English courts. Elma
also knew it was no use in the world for her to get up
in her place and say so openly.
The great Q.C. put his case in a nutshell. "Our
client," he contended, "was not the man against whom
the warrant in this case had been duly issued; he was
not the man named Guy Waring; he was not the man
whom the witnesses deposed to having seen at Mam-
bury; he was not the man who had loitered with evil
intent around the skirts of Dartmoor; in short," the
great Q.C. observed, with demonstrative eye-glass, " it
was a very clear case of mistaken identity. It would
take them time, no doubt, to prove the conclusive alibi
they intended to establish; for the gentleman now
charged before them, he would hope to show hereafter,
was Mr. Cyril Waring, the distinguished painter, twin
brother to Mr. Guy Waring, the journalist, against
whom warrant was issued; and he was away in Belgium


272
WHAT'S BKED IN THE BONE. [chap, mix.
the brother who was seen at Mambury on the day of the
murder.
The law's delays were as marvellous as is their wont.
It was a full fortnight before the barrister was able to
prove his point by bringing over witnesses at consider-
able expense from Belgium and elsewhere, and by the
aid of a few intimate friends in London, who could
speak with certainty as to the difference between the
two brothers. At the end of a fortnight, however, he
did sufficiently prove it by tracing Cyril in detail from
England to the Ardennes and back again to Dover, as
well as by showing exactly how Guy had been employed
in London and elsewhere on every day or night of the
intervening period. The magistrates at last released
Cyril, convinced by his arguments; and on the very
same day, the coroner's inquest on Montague Nevitt's
body, after adjourning time upon time to await the
clearing up of this initial difficulty, returned a verdict
of wilful murder against Guy Waring.
That evening, in town, the most completely mystified
person of all was a certain cashier of the London and
West County Bank, in Lombard Street, who read in hia
St. James's this complete proof that Cyril had been in
Belgium through all those days when he himself
distinctly remembered cashing over the counter for
him a cheque for no less a sum than six thousand
pounds to "self or bearer." Had the brothers, then,
been deliberately and nefariously engaged in a deep-laid
scheme—the cashier asked himself, much puzzled—to


274
What's bred in the Sone. tcHAP. xxix.
thought, as she would have read it herself, and answered
quickly, "Never, Elma, now, till Guy has cleared him-
self of this deadly accusation. I couldn't bear to ask
you to accept a man who every one else would call a
murderer's brother."
Elma gazed at him steadfastly. Tears stood in her
eyes. Her voice trembled; but she was very firm.
"We must clear you and him of this dreadful
charge," she said slowly. "I know we must do that,
CyriL Guy didn't kill him. Guy's wholly incapable
of it. But where is Guy now? That's what I don't
understand. We must clear that all up. Though,
even when it's cleared up, I can only love you. As I
told you that day at Chetwood—and I mean it still—
whatever comes to us two, I can never, never marry
you."
"Not even if I clear this all up?" Cyril asked, with
a wistful look.
"Not even if you clear this all up,'' Elma answered
seriously. "The difficulty's on my side, don't you see,
not on yours at all. So far as you're concerned, Cyril,
clear this up or leave it just where it is, I'd marry you
to-morrow. I'd marry you at once, and proud to do it,
if only to show the world openly I trust you both. I
half faltered just once as you stood there in court,
whether I wouldn't say yes to you, for nothing else
but that—to let everybody see how implicitly I trusted
you."
"But 7 couldn't allow it," Cyril answered, all aglow.


chap, xxix.] WOMAN'S INTUITION.
275
"As things stand now, Elma, our positions are reversed.
While this cloud still hangs so black over Guy, I
couldn't find it in my conscience to ask you to marry
me."
He gazed at her steadily. They were both too pro-
foundly stirred for tears or emotions. A quiet despair
gleamed in the eyes of each. Cyril could never marry
her till he had cleared up this mystery. Elma could
never marry him, even if it were all cleared up, with
that terrible taint of madness, as she thought it, hang-
ing threateningly for ever over her and her family.
She paused for a minute or two, with her hand
locked in his. Then she said once more, very low,
"No, Guy didn't do it. But why did he run away?
That baffles me quite. That's the one point of it all
that makes it so strange and so terribly mysterious."
"Elma," Cyril answered, with a cold thrill, "I
believe in Guy; I think I know myself, and I think
I know him, well enough to say that such a thing as
murder is impossible for either of us. He's weak at
times, I admit, and his will was powerless before the
magnetic force of Montague Nevitt's. But when I try
to face that inscrutable mystery of why, if he's inno-
cent, he has run away from this charge, I confess my
faith begins to falter and tremble. He must have seen
it in the papers. He must have seen I was accused.
What can he mean by leaving me to bear it in his
stead without ever coming forward to help me fairly
out of it?"


276 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxix.
Elma looked up at him with another of her sudden
flashes of superb intuition. "He can't have seen it in
the papers," she said. "That gives us some clue. If
he'd seen it, he must have come forward to help you.
But, Cyril, my faith never falters at all. And I tell
you why. Not only do I know Guy didn't do it, but
I know who did it. The man who murdered Montague
Nevitt is—why shouldn't I tell you ?—Mr. Gilbert
Gildersleeve!"
Cyril started back astonished. "Oh, Elma, why do
you think so?" he cried in amazement. "What
possible reason can you have for saying so?"
"None," Elma answered, with a calmly resigned air.
"I only know it; I know it from his eyes. I looked
in them once and read it like a book. But of course
that's nothing. What we must do now is to try and
find out the facts. I looked in his eyes and I saw it
at a glance. And I saw he saw it. He knows I've
discovered him."
Cyril half drew away from her with a faint sense of
alarm. "Elma," he said slowly, "I believe in Guy;
but really and truly I can't quite believe that. You
make your intuition tell you far too much. In your
natural anxiety to screen my brother, you've fixed the
guilt, without proof, upon another innocent man. I'm
sure Mr. Gildersleeve's as incapable as Guy of any
such action."
"And I'm sure of it, too," Elma answered, with the
instinctive certainty of feminine conviction. "But


chap, xxix.] woman's intuition.
277
still I know, for all that, he did it. Perhaps it was
all done in a moment of haste. But at least he did it.
And nothing on earth that anybody could say will ever
make me believe he didn't."
When Mrs. Clifford came back to the hotel an hour
later, she scanned her daughter's face with a keen
glance of inquiry.
"Well, he says he won't ask you again," she mur-
mured, laying Elma's head on her shoulder, "till this
case is cleared up, and Guy is proved innocent."
"Yes," Elma answered, nestling close and looking
red as a rose. "He knows very well Guy didn't do it,
but he wants all the rest of the world to acknowledge
it also."
"And you know who did it?" Mrs. Clifford said,
with a tentative air.
"Yes, mother. Do you?"
"Of course I do, darling. But it'll never be proved
against him, you may be sure. I saw it at a glance.
It's Mr. Gilbert Gildersleeve."


278
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xsx.
CHAPTER XXX.
FliESH DISCOVERIES.
As Cyril drove home from Waterloo next day to his
lonely rooms in Staple Inn, Holborn, he turned aside
with his cab for a few minutes to make a passing call
at the bank in Lombard Street. He was short of ready
money, and wanted to cash a cheque for fifty pounds
for expenses incurred in his defence at Tavistock.
The cashier stared at him hard; then, without con-
sulting anybody, he said, in a somewhat embarrassed
tone, "I don't know whether you're aware of it, Mr.
Waring, but this overdraws your current account. We
haven't fifty pounds on our books to your credit."
He was well posted on the subject, in fact, for ouly
that morning he had hunted up Cyril's balance in the
ledger at his side for the gratification of his own pure
personal curiosity.
Cyril stared at him in astonishment. In this age of
surprises, one more surprise was thus suddenly sprung
upon him. His first impulse was to exclaim in a very
amazed voice, "Why, I've six thousand odd pounds to
my credit, surely;" but he checked himself in time
with a violent effort. How could he tell what strange


280
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxx.
the capital C, which was shorter in Guy's hand than
Cyril ever made it, and which Guy had therefore de-
liberately lengthened, by an effort or an afterthought,
to complete the imitation.
"You cashed that cheque yourself, sir, over the
counter, you remember," the cashier said quietly, "on
the date it was drawn on."
Cyril never altered a muscle of his rigid face.
"Ah, quite so," he answered, in a very dry voice, not
daring to contradict the man. He knew just what had
happened. Guy must have come to get the money
himself, and the cashier must have mistaken him for
the proper owner of the purloined six thousand. They
were so very much alike. Nobody ever distinguished
them.
"And that was one of the days, I think, when you
proved the alibi in Belgium before the Devonshire
magistrates at Tavistock yesterday," the clerk went on,
with a searching glance. Cyril started this time. He
saw in a second the new danger thus sprung upon him.
If the cashier chose to press the matter home to the
hilt, he must necessarily arrive at one or other of two
results. Either the alibi would break down altogether,
or it would be perfectly clear that Guy had committed
a forgery.
"So it seems," he answered, looking his keen inter-
locutor straight in the eyes. "So it seems, I should
say, by the date on the face of it."
But the cashier did not care to press the matter home


chap, xx5 ] FRESH DISCOVERIES.
281
any further; and for a very good reason. It was none
of his business to suggest the idea of a forgery, after a
cheque had been presented and duly cashed, if the
customer to whose account it was debited in course
chose voluntarily to accept the responsibility of honour-
ing it. The objection should come first from the
customer's side. If he didn't care to press it, then
neither did the cashier. Why should he, indeed? Why
saddle his firm with six thousand pounds loss? He
would only get himself into trouble for having failed
to observe the discrepancy in the signatures, and the
difference between the brothers. That, after all, is
what a cashier is for. If he doesn't fulfil those first
duties of his post, why what on earth can be the good
of him to anybody in any way?
The two men looked at one another across the counter
with a strong inscrutable stare of mutual suspicion.
Then Cyril slowly tore up the cheque he had tendered
for fifty pounds, filled in another for his real balance
of twenty-two, handed it across to the clerk without
another word, received the cash in white trembling
hands, and went out to his cab again in a turmoil of
excitement.
All the way back to his rooms in Staple Inn one
seething idea alone possessed his soul. His faith in
Guy was beginning to break down. And with it, his
faith in himself almost went. The man was his own
brother—his very counterpart, he knew; could he really
believe him capable of committing a murder? Cyril


282
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxx.
looked within, and said a thousand times no; he looked
at that forged cheque, and his heart misgave him.
At Staple Inn, the housekeeper who took care of
their joint rooms came out to greet him with no small
store of tears and lamentations. "Oh, Mr. Cyril," she
cried, seizing both his hands in hers with a tremulous
welcome, "I'm* glad to see you back, and to know
you're innocent. I always said you never could have
done it; no, no, not you, nor yet Mr. Guy neither.
The police has been here time and again to search the
rooms, but, the Lord be praised, they never found any-
thing. And I've got a letter for you, too, from Mr.
Guy himself; but there—I locked it up till you come
in my own cupboard at home, for fear of the detectives;
and now you're back and safe in London again, I'll run
home this minute round the corner and get it."
Cyril sat down in the familiar easy-chair, holding
his face in his hands, and gazed about him blankly.
Such a home-coming as this was inexpressibly terrible
to him.
In a few minutes more the housekeeper came back,
bringing in her hand Guy's letter from Plymouth.
Cyril sat for a minute and looked at the envelope in
deadly silence. Then he motioned the housekeeper out
of the room with one quivering hand. Before that good
woman's face, he couldn't open it and read it.
As soon as she was gone, he tore it apart, trembling.
As he read and read the suspicion within him deepened
quickly into a doubt, the doubt into a conviction, the


CHaI". XXX.]
283
FRESH DISCOVERIES.
conviction into a certainty. He clapped his hands to
his head. Oh, God, what was this? Guy acknowledged
his own guilt! He confessed he had done it!
Cyril's last hope was gone. Guy himself admitted
it!
"How I came to do it," the letter said, " I've no idea
myself. A sudden suggestion—a strange, unaccount-
able impulse—a prompting, as it were, pressed upon me
from without, and almost before I knew, the crime was
committed."
Cyril bent his head low upon his knees with shame.
He never could hold up that head henceforth. No
further doubt or hesitation remained. He knew the
whole truth. Guy was indeed a murderer.
He steeled himself for the worst, and read the letter
through with a superhuman effort. It almost choked
him to read. The very consecutiveness and coherency
of the sentences seemed all but incredible under such
awful circumstances. A murderer, red-handed, to speak
of his crime so calmly as that! And then, too, this
undying anger expressed and felt, even after death,
against his victim Nevitt! Cyril couldn't understand
how any man—least of all his own brother—could
write such words about the murdered man whose body
was then lying all silent and cold, under the open sky,
among the bracken at Mambury.
And once more, this awful clue of the dead man's
pocket-book! Those accursed notes! That hateful sum
of money! How could Guy venture to speak of it all in


284 WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxx.
such terms as those—the one palpable fact that indubit-
ably linked him with that cold-blooded murder. "The
three thousand sent herewith I recovered, almost by a
miracle, from that false creature's grasp, under extra-
ordinary circumstances, and I return them now, in proof
of the fact, in Montague Nevitt's own pocket-book,
which I'm sure you'll recognise as soon as you look
at it."
Cyril saw it all now beyond the shadow of a doubt.
He reconstructed the whole sad tale. He was sure he
understood it. But to understand it was hardly even
yet to believe it. Guy had lost heavily in the Eio
Negro Mines, as the prosecution declared; in an evil
hour he'd been cajoled into forging Cyril's name for
six thousand. Montague Nevitt had in some way mis-
appropriated the stolen sum. Guy had pursued him in
a sudden white-heat of fury, had come up with him
unawares, had killed him in his rage, and now calmly
returned as much as he could recover of that fateful and
twice-stolen money to Cyril. It was all too horrible,
but all too true. In a wild ferment of remorse for his
brother's sin, the unhappy painter sat down at once and
penned a letter of abject self-humiliation to Elma
Clifford.
"Elma,—I said to you last night that I could never
marry you till I had clearly proved my brother Guy's
innocence. Well, I said what I can never conceivably
do. Since returning to town I received a letter from


ciup, xxx.] FRESH DISCOVERIES. 285
Guy himself. What it contained I must never tell
you, for Guy's own sake. But what I must tell you
is this—I can never again see you. Guy and I are so
nearly one, in every nerve and fibre of our being, that
whatever he may have done is to me almost as if I my-
self had done it. You will know how terrible a thing
it is for me to write these words, but for your sake I
can't refrain from writing them. Think no more of me.
I am not worthy of you. I will think of you as long
as I live.
"Your ever devoted and heart-broken
"Cyril."
He folded the letter, and sent it off to the temporary
address at the West-End where Elma had told him that
she and her mother would spend the night in London.
Very late that evening a ring came at the bell. Cyril
ran to the door. It was a boy with a telegram. He
opened it, and read it with breathless excitement.
"Whatever Guy may have said, you are quite mis-
taken. There's a mystery somewhere. Keep his letter
and show it to me. I may, perhaps, be able to unravel
the tangle. I'm more than ever convinced that what I
said to you last night was perfectly true. We will save
him yet. Unalterably,
"Elma."
But the telegram brought little peace to Cyril. Of
what value were Elma's vague intuitions now, by the


( 287 )
CHAPTER XXXI.
"GOLDEN JOYS."
The voyage to the Cape was long and tedious. On
the whole way out, Guy made but few friends, and
talked very little to his fellow passengers. That un-
happy recognition by Granville Kelmscott the evening
he went on board the Cetewayo poisoned the fugitive's
mind for the entire passage. He felt himself, in fact,
a moral outcast; he slunk away from his kind; he
hardly dared to meet Kelmscott's eyes for shame,
whenever he passed him. But for one thing at
least he was truly grateful. Though Kelmscott had
evidently discovered from the papers the nature of
Guy's crime, and knew his real name well, it was
clear he had said nothing of any sort on the subject
to the other passengers. Only one man on board was
aware of his guilt, Guy believed, and, that one man
he shunned accordingly as far as was possible within
the narrow limits of the saloon and the quarter-deck.
Granville Kelmscott, of course, took a very different
view of Guy Waring's position. He had read in the
paper he bought at Plymouth that Guy was the mur-
derer of Montague Nevitt. Regarding him, therefore,


288' WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxi.
as a criminal of the deepest dye now flying from
justice, he wasn't at all surprised at Guy's shrink-
ing and shunning him; what astonished him rather
was the man's occasional and incredible fits of effron-
tery. How that fellow could ever laugh and talk at
all among the ladies on deck—with the hangman at
his back—simply appalled and horrified the proud
soul of a Kelmscott. Granville had hard work to
keep from expressing his horror openly at times. But
still, with an effort, he kept his peace. With the
picture of his father and Lady Emily now strong
before his mind, he couldn't find it in his heart to
bring his own half-brother, however guilty and criminal
the man might be, to the foot of the gallows.
I So they voyaged on together without once inter-
changing a single word, all the way from Plymouth
to the Cape Colony. And the day they landed at
Port Elizabeth, it was an infinite relief indeed to Guy
to think he could now get well away for ever from
that fellow Kelmscott. Not being by any means over-
burdened with ready cash, however, Guy determined
to waste no time in the coastwise towns, but to make
his way at once boldly up country towards Kimberley.
The railway ran then only as far as Grahamstown;
the rest of his journey to the South African Golconda
was accomplished by road; in a two-wheeled cart,
drawn by four small horses, which rattled along with
a will, up hill and down dale, over the precarious
highways of that semi-civilised upland.


CHaP. XXXI.]
269
"GOLDEN JOYS."
To Guy, just fresh from England and the mono-
tonous sea, there was a certain exhilaration in this first
hasty glimpse of the infinite luxuriance of sub-tropical
nature. At times he almost forgot Montague Nevitt
and the forgery in the boundless sense of freedom
and novelty given him by those vast wastes of rolling
tableland, thickly covered with grass or low thorny
acacias, and stretching illimitably away in low range
after range to the blue mountains in the distance. It
was strange indeed to him on the wide plains through
which they scurried in wild haste to see the springbok
rush away from the doubtful track at the first whirr
of their wheels, or the bolder bustard stand and gaze
among the long grass, with his wary eye turned side-
ways to look at them. Guy felt for the moment he
had left Europe and its reminiscences now fairly
behind him; in this free new world, he was free once
more himself; his shame was cast aside; he could
revel like the antelopes in the immensity of a land
where nobody knew him and he knew nobody.
What added most of all, however, to this quaint
new sense of vastness and freedom was the occasional
appearance of naked blacks, roaming at large through
the burnt-up fields of which till lately they had been
undisputed possessors. Day after day Guy drove on
along the uncertain roads, past queer outlying towns
of white wooden houses—Cradock, and Middelburg,
and Colesberg, and others—till they crossed at last
the boundary of Orange Eiver into the Free State,
u


290
WHAT'S BEED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxi.
and halted for a while in the main street of
Philippolis.
It was a dreary place; Guy began now to see the
other side of South Africa. Though he had left
England in autumn, it was spring-time at the Cape,
and the winter drought had parched up all the grass,
leaving the bare red dust in the roads or streets as dry
and desolate as the sand of the desert. The town itself
consisted of some sixty melancholy and distressful
houses, bare, square, and flat-roofed, standing unen-
closed along a dismal high-road, and with that con-
genitally shabby look, in spite of their newness, which
seems to belong by nature to all southern buildings.
Some stagnant pools alone remained to attest the
presence after rain of a roaring brook, the pits in
whose dried-up channel they now occupied; over their
tops hung the faded foliage of a few dust-laden trees,
struggling hard for life with the energy of despair
against depressing circumstances. It was a picture
that gave Guy a sudden attack of pessimism; if this
was the El Dorado towards which he was going, he
earnestly wished himself back again once more, forgery
or no forgery, among the breezy green fields of dear
old England.
On to Fauresmith he travelled with less comfort
than before in a rickety buggy of most primitive con-
struction, designed to meet the needs of rough mountain
roads, and as innocent of springs as Guy himself of
the murder of Montague Nevitt. It was a wretched


UHAP. XXXI.]
291
"GOLDEN JOYS."
drive. The drought had now broken; the wet season
had begun; rain fell heavily. A piercing cold wind
blew down from the nearer mountains; and Guy began
to feel still more acutely than ever that South Africa
was by no means an earthly paradise. As he drove
on and on this feeling deepened upon him. Huge
blocks of stone obstructed the rough road, intersected
as it was by deep cart-wheel ruts, down which the
rain-water now flowed in impromptu torrents. The
Dutch driver, too, anxious to show the mettle of his
coarse-limbed steeds, persisted in dashing over the
hummocky ground at a break-neck pace, while Guy
balanced himself with difficulty on the narrow seat,
hanging on to his portmanteau for dear life among the
jerks and jolts, till his fingers were numbed with cold
and exposure.
They held out against it all, before the pelting rain,
till man and beast were well-nigh exhausted. At last,
about three-quarters of the way to Fauresmith, on the
bleak bare hill-tops, sleety snow began to fall in big
flakes, and the barking of a dog to be heard in the
distance. The Boer driver pricked up his ears at the
sound.
"That must a house be," he remarked in his Dutch
pigeon-English to Guy; and Guy felt in his soul that
the most miserable and filthy of Kaffir huts would just
then be a welcome sight to his weary eyes. He would
have given a sovereign, indeed, from the scanty store
he possessed; for a night's lodging in a convenient dog-


CHAP. XXXI.]
293
"GOLDEN JOYS."
front of him with a sinking heart. This first view of
his future home was by no means encouraging.
"Oh, the sand make it be like that," the driver
answered unconcernedly. "Diamond fields all make
up of fine red sand; and diggers pile it about around
their own claims. Then the wind comes and blow, and
make sandstorm always around Dutoitspan."
Guy groaned inwardly. This was certainly not the
El Dorado of his fancy. They descended the hill,
at the same break-neck pace as before, and entered
the miserable mushroom town of diamond-grubbers.
Amidst the huts in the diggings great heaps of red
earth lay piled up everywhere. Dust and sand rose
high on the hot breeze into the stifling air. As they
reached the encampment—for Dutoitspan then was
little more than a camp—the blinding mists of solid
red particles drove so thick in their eyes that Guy
could hardly see a few yards before him. Their clothes
and faces were literally encrusted in thick coats of
dust. The fine red mist seemed to pervade everything.
It filled their eyes, their nostrils, their ears, their
mouths. They breathed solid dust. The air was laden
deep with it.
And this was the diamond fields! This was the
Golconda where Guy was to find six thousand pounds
ready made to recover his losses and to repay Cyril.
Oh, horrible, horrible. His heart sank low at it.
And still they went on, and on, and on, and on,
through the mist of dust to the place for out-spanning.


294 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxxi.
Guy only shared the common fate of all new-comers to
"the fields " in feeling much distressed and really ill.
The very horses in the cart snorted and sneezed and
showed their high displeasure by trying every now and
then to jib and turn back again. Here and there, on
either side, to right and left, where the gloom permitted
it, Guy made out dimly a few round or oblong tents,
with occasional rude huts of corrugated iron. A few
uncertain figures lounged vaguely in the background.
On closer inspection they proved to be much-grimed
and half-naked natives, resting their weary limbs on
piles of dry dust after their toil in the diggings.
It was an unearthly scene. Guy's heart sank lower
and lower still at every step the horses took into that
howling wilderness.
At last the driver drew up with a jolt in front of a
long low hut of corrugated iron, somewhat larger than
the rest, but no less dull and dreary. "The hotel," he
said briefly; and Guy jumped out to secure himself a
night's lodging or so at this place of entertainment, till
he could negotiate for a hut and a decent claim, and
commence his digging.
At the bar of the primitive saloon where he found
himself landed, a man in a grey tweed suit was already
seated. He was drinking something fizzy from a tall
soda-water glass. With a sudden start of horror Guy
recognised him at once. Oh, great heavens, what was
this? It was Granville Kelmscott!
Then Granville, too, was bound for the diamond


CHAP. XXXI.]
295
"GOLDEN JOYS."
fields like himself. What an incredible coincidence!
How strange! How inexplicable! That rich man's
son, the pampered heir to Tilgate! what could he be
doing here, in this out-of-the-way spot, this last resort
of poor broken-down men, this miserable haunt of
wretched gambling money-grubbers?
Here curiosity, surely, must have drawn him to the
spot. He couldn't have come to dig! Guy gazed in
amazement at that grey tweed suit. He must be
staying for a day or two in search of adventure. No
more than just that! He couldn't mean to stop here.
As he gazed and stood open-mouthed in the shadow
of the door, Granville Kelmscott, who hadn't seen him
enter, laid down his glass, wiped his lips with gusto,
and continued his conversation with the complacent
barman.
"Yes, I want a hut here," he said, "and to buy a
good claim. I've been looking over the kopje down by
Watson's spare land, and I think I've seen a lot that's
likely to suit me."
Guy could hardly restrain his astonishment and
surprise. He had come, then, to dig! Oh, incredible!
impossible!
But at any rate this settled his own immediate
movements. Guy's mind was made up at once. If
Granville Kelmscott was going to dig at Dutoitspan—
why, clearly Dutoitspan was no place for him. He
could never stand the continual presence of the one
man in South Africa who knew his deadly secret.


296 WHAT'S BRED IX THE BONE. [chap. xxxu
Come what might he must leave the neighbourhood
without a moment's delay. He must strike out at
once for the far interior. As he paused, Granville
Kelmscott turned round and saw him. Their eyes met
with a start. Each was equally astonished. Then
Granville rose slowly from his seat, and murmured in
a low voice, as he regarded him fixedly—
"You here again, Mr. Billington! This is once too
often. I hardly expected this. There's no room here
for both of us."
And he strode from the saloon, with a very black
brow, leaving Guy for the moment alone with the
barman.


( 297 )
CHAPTER XXXII.
A. NEW DEPARTURE.
A fortnight later, one sultry afternoon, Granville
Kelmscott found himself, after various strange adven-
tures and escapes by the way, in a Koranna hut, far in
the untraveiled heart of the savage Barolong country.
The tenement where he sat, or more precisely
squatted, was by no means either a commodious or
sweet-scented one. Yet it was the biggest of a group
on the river-bank, some five feet high from floor to
roof, so that a Kelmscott couldn't possibly stand erect
at full length in it; and it was roughly round in shape,
like an overgrown beehive, the framework consisting of
branches of trees, arranged in a rude circle, over whose
.arching ribs native rush mats had been thrown or sewn
with irregular order. The door was a hole, through
which the proud descendant of the squires of Tilgate
had to creep on all fours; a hollow pit dug out in the
centre served as the only fireplace; smoke and stagnant
air formed the staples of the atmosphere. A more
squalid hovel Granville Kelmscott had never even con-
ceived as possible. It was as dirty and as loathsome as


CHAP. XXXII.]
299
A NEW DEPASTURE.
diggings. It was no longer possible for the luckiest
fresh hand to pick up pebbles lying loose on the sur-
face; the mode of working had become highly skilled
and scientific.
Machines and scaffolds, and washing-cradles and
lifting apparatus were now required to make the busi-
ness a success; the simple old gambling element was
rapidly going out, and the capitalist was rapidly coming
up in its stead as master of the situation. So Granville
Kelmscott, being an enterprising young man, though
destitute of cash, and utterly ignorant of South African
life, determined to push on with all his might and
main into the Barolong country, and to rush for the
front among the first in the field in these rumoured new
diggings on the extreme north frontier of civilization.
He started alone, as a Kelmscott might do, and made
his way adventurously, without any knowledge of the
Koranna language or manners, through many wild
villages of King Khatsua's dominions. Night after
night he camped out in the open; and day after day he
tramped on by himself, buying food as he went from
the natives for English silver, in search of precious
stones, over that dreary tableland. At last, on the
fourteenth day, in a deep alluvial hollow near a squalid
group of small Barolong huts, he saw a tiny round
stone, much rubbed and water-worn, which he picked
up and examined with no little curiosity. The two
days he had spent at Dutoitspan had not been wasted.
He had learnt to recognise the look of the native gem.


302 WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxil.
There is nothing, to say the truth, the South African
native dreads so much as being " eaten up," as he calls
it, by those aggressive English. King Khatsua knew
his one chance in life consisted in keeping the diggers
firmly out of his dominions; and he was prepared to
deny the very existence of diamonds throughout the
whole of Barolong land, until the English, by sheer
force, should come in flocks and unearth them.
In obedience to his chiefs command, therefore, the
naked henchman still held out his hand menacingly.
"Dis land King Khatsua's," he repeated once more,
in an angry voice. "All diamonds found on it belong
to King Khatsua. Just you hand dat over. No steal;
no tief-ee."
The instincts of the land-owning class were too
strong in Granville Kelmscott not to make him admit
at once to himself the justice of this claim. The owner
of the soil had a right to the diamonds. He handed
over the stone with a pang of regret. The savage
grinned to himself, and scanned it attentively. Then
extending his spear, as one might do to a cow or a
sheep, he drove Granville before him.
"You come along a' me," he said shortly, in a most
determined voice. "You come along a' me. King
Khatsua's orders."
Granville went before him without one word of
remonstrance, much wondering what was likely to
happen next, till he found himself suddenly driven
into that noisome hut, where he was forced to enter


304
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai-. xxxtl.
long had another prisoner. There was a pause and a
scuffle. Then, all of a sudden, somebody else came
bundling unceremoniously through the hole that served
for a door, in the same undignified fashion as he himself
had done. Granville's eyes, now accustomed to the
gloom, recognised the stranger at once with a thrill of
astonishment. He could hardly trust his senses at the
sight. It was—no, it couldn't be—yes, it was—Guy
Waring.
Guy Waring, sure enough; as before, they were
companions. The Kelmscott character had worked
itself out exactly alike in each of them. They had
come independently by the self-same road to the
rumoured diamond fields of the Barolong country.
It was some minutes, however, before Guy, for his
part, recognised his fellow-prisoner in the dark and
gloomy hut. Then each stared at the other in mute
surprise. They found no words to speak their mutual
astonishment. This was more wonderful, to be sure,
than even either of their former encounters.
For another long hour the two unfriendly English-
men huddled away from one another in opposite corners
of that native hut, without speaking a word of any
sort in their present straits. At the end of that time,
a voice spoke at the door some guttural sentences in
the Barolong language. The natives inside responded
alike in their own savage clicks. Next the voice spoke*
in English; it was Granville's captor, he now knew
well.


CHaP, xxxir.]
305
A NEW DEPARTURE.
"White men, you come out; King Khatsua himself,
him go to 'peak to you."
They crawled out, one at a time, in sorry guise,
through the narrow hole. It was a pitiful exhibition.
Were it not for the danger and uncertainty of the
event, they could almost themselves have fairly laughed
at it. King Khatsua stood before them, a tall, full-
blooded black, in European costume, with a round felt
hat and a crimson tie, surrounded by his naked wives
and attendants. In his outstretched hand he held
before their faces two incriminating diamonds. He
spoke to them with much dignity at considerable
length in the Barolong tongue, to a running accompani-
ment of laudatory exclamations—" Oh, my King! Oh,
wise words!"—from the mouths of his courtiers.
Neither Granville nor Guy understood, of course, a
single syllable of the stately address; but that didn't
in the least disturb the composure of the dusky
monarch. He went right through to the end with
his solemn warning, scolding them both roundly, as
they guessed, in his native tongue, like a master
reproving a pair of naughty schoolboys.
As he finished, their captor stood forth with great
importance to act as interpreter. He had been to the
Kimberley diamond mines himself as a labourer, and
was therefore accounted by his own people a perfect
model of English scholarship.
"King Khatsua say this," he observed curtly. "You
very bad men; you come to Barolong land. King


306
WHAT'S BRED INT THE BONE. [chap. xixu.
Khatsua say, Barolong land for Barolong. No allow
white man dig here for diamonds. If white man come,
him eat up Barolong. Keep white man out; keep
land for King Khatsua."
"Does King Khatsua want us to leave his country,
then?" Granville Kelmscott asked, with a distinct
tremor in his voice, for the great chief and his
followers looked decidedly hostile.
The interpreter threw back his head and laughed a
loud long laugh.
"King Khatsua not a fool!" he answered at last,
after a rhetorical pause. "King Khatsua no want to
give up his land to white man. If you two white man
go back to Kimberley, you tell plenty other people,
'Diamonds in Barolong land.' You say, ' Come along
o' me to Barolong land with gun; we show you where
to dig 'um!' No, no, King Khatsua not a fool. King
Khatsua say this. You two white man no go back to
Kimberley. You spies. You stop here plenty time
along o' King Khatsua. Never go back, till King
Khatsua give leave. So no let any other white man
come along into Barolong land."
Granville looked at Guy, and Guy looked at Gran-
ville. In this last extremity, before those domineering
blacks, they almost forgot everything, save that they
were both English. What were they to do now? The
situation was becoming truly terrible.
The interpreter went on once more, however, with
genuine savage enjoyment of the consternation he was
causing them.


chap. xxxii.] A NEW DEPARTURE.
307
"King Khatsua say this," he continued, in a very
amused tone. "You stop here plenty days, very good,
in Barolong land. King Khatsua give you hut; King
Khatsua give you claim; Barolong man bring spear
and guard you. No do you any harm for fear of
Governor. Governor keep plenty guns in Cape Town.
You two white man live in hut together, dig diamonds
together; get plenty pebbles. Keep one diamond you
find for yourself; give one diamond after that to King
Khatsua. Barolong man bring you plenty food, plenty
drink, but no let you go back. You try to go, then
Barolong man spear you."
The playful dig with which the savage thrust for-
ward his assegai at that final remark showed Granville
Kelmscott in a moment this was no idle threat. It
was clear for the present they must accept the inevit-
able. They must remain in Barolong land; and he
must share hut and work with that doubly hateful
creature—the man who had deprived him of his patri-
mony at Tilgate, and whom he firmly believed to be
the murderer of Montague Nevitt. This was what had
come then of his journey to Africa 1 Truly, adversity
makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows!


308
WHAT'S BKED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxiii.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
TIME FLIES.
Eighteen months passed away in England, and nothing
more was heard of the two fugitives to Africa. Lady
Emily's cup was very full indeed. On the self-same
day she learned of her husband's death and her son's
mysterious and unaccountable disappearance. From
that moment forth, he was to her as if dead. After
Granville left, no letter or news of him, direct or
indirect, ever reached Tilgate. It was all most inex-
plicable. He had disappeared into space, and no man
knew of him.
Cyril, too, had now almost given up hoping for news
of Guy. Slowly the conviction forced itself deeper and
still deeper upon his mind, in spite of Elma, that Guy
was really Montague Nevitt's murderer. Else how
account for Guy's sudden disappearance, and for the
fact that he never even wrote home his whereabouts?
Nay, Guy's letter itself left no doubt upon his mind.
Cyril went through life now oppressed continually with
the terrible burden of being a murderer's brother.
And indeed everybody else—except Elma Clifford—
implicitly shared that opinion with him. Cyril was


CHAP. XXXIII.]
309
TIME FLIES.
sure the unknown benefactor shared it too, for Guy's
six thousand pounds were never paid in to his credit—
as indeed how could they, since Colonel Kelmscott,
who had promised to pay them, died before receiving
the balance of the purchase money for the Dowlands
estate? Cyril slank through the world, then, weighed
down by his shame, for Guy and he were each other's
doubles, and he always had a deep underlying con-
viction that, as Guy was in any particular, so also in
the very fibre of his nature he himself was. -
Everybody else, except Elma Clifford; but in spite of
all, Elma still held out firm, in her intuitive way, in
favour of Guy's innocence. She knew it, she said;
and there the matter dropped. And she knew quite
equally, in her own firm mind, that Gilbert Gilder-
sleeve was the real murderer.
Gilbert Gildersleeve, meanwhile, had gone up a step
or two higher in the social scale. He had been pro-
moted to [the bench on the first vacancy, as all the
world had long expected; but, strange to say, he took
it far more modestly than all the world had ever
anticipated. Indeed, before he was made a judge,
everybody said he'd be intolerable in the ermine. He
was blustering and bullying enough, in all conscience,
as a mere Queen's Counsel; but when he came to pre-
side in a court of his .own, his insolence would surpass
even the wonted insolence of our autocratic British
justices. In this, however, everybody was mistaken.
A curious change had of late come over Gilbert


310 WHAT'S BRICD IN TIJE BONE. [chap, xxxm.
Gildersleeve. The big, bullying lawyer was growing
nervous and diffident, where of old he had been coarse
and self-assertive and blustering. He was beginning
at times almost to doubt his own absolute omniscience
and absolute wisdom. He was prepared half to admit
that under certain circumstances a prisoner might
possibly be in the right, and that all crimes alike did
not necessarily deserve the hardest sentence the law of
the land allowed him to allot them. Habitual criminals
even began, after a while, to express a fervent hope, as
assizes approached, they might be tried by old Gilder-
sleeve: "Gilly," they said, "gave a cove a chance " : he
wasn't "one of these 'ere reg'lar 'anging judges, like Sir
'Enery Atkins."
During those eighteen months, too, Cyril tried, as far
as he could, from a stern sense of duty, to see as little
as possible of Elma Clifford. He loved Elma still-
that goes without saying—more devotedly than ever;
and Elma's profound belief that Cyril's brother couldn't
possibly have committed so grave a crime touched his
heart to the core by its womanly confidence. There's
nothing a man likes so much as being trusted. But he
had declared in the first flush of his horror and despair
that he would never again ask Elma to marry him till
the cloud that hung over Guy's character had been
lifted and dissipated ; and now that, month after month,
no news came from Guy and all hope seemed to fade,
he felt it would be wrong of him even to see her or
speak with her.


CHaP. XXXIII.]
311
TIME FLIES
On that question, however, Elma herself had a voice
as well. Man proposes; woman decides. And though
Elma for her part had quite equally made up her mind
never to marry Cyril, with that nameless terror of
expected madness hanging ever over her head, she felt,
on the other hand, her very loyalty to Cyril and to
Cyril's brother imperatively demanded that she should
still see him often, and display marked friendship
towards him as openly as possible. She wanted the
world to see plainly for itself that so far as this matter
of Guy's reputation was concerned, if Cyril, for his part,
wanted to marry her, she, on her side, would be quite
ready to marry Cyril.
So she insisted on meeting him whenever she could,
and on writing to him openly from time to time very
affectionate notes—those familiar notes we all know
so well and prize so dearly—full of hopeless love and
unabated confidence. Yes, good Mr. Stockbroker who
do me the honour to read my simple tale, smile cyni-
cally if you will! You pretend to care nothing for
these little sentimentalities; but you know very well
in your own heart, you've a bundle of them at home,
very brown and yellow, locked up in your escritoire;
and you'd let New Zealand Fours sink to the bottom
of the Indian Ocean, and Egyptian Unified go down to
zero, before ever you'd part with a single faded page of
them.
What can a man do, then, even under such painful
circumstances, when a girl whom he loves with all his


chap. xxxiii.] TIME FLIES. 313
as the sudden twists and turns of her own wayward
music. But, after a time, a change came over Mrs.
Clifford in this respect; and instead of trying to keep
Elma and Miss Ewes apart, it was evident to Elma—
who never missed any of the small by-play of life—
that her mother rather desired to throw them closely
together. Thus it came to pass that one morning, about
a month after Miss Ewes's arrival in her new home,
Elma had run in with a message from her mother, and
found the distinguished composer, as was often the case
at that time of day, sitting dreamily at her piano, trying
over on the gamut strange, fanciful chords of her own
peculiar witch-like character. The musie waxed and
waned in a familiar lilt.
"That's beautiful," Elma cried enthusiastically, as
the composer looked up at her with an inquiring glance.
"I never heard anything in my life before that went
so straight through one, with its penetrating melody.
Such a lovely gliding sound, you know! So soft and
serpentine!" And even as she said it, a deep flush
rose red in the centre of her cheek. She was sorry for
the words before they were out of her mouth. They
recalled all at once, in some mysterious way, that horrid,
persistent nightmare of the hateful snake-dance. In a
second, Miss Ewes caught the bright gleam in her eye,
and the deep flush on her cheek that so hastily followed
it. A meaning smile came over the elder woman's face
all at once, not unpleasantly. She was a handsome
woman for her age, but very dark and gipsy-like, after


CHAp. XXXIII.]
315
TIME FI.IES.
with all the wild abandonment of an almeh or a Zingavi.
But she resisted with all her might. And she resisted
successfully.
Miss Ewes, never faltering, kept her keen eye fixed
hard on her with a searching glance, as she ran over the
keys in ever fresh combinations.
Faster, wilder, and stranger the music rose; but Elm a
sat still, her breast heaving hard, and her breath pant-
ing, yet otherwise as still and motionless as a statue.
She knew Miss Ewes could tell exactly how she felt.
She knew she was trying her; she knew she was tempt-
ing her to get up and dance; and yet, she was not
one bit afraid of this strange weird woman, as she'd
been afraid that sad morning at home of her own
mother.
The composer went on fiercely for some minutes more,
leaning' close over the keyboard, and throwing her very
soul, as Elma could plainly see, into the tips of her
fingers. Then, suddenly she rose, and came over, well
pleased, to the sofa where Elma sat. With a motherly
gesture, she took Elrna's hand ; she smoothed her dark
hair; she bent down with a tender look in those strange
grey eyes, and printed a kiss unexpectedly on the poor
girl's forehead.
"Elma," she said, leaning over her, "do you know
what that was? That was the Naga Snake Dance. It
gave you an almost irresistible longing to rise, and hold
the snake in your own hands, and coil his great folds
around you. T could see how you felt. But you were


316
WHAT'S SEED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxiit.
strong enough to resist. That was very well done.
You resisted even the force of my music, didn't
you?"
Elma, trembling all over, but bursting with joy that
she could speak of it at last without restraint to some-
body, answered, in a very low and tremulous voice,
"Yes, Miss Ewes, I resisted it."
Miss Ewes leant back in her place, and gazed at her
long, with a very affectionate and motherly air. "Then
I'm sure I don't know," she said at last, breaking out in
a voice full of confidence, "why on earth you shouldn't
marry this young man you're in love with!"
Elma's heart beat still harder and higher than ever.
"What young man?" she murmured low—just to
test the enchantress.
And Miss Ewes made answer, without one moment's
hesitation, "Why, of course, Cyril Waring!"
For a minute or two then, there was a dead silence.
After that, Miss Ewes looked up and spoke again.
"Have you felt it often ?" she asked, without one word
of explanation.
"Twice before," Elma answered, not pretending to
misunderstand. "Once I gave way. That was the
very first time, you see, and I didn't know yet exactly
what it meant. The second time I knew, and then I
resisted it."
Somehow, before Miss Ewes, she hardly ever felt shy.
She was so conscious Miss Ewes knew all about it
without her telling her.


CHAP. XXXIII.]
317
TIME FLIES.
The elder woman looked at her with unfeigned
admiration.
"That was brave of you," she said quietly. "I
couldn't have done it myself! I should have had to
give way to it. Then in you it's dying out. That's as
clear as daylight. It won't go any farther. I knew it
wouldn't, of course, when I saw you resisted even the
Naga dance. And for you, that's excellent. . . . For
myself I encourage it. It's that that makes my
music what it is. It's that that inspires me. / com-
posed that Naga dance I just played over to you, Elma.
But not all out of my own head. I couldn't have
invented it. It comes down in our blood, my dear, to
you and me alike. We both inherit it from a common
ancestress."
"Tell me all about it," Elma cried, nestling close to
her new friend with a wild burst of relief. "I don't
know why, but I'm not at all ashamed of it all before
you, Miss Ewes—at least, not in the way I am before
mother."
"You needn't be ashamed of it," Miss Ewes answered
kindly. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. It'll
never trouble you in your life again. It always dies
out at last; they say in the sixth or seventh generation,
and when it's dying out, it goes as it went with you,
on the night you first fell in love with Cyril. If, after
that, you resist, it never comes back again. Year after
year, the impulse grows feebler and feebler. And if
you can withstand the Naga dance, you can withstand


318
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chai>. xxxiii.
anything. Come here and take my hand, dear. I'll
tell you all about it."
Late at night Elma sat, tearful but happy, in her own
room at home, writing a few short lines to Cyril
Waring. This was all she said—
"There's no reason on my side now, dearest Cyril.
It's all a mistake. I'll marry you whenever and wher-
ever you will. There need be no reason on your side
either. I love you, and can trust you. Yours ever,
"Elma."
When Cyril Waring received that note next morning
he kissed it reverently, and put it away in his desk
among a bundle of others. But he said to himself
sternly in his own soul for all that, "Never, while Guy
still rests under that cloud! And how it's ever to be
lifted from him is to me inconceivable."


822
WHAT'S BRED IV THE BOXE. [chap. xxxiv.
half-brother of his was gentle as a woman; tender,
kindhearted, truthful, affectionate; a gentleman to the
core, and a jolly good fellow into the bargain; but —
there's always a but—he was a terrible money-grubber!
Even there in the lost heart of Africa, at such a
distance from home, with so little chance of ever
making any use of his hoarded wealth, the fellow used
to hunt up those wretched small stones, and wear them
night and day in a belt round his waist, as if he really
loved them for their own mere sakes—dirty high-priced
little baubles! Granville, for his part, couldn't bear to
see such ingrained love of pelf. It was miserable; it
was mercenary.
To be sure, he himself hunted diamonds every day of
his life, just as hard as Guy did; there was nothing
else to do in this detestable place, and a man must find
something to turn his idle hands to. Also he carried
them, like Guy, bound up in a girdle round his own
waist; it was a pity they should be lost, if ever he
should chance to get away safe in the end to England.
But then, don't you see, the cases were so different.
Guy hoarded up his diamonds for mere wretched gain;
whereas Granville valued his (he said to himself often)
not for the mere worth in money of those shimmering
little trinkets, but for his mother's sake, and Gwen-
doline's, and the credit of the family. He wanted
Lady Emily to see her son filling the place in the
world she had always looked forward with hope to his
filling; and, by Heaven's help, he thought, he could still


chap, xxxiv.] A STROKE FOR FBEEDOM.
823
fill it. He couldn't marry Gwendoline on a beggar's
pittance; and, by Heaven's help, he hoped still to be
able to marry her.
Guy, on the other hand, found himself almost equally
surprised in turn at the rapid way he grew really to be
fond of Granville Kelmscott. Though Kelmscott knew,
as he thought, the terrible secret of his half-unconscious
crime—for he could feel now how completely he had
acted under Montague Nevitt's compelling influence—
Guy was aware before long of such a profound and
deep-seated sympathy existing between them, that he
became exceedingly attached in time to his friendly
fellow-prisoner. In spite of the one barrier they could
never break down, he spoke freely by degrees to
Granville of everything else in his whole life; and
Granville in return spoke to him just as freely. A
good fellow, Granville, when you got to know him.
There was only a single trait in his character Guy
couldn't endure; and that was his ingrained love of
money-grubbing. For the way the man pounced down
upon those dirty little stones, when he saw them in
the mud, and hoarded them up in his belt, and seemed
prepared to defend them with his very life-blood, Guy
couldn't conceal from himself the fact that he fairly
despised him. Such vulgar, common-place, unredeemed
love of pelf! Such mere bourgeois avarice! Of what
use could those wretched pebbles be to him here in the
dusty plains of far inland Africa?
Guy himself kept close count of his finds, to be


324
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxxiv,
sure; but then, the cases, don't you see, were so
different! He wanted his diamonds to discharge the
great debt of his life to Cyril, and to appear an honest
man, rehabilitated once more, before the brother he
had so deeply wronged and humiliated. Whereas
Granville Kelmscott, a rich man's son, and the heir to
a great estate beyond the dreams of avarice—that he
should have come risking his life in these savage wilds
for mere increase of superfluous wealth, why, it was
simply despicable.
So eighteen months wore away, in mutual friendship,
tempered to a certain degree by mutual contempt, and
little chance of escape came to the captives in Barolong
land.
At last, as the second winter came round once more,
for two or three weeks the Englishmen in their huts
began to perceive that much bustle and confusion was
going on all around in King Khatsua's dominions.
Preparations for a war on a considerable scale were
clearly taking place. Men mustered daily on the
dusty plain with firearms and assegais. Much pombe
was drunk; many palavers took place; a constant
drumming of gongs and tom-toms disturbed their ears
by day and by night. The Englishmen concluded
some big marauding expedition was in contemplation.
And they were quite right. King Khatsua was about
to concentrate his forces for an attack on a neighbouring
black monarch, as powerful and perhaps as cruel as
himself, Montisive of the Bush Veldt,


CHaP. xxxiv.] A STROKE FOR FREEDOM.
Slowly the preparations went on all around. Then
the great day came at last, and King Khatsua set forth
on his mighty campaign, to the sound of big drums and
the blare of native trumpets.
When the warriors had marched out of the villages
on their way northward to the war, Guy saw the two
prisoners' chance of escape had arrived in earnest.
They were guarded as usual, of course; but not so
strictly as before; and during the night, in particular,
Guy noticed with pleasure, little watch was now kept
upon them. The savage, indeed, can't hold two ideas
in his head at once. If he's making war on Ms
neighbour on one side, he has no room left to think of
guarding his prisoners on the other.
"To-night," Guy said, one evening, as they sat
together in their hut, over their native supper of mealie
cakes and springbok venison, "we must make a bold
stroke. We must creep out of the kraal as well as we
can, and go for the sea westward, through Namaqua
land to Angra Pequena."
"Westward?" Granville answered, very dubiously.
"But why westward, Waring? Surely our shortest
way to the coast is down to Kimberley and so on to
the Cape. It'll take us weeks and weeks to reach the
sea, won't it, by way of Namaqua land?"
"No matter for that," Guy replied, with confidence.
He knew the map pretty well, and had thought it all
over. "As soon as the Barolong miss us in the morn-
ing, they'll naturally think we've gone south, as you


326
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxiv;
say, towards our own people. So they'll pursue us in
that direction and try to take us; and if they were to
catch us after we'd once run away, you may be sure
they'd kill us as soon as look at us. But it would
never occur to them, don't you see, we were going
away west. They won't follow us that way. So west
we'll go, and strike out for the sea, as I say, at Angra
Pequena."
They sat up through the night discussing plans low
to themselves in the dark, till nearly two in the morn-
ing. Then, when all was silent around, and the Baro-
long slept, they stole quietly out, and began their long
march across the country to westward. Each man had
his diamonds tied tightly round his waist, and his
revolver at his belt. They were prepared to face every
unknown danger.
Crawling past the native huts with very cautious
steps, they made for the open, and emerged from the
village on to the heights that bounded the valley of
the Lugura. They had proceeded in this direction for
more than an hour, walking as hard as their legs
would carry them, when the sound of a man running
fast, but barefoot, fell on their ears from behind in a
regular pit-a-pat. Guy looked back in dismay, and
saw a naked Barolong just silhouetted against the pale
sky on the top of a long low ridge they had lately
crossed over. At the very same instant Granville
raised his revolver and pointed it at the man, who
evidently had not yet perceived them. With a sudden


chap, xxxiv.] - A STROKE FOR FREEDOM.
327
gesture of horror, Guy knocked down his hand and
prevented his taking aim.
"Don't shoot," he cried, in a voice of surprised
dismay and disapproval. "We mustn't take his life.
How do we know he's an enemy at all? He mayn't
be pursuing us."
"Best shoot on spec, anyway," Granville answered,
somewhat discomposed. "All's fair in war. The fel-
low's after us no doubt. And, at any rate, if he sees us
he may go and report our whereabouts to the village."
"What? . shoot an unarmed man who shows no
signs of hostility! Why, it would be sheer murder,"
Guy cried, with some horror. "We mustn't make our
retreat on those principles, Kelmscott; it'd be quite inde-
fensible. I decline to fire except when we're attacked.
I won't be any party, myself, to needless bloodshed."
Granville Kelmscott gazed at him, there in the grey
dawn, in unspeakable surprise. Not shoot at a negro!
In such straits, too, as theirs! And this, rebuke had
come to him—from the mouth of the murderer!
Turn it over as he might, Granville couldn't under-
stand it.
The Barolong ran along on the crest of the ridge,
still at the top of his speed, without seeming to notice
them in the gloom of the valley. Presently, he dis-
appeared over the edge to southward. Guy was right,
after all. He wasn't in pursuit of them. More likely
he was only a runaway slave, taking advantage, like
themselves, of King Khatsua's absence.


chap. xxxv.l PERILS BY THE WAY.
329
Granville Kelmscott lay down on the sandy soil with
a wild gesture of despair. All around were bare rocks
and the dry sweltering veldts, covered only with
round stones and red sand and low bushy vegetation.
"Waring," he said feebly, in a very faint voice, " I
wish you'd leave me and go on by yourself. I'm no
good any more. I'm only a drag upon you. This
fever's too bad for me to stand much longer. I can
never pull through to the coast alive. I've no energy
left, were it even to try. I'd like to lie down here and
die where I sit. Do go and leave me."
"Never!" Guy answered resolutely. "I'll never
desert you, Kelmscott, while I've a drop of blood left.
If I carry you on my back to the coast, I'll get you
there at last, or else we'll both die on the veldt
together."
Granville held his friend's hand in his own fevered
fingers as he might have held a woman's.
"Oh, Waring," he cried once more, in a voice half
choked with profound emotion, "I don't know how to
thank you enough for all you've done for me. You've
behaved to me like a brother—like a brother indeed.
It makes me ashamed to think, when I see how
unselfish, and good, and kind you've been—ashamed to
think I once distrusted you. You've been an angel to 1
me all through. Without you, I don't know how I
could ever have lived on through this journey at all.
And I can't bear to feel now I may spoil your retreat—
can't bear to know I'm a drag and burden to you."


330
WHAt'S BfiED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxv.
"My dear fellow," Guy said, holding the thin and
fevered hand very tenderly in his, "don't talk to me
like that. I feel to you every bit as you feel to me in
this matter. I was afraid of you at first, because I
knew you misunderstood me. But the more I've seen
of you, the better we've each of us learned to sym-
pathize with the other. We've long been friends. I
love you now, as you say, like a brother."
Granville hesitated for a moment. Should he out
with it or not? Then at last the whole long-suppressed
truth came out with a burst. He seized his companion's
two hands at once in a convulsive grasp.
"That's not surprising either," he said, " after all—
for, Guy, do you know, we are really brothers!"
Guy gazed at him in astonishment. For a moment
he thought his friend's reason was giving way. Then
slowly and gradually he took it all in.
"Are really brothers !" he repeated, in a dazed sort
of way. "Do you mean it, Kelmscott? Then my
father and Cyril's"
"Was mine too, Waring. Yes; I couldn't bear to
die without telling you that. And I tell it now to you.
You two are the heirs of the Tilgate estates. And the
unknown person who paid six thousand pounds to
Cyril, just before you left England, was your father and
mine—Colonel Henry Kelmscott."
Guy bent over him for a few seconds in speechless
surprise. Words failed him at first. "How do you
know all this, Kelmscott?" he said at last faintly.


PHaP. xxxv.] PERILS BV THIS WAV. 331
Granville told him in as few words as possible—for
indeed he was desperately weak and ill—by what
accident he had discovered his father's secret. But he
told him only what he knew himself. For, of course,
he was ignorant as yet of the Colonel's seizure and
sudden death on the very day after they had sailed
from England.
Guy listened to it all in profound silence. It was a
strange, and for him a momentous tale. Then he said
at last, as Granville finished, "And you never told me
this all these long months, Kelmscott."
"I always meant to tell you, Guy," his half-brother
answered, in a sudden fit of penitence. "I always
meant in the end you and your brother Cyril should
come into your own at Tilgate as you ought. I was
only waiting"
"Till you'd realized enough to make good some part
of your personal loss," Guy suggested, not unkindly.
"Oh no," Granville answered, flushing up at the
suggestion. "I wasn't waiting for that. Don't think
me so mercenary. I was waiting for you in your turn
to extend to me your own personal confidence. You
know, Guy," he went on, dropping into a still more
hushed and solemn undertone, " I saw an evening paper
the night we left Plymouth"
"Oh, 1 know, I know," Guy cried, interrupting him,
with a very pale face. "Don't speak to me of that. I
can't bear to think of it. Kelmscott, I was mad when
I did that deed. I wasn't myself. I acted under some-


o32 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxv,
body else's compulsion and influence. The man had a
sort of hypnotic power over my will, I believe. I
couldn't help doing whatever he ordered me. It was
he who suggested it. It was he that did it. And it's
he who was really and truly guilty."
"And who was that man?" Granville Kelmscott
asked with some little curiosity.
"There's no reason I shouldn't tell you," Guy
answered, "now we've once broken the ice; and I'm
glad in my heart, I must say, that we've broken it.
For a year and a half, day and night, that barrier has
been raised between us always, and I've longed to get
rid of it. But I was afraid to speak of it to you, and
you to me! Well, the man, if you must know, was
Montague Nevitt!"
Granville Kelmscott looked up at him in credulous
surprise. But he was too ill and weak to ask the
meaning of this riddle. Montague Nevitt! What on
earth could Waring mean by that? How on earth
could Montague Nevitt have influenced and directed
him in assaulting and murdering Montague Nevitt?
For a long time there was silence. Each brother
was thinking his own thoughts to himself about this
double disclosure. At last, Granville lifted his head
and spoke again.
"And you'll go home to England now," he said,
"under an assumed name, I suppose; and arrange with
your brother Cyril for him to claim the Kelmscott
estates, and allow you something out of them in retire*
ment somewhere."


CHaP. XXXvI.]
DESERTED. 335
tending him. But they were black faces, all, and the
voices spoke in deep guttural tones, unlike even the
clicks and harsh Bantu jerks with which he had grown
so familiar in eighteen months among the Barolong.
This that he heard now, or seemed to hear in his
delirium, like distant sounds of water, was a wholly
different and very much harsher tongue—the tongue
of the Namaquas, in fact, though Granville was far too
ill and too drowsy just then to think of reasoning
about it or classifying it in any way. All he knew
for the moment was that sometimes, when he turned
round feebly on his bed of straw, and asked for drink
or help in a faltering voice, no white man appeared to
answer his summons. Black faces all—black, black,
and unfamiliar. Very intermittently he was conscious
of a faint sense of loneliness. He knew not why. But
he thought he could guess. . Guy Waring had deserted
him!
At last, one morning, after more days had passed
than Granville could possibly count, all of a sudden,
in a wild whirl, he came to himself again at once, with
that instant revulsion of complete awakening which
often occurs at the end of long fits of delirium in
malarious fever. A light burst in upon him with a
flash. In a moment, his brain seemed to clear all at
once, and everything to grow plain as day before him.
He raised himself on one wasted elbow and gazed
around him with profound awe. He saw it all now;
lie remembered everything, everything,


33G
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BOXE, [chap, xxxvi.
He was alone among savages in the far heart of
Africa.
He lay on his back, on a heap of fresh straw, in a
close and filthy mud-built hut. Under his aching neck
a wooden pillow or prop of native make supported his
head. Two women and a man bent over him and
smiled. Their faces, though black, were far from
unkindly. They were pleased to see him stare about
with such meaning in his eyes. They were friendly,
no doubt. They seemed really to take an interest in
their patient's recovery.
But where was Guy Waring? Dead? Dead? Or
run away? Had his half-brother, in this utmost need,
then, so basely deserted him?
For some minutes, Granville gazed around him, half
dazed, and in a turmoil of surprise, yet with a vivid
passion of acute inquiry. Now he was once well
awake, he must know all immediately. But how?
Who to ask? This was terrible, terrible. He had no
means of intercommunication with the people in the
hut. He knew none of their language, nor they
of his. He was utterly alone, among unmitigated
savages.
Meanwhile, the man and the women talked loud
among themselves in their own harsh speech, evidently
well pleased and satisfied at their guest's improvement.
With a violent effort, Granville began to communicate
with them in the language of signs which every savage
knows as he knows his native tongue, and in which


ciiai-. xxxvi.j Deserted.
337
the two Englishmen had already made some progress
during their stay in Barolong land.
Pointing first to himself, with one hand on his breast,
he held up two fingers before the observant Namaqua,
to indicate that at first there had been a couple of
them on the road, both white men. The latter point
he still further elaborated by showing the white skin
on his own bare wrist, and once more holding up the
two fingers demonstratively. The Namaqua nodded.
He had seized the point well. He held up two fingers
in return himself; then looked at his own black wrist
and shook his head in dissent—they were not black
men; after which he touched Granville's fair forearm
with his hand; yes, yes, just so; he took it in; two
white men.
What had become of the other one? Granville
asked in the same fashion, by looking around him oil
all sides in dumb show, inquiringly. One finger only
was held up now, pointing about the hut; one hand
was laid upon his own breast to show that a single
white man alone remained. He glanced about him
uneasily. What had happened to his companion?
The Ifamaqua pointed with his finger to the door
of the hut, as much as to say the other man was gond
He seized every sign at once with true savage quick-
ness.
Then Granville tried once more. Was his companion
dead? Had he been killed in a fight? Was that the
reason of his absence? He lunged forward with his
z


338
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxvl.
hand holding an imaginary assegai. He pressed on
upon the foe; he drove it through a body. Then he
fell, as if dead, on the floor, with a groan and a shriek.
After which, picking himself up as well as he was able,
and crawling back to his straw, he proceeded in mute
pantomime to bury himself decently.
The Namaqua shook his head again with a laugh
of dissent. Oh no; not like that. It had happened
quite otherwise. The missing white man was well and
vigorous, a slap on his own chest sufficiently indicated
that news. He placed his two first fingers in the
ground, astride like legs, and made them walk along
fast, one in front of the other. The white man had
gone away. He had gone on foot. Granville nodded
acquiescence. The savage took water in a calabash
and laid it on the floor. Then he walked once more
with his fingers, as if on a long and weary march,
to the water's brink. Granville nodded comprehension
again. He understood the signs. The white man had
gone away, alone, on foot—and seaward.
At that instant, with a sudden cry of terror, the
invalid's hands went down to his waist, where he wore
the girdle that contained those precious diamonds—the
diamonds that were to be the ransom of some fraction
of Tilgate. An awful sense of desertion broke over him
all at once. He called aloud in his horror. It was
too much to believe. The girdle was gone, and the
diamonds with it 1
Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Thief I Murderer! Robber 1


CHAp. xxxvi.]
339
DESERTED.
He had trusted that vile creature, that plausible wretch,
in spite of all the horrible charges he knew against
him. And this was the sequel of their talk that day'
This was how Guy Waring had requited his confidence.
He had stolen the fruits of eighteen months' labour.
Granville turned to the Namaqua, wild with his
terrible loss, and pointed angrily to his loins, where
the diamonds were not. The savage nodded; looked
wise and shook his head; pretended to gird himself
round the waist with a cloth; then went over to Gran-
ville, who lay still in the straw, undid an imaginary
belt, with deliberate care, tied it round his own body
above the other one, with every appearance of prudence
and forethought, counted the small stones in it one by
one, in his hand, to the exact number, with grotesque
fidelity, and finally set his fingers to walk a second
time at a rapid pace, in the direction of the calabash
which represented the ocean.
Granville fell back on his wooden pillow with a
horrible groan of awakened distrust. The man had
gone off, that was clear, and had stolen his diamonds
That is what comes of intrusting your life and property
to a discovered murderer. How could he ever have
been such a fool? He would never forgive himself.
The desertion itself was bad enough in all conscience;
but it was as nothing at all in Granville's mind to the
wickedness of the robbery.
He might have known it, of course. How that fellow
toiled and moiled and gloated over his wretched


( 341 )
CHAPTER XXXVII.
AUX AEMES!
For a day or two more, Granville remained seriously
ill in the dirty hut. At the end of that time, weak and
wasted as he was, he insisted upon getting up and setting
out alone on his long march seaward.
It was a wild resolve. He was utterly unfit for it.
The hospitable Namaqua, whose wives had nursed him
well through that almost hopeless illness, did his best
to persuade the rash Englishman from so mad a course,
by gestures and entreaties, in his own mute language.
But Granville was obstinate. He would not sit down
quietly and be robbed like this of the fruit of his labours.
He would not be despoiled. He would not be trampled
upon. He would make for the coast, if he staggered in
like a skeleton, and would confront the robber with his
own vile crime, be it at Angra Pequena, or Cape Town,
or London, or Tilgate.
In short, he would do much as Guy himself had
done when he discovered Montague Nevitt's theft of
the six thousand. He would follow the villain till he
ran him to earth, and would tax him at last to his face
with the open proofs of his consummate treachery.


342 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BOXE. [chap. xxxvn.
What's bred in the bone will out in the blood. The
Kelmscott strain worked alike its own way in each of
them.
The Namaqua, to be sure, tried in vain to explain to
Granville by elaborate signs that the other white man
had given orders to the contrary. The other white
man had strictly enjoined upon him not to let the
invalid escape from his hut on any pretext whatever.
The other white man had promised him a reward, a
very large reward—money, guns, ammunition—if he
kept him safely and didn't allow him to escape. Gran-
ville Kelmscott smiled to himself a bitter, cynical
smile. Poor confiding savage! He didn't know Guy
as well as he, his brother, did.
And yet, in the midst of it all, in spite of the revul-
sion, Granville was conscious now and then of some
little ingratitude somewhere to his half-brother's
memory. After all, Guy had shown him time and
again no small kindness. Some excuse should be made
for a man who saves his own life first in very dire
extremities. But none, no, none for one who has
the incredible and inhuman meanness to rob his own
brother of his hard-earned gains, in a strange wild
land, when he thinks him dying.
For it was the robbery, not the desertion, Granville
could never forgive. The man who was capable of
doing that basest of acts was capable also of murder
or any crime in the decalogue.
So the fevered white man rose at last one morning


CHAP, XXXVII.]
343
AUX ABMES!
on his shrunken limbs, and staggered, as best he might,
from his protector's hut in a wild impulse of resolution,
on his mad-journey seaward. When the Namaqua
saw nothing on earth would induce him to remain, he
shouldered his arms and went out beside him, fully
equipped for fight with matchlock and assegai. Not
that the savage made any undue pretence to a purely
personal devotion to the belated white man. On the
contrary, he signified to Granville with many ingenious
signs that he was afraid of losing the great reward he
had been promised, if once he let the invalid get out of
his sight unattended.
Granville smiled once more that bitter smile of new-
born cynicism. Well, let the fellow follow him if ho
liked! He would reward him himself if ever they
reached the coast in safety. And in any case, it was
better to go attended by a native. An interpreter who
can communicate in their own tongue with the people
through whose territory you are going to pass is always
useful in a savage country.
How Granville got over that terrible journey sea.
ward he could never tell. He crawled on and on,
supported by the faithful Namaqua with unfailing
good-humour, over that endless veldt, for three long
days of wretched footsore marching. And for three
long nights he slept, or lay awake, under the clear
desert stars, on the open ground of barren Namaqua
land. It was a terrible time. Worn and weary with
the fever, Granville was wholly unfit for any kind of


344 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [iiup. xxxvii.
travelling. Nothing but the iron constitution of the
Kelmscotts could ever have stood so severe an ordeal.
But the son of six generations of soldiers, who had
commanded in the fever-stricken flats of Walcheren,
or followed Wellesley through the jungles of tropical
India, or forced their way with Napier into the depths
of Abyssinia, was not to be daunted even by the name-
less horrors of that South African desert. Granville
still endured, for three days and nights, and was ready
to march, or crawl on, once more, upon the fourth
morning.
Here, however, his Namaqua guide, with every
appearance of terror, made strong warnings of danger.
The country beyond, he signified by strange gestures,
lay in the hands of a hostile tribe, hereditarily at
war with his fellow-clansmen. He didn't even know
whether the other white man, with the diamonds round
his waist, had got safely through, or whether the
hostile tribe beyond the frontier had assegaied him and
"eaten him up," as the picturesque native phrase goes.
It was difficult enough for even a strong warrior to
force his way through that district with a good com-
pany of followers; impossible for a single weak invalid
like Granville, attended only by one poor, ill-armed
Namaqua.
So the savage seemed to say in his ingenious panto-
mime. If they went on, they'd be killed and eaten up
resistlessly. If they stopped they might pull through.
They must wait and camp there. For what they were


340
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [oHap. sxxvn.
below attracted his attention. He pricked up his ears,
Impossible! Incredible! It couldn't be—yes, it was—
the sharp hiss of firearms!
At the very same moment the Namaqua leapt to his
feet in sudden alarm, and, shading his eyes with his
dusky hand, gazed intently in front of him. For a
minute or so he stood still, with brows knit and neck
craning. Then he called out something in an excited
tone two or three times over in his own tongue to Gran-
ville. The Englishman stared in the same direction,
but could make out nothing definite just at first, in the
full glare of the sunlight. But the Namaqua, with a
cry of joy, held up his two fingers as before, to symbolize
the two white men, and pointed with one of them to his
guest, while with the other he indicated some object in
the valley, nodding many times over. Granville seized
Ins meaning at once. Could it be true, what he said in
this strange mute language? Could relief be at hand?
Could the firing beneath show that Guy was returning?
As he looked and strained his eyes, peering down
upon the red plain, under the shadow of his open palm,
the objects by the water-course grew gradually clearer.
Granville could make out now that a party of natives,
armed with spears and matchlocks, was attacking some
little encampment on the bank of the dry torrent. The
small force in the encampment was returning the fire
with great vigour and spirit, though apparently over-
powered by the superior numbers of their swarming
assailants. Even as Granville looked, their case grew


CHap. XXXvII.]
347
AUX ARMES!
more desperate. A whole horde of black men seemed
to be making an onset on some small white object, most
jealously guarded, round which the defenders of the
camp rallied with infinite energy. At the head of the
little band of strangers, a European in a pith helmet
was directing the fire, and fighting hard himself for the
precious white object. The rest were blacks, he thought,
in half-civilized costume. Granville's heart gave a
bound as the leader sprang forth upon one approaching
savage. His action, as he leapt, stamped the man at
once. There was Kelmscott in the leap. Granville
knew in a second it was indeed Guy Waring.
The Namaqua recognised him too, and pointed enthu-
siastically forward. Granville saw what he meant. To
the front! To the front! If there was fighting to be
done, let them help their friends. Let them go forward
and claim the great reward offered.
Next moment, with a painful thrill of shame and
remorse, the Englishman saw what was the nature of
the object they were so jealously guarding. His heart
stood still within him. It was a sort of sedan chair, or
invalid litter, borne on poles by four native porters.
Talk about coals of fire! Granville Kelmscott hardly
knew how to forgive himself for his unworthy distrust.
Then Guy must have reached the coast in safety, after
leaving him in charge of the Namaqua and fighting his
way through, and now he was on his way back to the
interior again, with a sufficient escort and a palanquin
to fetch him.


350 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxxvit.
you to the coast through the territory of the next tribe
in your present condition, unless"
The rest was torn off. Guy looked at it dubiously.
But the Namaqua, anxious to show he had followed out
all instructions to the very letter, tore off the next scrap
before their eyes, rolled it up between his palms into
a nice greasy pill, and proceeded to offer it for Gran-
ville's acceptance. The misapprehension was too
absurd. Guy went off into a hearty peal of laughter
at once. The Namaqua had taken the mysterious signs
for " a very great medicine," and had administered the
magical paper accordingly, as he understood himself to
be instructed, at fixed intervals to his unfortunate
patient. That was the medicine Granville remembered
having forced down his throat at the moment when he
first learned, as he thought, his half-brother's treachery.


352 WHAT'S BRED IN' THE BONE. [chap. xxxviii.
was almost certain of meeting Elma. And since Elma
insisted now on writing to him constantly—she was a
self-willed young woman was Elma, and would have
her way—he really saw no reason on earth himself
why he shouldn't meet her. To meet is one thing,
don't you know—to marry, another. At least so fifty
generations of young people have deluded themselves
under similar circumstances into believing.
Elma was in the room before him, prettier than ever,
people said, in the pale red ball-dress which exactly
suited her gipsy-like eyes and creamy complexion. As
she entered she saw Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve with his
wife and Gwendoline standing in the corner by the
big piano. Gwendoline looked pale and preoccupied,
as she had always looked since Granville Kelmseott
disappeared, leaving behind him no more definite
address for love-letters than simply Africa; and Lady
Gildersleeve was, as usual, quite subdued and broken.
But the judge himself, consoled by his new honours,
seemed, as time wore on, to have recovered a trifle of
his old blustering manner. A knighthood had re-
assured him. He was talking to Mr. Holker in a
loud voice as Elma approached him from behind.
"Yes, a very curious coincidence," he was just
saying, in his noisy fashion, with one big burly hand
held demonstratively before him. "A very curious
and unexplained coincidence. They both vanished
into space about the self-same time. And nothing
more has ever since been heard of them. Quite an


35-A WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xxxviii.
Sir Gilbert tried to avoid her; but, with the inherited
instinct of her race, Elma cut off his retreat. She
boxed him in the corner between the piano and the
wall.
"I heard what you were saying just now, Sir Gil-
bert," she murmured low, but with marked emphasis,
after a few polite commonplaces of conversation had
first passed between them; "and I want to ask you one
question only about the matter. Are you so sure as
you seem of what you said this minute? Are you so
sure that Mr. Guy Waring had sufficient reasons of his
own for wishing to leave the country?"
Before that unflinching eye, the great lawyer trem-
bled, as many a witness had trembled of old under his
own cross-examination. But he tried to pass it off just
at first with a little society banter. He bowed, and
smiled, and pretended to look arch—look arch, indeed,
with that ashen, white face of his!—as he answered,
with forced humour—
"My dear young lady, Mr. Guy Waring, as I under-
stand, is Mr. Cyril Waring's brother, and as by the law
of England the king can do no wrong, so I suppose"
Elma cut him short in the middle of his sentence
with an imperious gesture. He had never cut short an
obnoxious and intruding barrister himself with more
crushing dignity.
"Mr. Cyril Waring has nothing at all to do with the
point, one way or the other," the girl said severely.
"Attend to my question. What I ask is this: Why do


356
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. Stxxvnl.
nobody should know he had been anywhere near Dart-
moor on the day of the accident.
However, there was one consolation; the law! the
law! She could have no legal proof, and intuition
goes for nothing in a court of justice. All the suspicion
went against Guy Waring, and Guy Waring—well,
Guy Waring had fled the kingdom in the very nick of
time, and was skulking now, Heaven alone knew where
or why, in the remotest depths of some far African
diggings.
And even as he thought it, the servant opened the
door, and, in the regulation footman's voice, announced
"Mr. Waring."
The judge started afresh. For one moment his
senses deceived him sadly. His mind was naturally
full- of Guy, just now; and as the servant spoke, he
saw a handsome young man in evening dress coming
up the long drawing-room with the very air and walk
of the man he had met that eventful afternoon at
the "Duke of Devonshire" at Plymouth. Of course, it
was only Cyril; and a minute later the judge saw his
mistake, and remembered, with a bitter smile, how
conscience makes cowards of us all, as he had often
remarked about shaky witnesses in his admirable
perorations. But Elma hadn't failed to notice either
the start or its reason.
"It's only Mr. Cyril," she said pointedly; "not
Mr. Guy, Sir Gilbert. The name came very pat, though.
I don't wonder it startled you."


chap, xxxviii.] NEWS FROM THE CAPE.
357
She was crimson herself. The judge moved away
with a stealthy uncomfortable air. He didn't half care
for this uncanny young woman. A girl who can read
people's thoughts like that, a girl who can play with
you like a cat with a mouse, oughtn't to be allowed
at large in society. She should be shut up in a cage
at home like a dangerous animal, and prevented from
spying out the inmost history of families.
A little later, Elma had twenty minutes' talk with
Cyril alone. It was in the tea-room behind, where
the light refreshments were laid out before supper.
She spoke low and seriously.
"Cyril," she said, in a tone of absolute confidence
—they were not engaged, of course, but still, it had got
to plain "Cyril" and "Elma" by this time—"I'm
surer of it than ever, no matter what you say. Guy's
perfectly innocent. I know it as certainly as I know
my own name. I can't be mistaken. And the man
who really did it is, as I told you, Sir Gilbert Gilder-
sleeve."
"My dear child," Cyril answered—you call the girl
you are in love with " my dear child," when you mean
to differ from her, with an air of masculine superiority—
"how on earth can that be, when, as I told you, I have
Guy's confession in writing, under his own very hand,
that he really did it?"
"I don't care a pin for that," Elma cried, with a
true woman's contempt for anything so unimportant
as mere positive evidence. "Perhaps Sir Gilbert made


chaP. xxxviii.] NEWS FROM THE CAPE.
359
As he paused and reflected, a servant with a salver
came up and looked into Cyril's face inquiringly.
"Beg your pardon, sir," he said, hesitating, "but I
think you're Mr. Waring."
"That's my name," Cyril answered, with a faint blush
on his cheek. "Do you want to speak to me?"
"Yes, sir; there's half-a-crown to pay for porterage,
if you please. A telegram for you, sir."
Cyril pulled out the half-a-crown, and tore open the
telegram. Its contents were indeed enough to startle
him. It was dated "Cape Town," and was as brief as
is the wont of cable messages at nine shillings a word—
"Coming home immediately to repay everything and
stand my trial. Kelmscott accompanies me. All well.
—Guy Waring."
Cyril looked at it with a gasp, and handed it on to
Elma. Elma took it in her dainty gloved fingers, and
read it through with keen eyes of absorbing interest.
Cyril sighed a profound sigh. Elma glanced back at
him all triumph. "I told you so," she said, in a very
jubilant voice. "He wouldn't do that if he didn't
knmv he was innocent."
At the very same second, a blustering voice was
heard above the murmur in the hall without.
"What, half-a-crown for porterage!" it exclaimed in
indignant tones. "Why, that's a clear imposition.
The people at my house ought never to have sent it
on. It's addressed to Woodlands. Unimportant,


360 WHAT'S RBED IN THE BONE. [chap, xxxviii.
unimportant! Here, Gwendoline, take your message
—some milliner's or dressmaker's appointment for
to-morrow, I suppose. Half-a-crown for porterage!
They'd no right to bring it."
Gwendoline took the telegram with trembling hands,
tore it open all quivers, and broke into a cry of
astonishment. Then she fell all at once into her
father's arms. Elma understood it all. It was a
similar message from Granville Kelmscott to tell the
lady of his heart he was coming home to marry her.
Sir Gilbert, somewhat flustered, called for water in
haste, and revived the fainting girl by bathing her
temples. At last he took up the cause of the mischief
himself. As he read it his own face turned white as
death. Elma noticed that, too. And no wonder it
did—for these were the words of that unexpected
message—
"Coming home to claim you by the next mail. Guy
Waring accompanies me.—Granville Kelmscott."


302
AVHAT'S BRED IN THE DONE. [chap. xxxix.
next; and what you least expeot is what most often
happens."
Elma, however, received bis news with a very grave
faoe.
"Is he really ill, do you think, papa?" she asked,
somewhat anxiously; "or is he only—well—only
frightened?"
Mr. Clifford stared at her with a blank leathery face
of self-satisfied incomprehension.
"Frightened!" he repeated solemnly; "Sir Gilbert
Gildersleeve frightened! And of Granville Kelmscott,
too! That's true wit, Elma; the juxtaposition of the
incongruous. 'Why, what on earth has the man got to •
be frightened of, I should like to know? . . . No, no;
h«'s really ill; very seriously ill. Humphreys says the
case is a most peculiar one, and he's telegraphed up to
town for a speciabst to come down this afternoon and
consult with him."
And indeed, Sir Gilbert was really very ill. This
unexpected shock had wholly unmanned him. To say
the truth, the judge had begun to look upon Guy Waring
as practically lost, and upon the matter of Montague
Nevitt's death as closed for ever. Waring, no doubt,
had gone to Africa—under a false name—and proceeded
to the diamond fields direct, where he had probably
been killed in a lucky quarrel with some brother digger,
or stuck through with an assegai by some enterprising
Zulu; and nobody had even taken the trouble to
mention it.


chap. xxxix.] A GLEAM OF LIGHT. 363
It's so easy for a man to get lost in the crowd in the
Dark Continent! Why, there was Granville Kelm-
scott, even—a young fellow of means, and the heir of
Tilgate, about whom Gwendoline was always moaning
and groaning, poor girl, and wouldn't be comforted—
there was Granville Kelmscott gone out to Africa, and,
hi, presto, disappeared into space without a vapour or
a trace, like a conjurer's shilling. It was all very
queer; but, then, queer things are the way in Africa.
To be sure, Sir Gilbert had his qualms of conscience,
too, over having thus sent off Guy Waring, as he
believed, to his grave in Cape Colony. He was not at
heart a bad man, though he was pushing, and selfish,
and self-seeking, and to a certain extent even—of late
—unscrupulous. He had his bad half-hours every now;
and again with his own moral consciousness. But he
had learnt to stifle his doubts and to keep down his
terrors. After all, he had told Guy no more than the
truth; and if Guy in his panic-terror chose to run
away and get killed in South Africa, that was no fault
of his—he'd only tried to warn the fellow of an impend-
ing danger. All's well that ends well; and, to-day,
Guy Waring was lost or dead, while he himself was a
judge, and a knight to boot, with all trace of his crime
destroyed for ever.
So he said to himself, rejoicing, the very day Gran-
ville Kelmscott's telegram arrived. But now that he
stood face to face again with that pressing terror, his
thoughts on the matter were very different. Strange


c&ap. xxxix.] A GLEAM OF LIGHT. . 365
of all consideration for others. Sir Gilbert wiped his
clammy brow with those ample hands. What on earth
was he to do for his wife, and for Gwendoline?
And Gwendoline was so happy, too, over Granville
Kelmscott's return! How could he endure that Gran-
ville Kelmscott's return should be the signal for
discovering her father's sin and shame to her! If only
he could have married her off before it all came out! Or
if only he could die before the man was tried !—Tried!
Sir Gilbert's eyes started from his head with horror.
What was that Elma Clifford suggested the other
night? Why—if the man was arrested, he would be
arrested at Plymouth, the moment he landed, and would
be tried for murder at the Western Assizes. And it
was he himself, Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve, who was that
term to take the Western Circuit.
He would be called upon to sit on the bench himself,
and try Guy Waring for the murder he had himself
committed!
No wonder that thought sent him ill to bed at once.
He lay and tossed all night long in speechless agony
and terror. It was an appalling night. Next morning
he was found delirious with fever.
When the news reached Elma, she saw its full and
fatal significance. Cyril had stopped on for three days
at the Holkers', and he came over in the course of the
morning to take a Walk across the fields with her.
Elma was profoundly excited, Cyril could hardly see
why.


366
WHAT'S feKED IN THE BONE. tcHap. XXXIX.
"This is a terrible thing," she said, "about Sir Gilbert's
illness. What I'm afraid of now is that he may die
before your brother returns. The shock must have been
awful for him; mamma noticed it every bit as much as
I did; and so did Miss Ewes. They both said at once,
'This blow will kill him!' And they both knew why,
Cyril, as well as I did. It's the Ewes' intuition. We've
all of us got it, and we all of us say, at once and
unanimously—it was Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve."
"But suppose he did die," Cyril asked, still sceptical,
as he always was when Elma got upon her instinctive
consciousness; "what difference would that make? If
Guy's innocent, as I suppose in some way he must be,
from the tone of his telegram, he'll be acquitted whether
Sir Gilbert's alive or not. And if he's guilty"
He broke off suddenly with an awful pause; the
other alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
"But he's not guilty," Elma answered with confidence.
"I know it more surely now than ever. And the diffi-
culty's this. Nobody knows the real truth, I feel certain,
except Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve. And if Sir Gilbert
dies unconfessed, the truth dies with him. And
then "She paused a moment. "I'm half afraid,"
she went on with a doubtful sigh, "your brother's been
too precipitate in coming home to face it."
"But, Elma," Cyril cried," I can't bear to say it—yet
one must face the facts—how on earth can he be
innocent, when I tell you again and again he wrote to
me himself saying he really did it?"


368
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chat, xxxix.
"You think so?" C)Til answered, feeling more and
more uncomfortable.
"I'm sure of it," Elma replied, with a thrill, reading
his thoughts still deeper. "Oh, Cyril"—she seized his
arm with a convulsive grip—" for Heaven's sake, go
and get it; let me see that letter!"
"I have it here," Cyril answered, pulling it out with
some shame from Montague Nevitt's pocket-book, which
he wouldn't destroy, and dared not leave about for
prying eyes to light upon. "I've carried it day and
night, ever since, about with me."
Elma seized it from his hands, and sat down upon a
stile, and read it through with profound attention.
At the end she handed it back and tears stood in her
eyes. "Cyril," she said, half laughing hysterically and
half crying as she spoke, "you've been doing that poor
fellow a deep injustice. Oh, don't you see—don't you
see it? That isn't the letter of a man who has committed
a murder. It's the letter of a man who has unwittingly
and unwillingly done you some personal wrong, and is
eager to repair it. My darling, my darling, you've
misread it altogether. It isn't about Montague Nevitt's
death at all; it's about nothing an earth but some
private money matter. More than that, when it was
written, Guy didn't yet know Mr. Nevitt was dead.
He didn't know he was suspected. He didn't know
anything. I wonder you don't see! I wish to Heaven
you'd shown me that letter months ago! Sir Gilbert
fastened suspicion on the wrong man; and this letter


370 WHAT'S BRED IN TUE BONE. [chm-. xl.
CHAPTEE XL.
THE BOLT FALLS.
All the way home on that long journey from Cape
Town, as the two half-brothers lounged on deck
together in their canvas chairs, Granville Kelmscott
was wholly at a loss to understand what seemed to
him Guy Waring's unaccountable and almost incre-
dible levity. The man's conduct didn't in the least
resemble that of a person who is returning to give
himself up on a charge of wilful murder. On the
contrary, Guy showed no signs of remorse or mental
agony in any way; he seemed rather elated, instead,
at the pleasing thought that he was going home, with
his diamonds all turned at the Cape into solid coin, to
make his peace once more with his brother Cyril.
To be sure, at times he did casually allude to some
expected unpleasantness when he arrived in England;
yet he treated it, Granville noticed, as though hanging
were at worst but a temporary inconvenience. Gran-
ville wondered whether, after all, he could have some
complete and crushing answer to that appalling charge;
on any other supposition, his spirits and his talk were


ohap. xl.] * THE BOLT PALLS.
371
really little short of what one might expect from a
madman.
And indeed, now and again, Granville did really
begin to suspect that something had gone wrong some-
where with Guy Waring's intellect. The more he
thought over it, the more likely did this seem, for Guy
talked on with the greatest composure about his plans
for the future "when this difficulty was cleared up,"
as though a trial for murder were a most ordinary
occurrence—an accident that might happen to any
gentleman any day. And, if so, was it possible that
Guy had gone wrong in his head before the affray with
Montague Nevitt? That seemed likely enough; for
when Granville remembered Guy's invariable gentle-
ness and kindness to himself, his devotion in sickness
and in the trials of the desert, his obvious aversion to
do harm to any one, and, above all, his heartfelt ob-
jection to shedding human blood, Granville was con-
strained to believe his newly found half-brother, if
ever he committed the murder at all, must have com-
mitted it while in a state of unsound mind, deserving
rather of pity than of moral reprehension. He com-
forted himself, indeed, with this consoling idea—he
could never believe a Kelmscott of Tilgate, when
clothed and in his right mind, could be guilty of such
a detestable and motiveless crime as the wilful murder
of Montague Nevitt.
Strangely enough, moreover, the subject that seemed
most to occupy Guy Waring's mind, on the voyage


372
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xl.
home, .was not his forthcoming trial on a capital charge,
but the future distribution of the Tilgate property.
Was he essentially a money-grubber, Granville won-
dered to himself, as he had thought him at first in the
diamond fields in Barolong land? Was he incapable
of thinking about anything but filthy lucre? No;
that was clearly not the true solution of the problem,
for, whenever Guy spoke to him about the subject, it
was generally to say one and the self-same thing—
"In this matter, I feel I can speak for Cyril as I
speak for myself. Neither of us would wish to de-
prive you now of what you've always been brought up
to consider as your own. Neither of us would wish
to dispossess Lady Emily. The most we would desire
is this—to have our position openly acknowledged and
settled before the world. We should like it to be
known we were the lawful sons of a brave man and
an honest woman. And if you wish voluntarily to
share with us some part of our father's estate, we'll be
willing to enter into a reasonable arrangement by which
you yourself can retain Tilgate Park and the mass of
the property that immediately appertains to it. I'm
sure Cyril would no more wish to be grasping in
this matter than I am; and after all that you and I
have gone through together, Granville, I don't think
you need doubt the sincerity of my feelings towards
you."
He spoke so sensibly, he spoke so manfully, he spoke
so kindly always, with a bright gleam in those tender


chap, xl.] THE BOLT PALLS.
373
eyes, that Granville hardly knew what to make of his
evident confidence. Surely a man couldn't be mad
who could speak like that; and yet, whenever he alluded
in any way to his return to England, it was always as
though he ignored the gravity and heinousness of the
charge brought against him. It was as though murder
was an accident, for which one was hardly responsible.
Granville couldn't make him out at all; the fellow was
an enigma to him. There was so much that was good
in him; and yet, there must be so much that was bad
as well. He was such a delicate, considerate, self-
effacing gentleman—and yet, if one could believe what
he himself more than once as good as admitted, he was
a criminal, a felon, an open murderer.
Still, even so, Granville couldn't turn his back upon
the brother who had seen him so bravely across the
terrors of Namaqua land. He thought of how he had
misjudged him once before, and how much he had
repented it. Whether Guy was a murderer or not,
Granville felt, the man he had saved, at least, could
never forsake him.
The night before their arrival at Plymouth, Guy was
in unusually high spirits. His mirth was contagious.
Everybody on board was delighted at the prospect of
reaching land, but Guy was more delighted and more
sanguine than anybody. He was sure in his own mind
this difficulty must have blown over long before now;
Cyril must have explained; Nevitt must have con-
fessed; everything must have been set right, and his


374
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xl.
own good name satisfactorily rehabilitated. For more
than eighteen months he had heard nothing from
England. To-morrow he would see Cyril, and account
for everything. He had money to set all right—his
hard-earned money, got at the risk of his own life in
the dreary deserts of Barolong land. All would yet be
well, and Cyril would marry, and Elma Clifford would
be the mistress of nearly half the Tilgate property.
"It was all so different, Granville," he said to his
friend confidentially, as they paced the deck after
supper, cigar in mouth, "when you first went out, and
we didn't know one another. Then, I distrusted you,
and you distrusted me. We didn't understand one
another's characters. But now we can settle it all as
a family affair. Men who have camped out together
under the open sky on the African veldt, who have run
the gauntlet of Korannas and Barolong and Namaqua,
who have stood by one another in sickness and in fight,
needn't be afraid of disagreeing about their money
matters in England. Cyril will meet us to-morrow
and talk it all over, and I'm not the least troubled
about the result, either for you or for him. The same
blood runs in all our veins alike. Whatever you pro-
pose, he'll be ready to agree to. He's the very best
fellow that ever lived, and when he hears what I have
to say about you, he'll welcome you as a brother, and
be as fond of you as I am."
Next morning early they reached Plymouth Harbour.
As they entered the mouth of the breakwater, the


chap, xl.] THE BOLT FALLS.
375
tender came alongside to convey them ashore. Guy
looked over the bulwarks and saw Cyril waiting for
him. In a fervour of delight at the sight of the green
fields and the soft hills of old England—the beautiful
Hoe, and the solid stone houses, and the familiar face
turned up to welcome him—Guy waved his handker-
chief round and round his head in triumph; to which
demonstration Cyril, as he fancied, responded but coldly.
A chill fell upon his heart. This was bad, but still,
after all, he could hardly expect Cyril to know in-
tuitively under what sinister influence he had signed
that fatal cheque. And yet he was disappointed. His
heart had jumped so hard at sight of Cyril, he could
hardly believe Cyril wasn't glad to see him.
As he stepped into the tender from the gangway,
just ready to rush up and shake Cyril's hand fervently,
a resolute-looking man by the side of the steps laid a
very firm grip on his shoulder with an air of authority.
"Guy Waring?" he said interrogatively.
And Guy, turning pale, answered without flinching—
"Yes, my name's Guy Waring."
"Then you're my prisoner," the man said, in a very
firm voice. "I'm an inspector of constabulary."
"On what charge?" Guy exclaimed, half taken
aback at this promptitude.
"I have a warrant against you, sir," the inspector
answered, "as you are no doubt aware, for the wilful
murder of Montague Nevitt, on the 17th of August,
year before last, at Mambury, in Devonshire."


376
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xl.
The words fell upon Guy's ears with all the sudden-
ness and crushing force of an unexpected thunderbolt.
"Wilful murder," he cried, taken aback by the
charge. "Wilful murder of Montague Nevitt at Mam-
bury! Oh no, you can't mean that! Montague
Nevitt dead! Montague Nevitt murdered! And at
Mambury, too! There must be some mistake some-
where."
"No, there's no mistake at all, this time," the
inspector said quietly, slipping a pair of handcuffs
unobstrusively into his pocket as he spoke. "If you
come along with me without any unnecessary noise,
we won't trouble to iron you. But you'd better say
as little as possible about the charge just now, for
whatever you say may be used in evidence at the trial
against you."
Guy turned to Cyril with an appealing look.
"Cyril," he cried, "what does all this mean? Is
Nevitt dead? It's the very first word I've ever heard
about it."
Cyril's heart gave a bound of wild relief at those
words. The moment Guy said it his brother knew he
spoke the simple truth.
"Why, Guy," he answered, with a fierce burst of
joy, "then you're not a murderer after all? You're
innocent' You're innocent! And for eighteen months
all England has thought you guilty; and I've lived
under the burden of being universally considered a
murderer's brother!"


380
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xli.
against all hope, better." And indeed Sir Gilbert was
once more convalescent. A week or two abroad, it was
said, would restore him completely.
Then Elma had another terrible source of doubt.
Would the doctors order Sir Gilbert abroad so long that
he would be out of England when the trial took place?
If so, he might miss many pricks of remorse. She
must take some active steps to arouse his conscience.
Sir Gilbert himself, now recovering fast, fought hard,
as well he might, for such leave of absence. He was
quite unfit, he said, to return to his judicial work so
soon. Though he had said nothing about it in public
before (this was the tenor of his talk) he was a man
of profound but restrained feelings, and he had felt,
he would admit, the absence of Gwendoline's lover—
especially when combined with the tragic death of
Colonel Kelmscott, the father, and the memory of the
unpleasantness that had once subsisted, through the
Colonel's blind obstinacy, between the two houses.
This sudden news of the young man's return had given
him a nervous shock of which few would have believed
him capable. "You wouldn't think to look at me,"
Sir Gilbert said plaintively, smoothing down his bed-
clothes with those elephantine hands of his, "I was the
sort of man to be knocked down in this way;" and
the great specialist from London, gazing at him with
a smile, admitted to himself that he certainly would
not have thought it.
"Oh, nonsense, my dear sir," the specialist answered,


382
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xli.
herself, it must work upon his remorse and compel
confession.
Meanwhile, preparations went on in England for
Guy's approaching trial. The magistrates committed;
the grand jury, of course, found a true bill; all England
rang with the strange news that the man Guy Waring,
the murderer of Mr. Montague Nevitt some eighteen
months before, had returned at last of his own free
will, and had given himself up to take his trial.
Gildersleeve was to be the judge, they said; or if he
were too ill, Atkins. Atkins was as sure as a gun to
hang him, people thought—that was Atkins's way—
and, besides, the evidence against the man, though in
a sense circumstantial, was so absolutely overwhelming
that acquittal seemed impossible.
Five to two was freely offered on 'Change that they'd
hang him.
The case was down for first hearing at the assizes.
The night before the trial Elma Clifford, who had
hurried to Devonshire with her mother to see and hear
all—she couldn't help it, she said; she felt she must
be present—Elma Clifford looked at the evening paper
with a sickening sense of suspense and anxiety. A
paragraph caught her eye: "We understand that, after
all, Mr. Justice Gildersleeve still finds himself too
unwell to return to England for the Western Assizes,
and his place will, therefore, most probably be taken
by Mr. Justice Atkins. The calendar is a heavy one,
and includes the interesting case of Mr. Guy Waring,


CHaP. XLI.]
383
WHAT JUDGE?
charged with the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt,
at Mambury, in Devonshire."
Elma laid down the paper with a swimming head.
Too ill to return. She wasn't at all surprised at it.
It was almost more than human nature could stand,
for a man to sit as judge over another to investigate
the details of the crime he had himself committed.
But the suggestion of his absence ruined her peace of
mind. She couldn't sleep that night. She felt sure
now there was no hope left. Guy would almost cer-
tainly be convicted of murder.
Next morning she took her seat in court, with her
mother and Cyril, as soon as the assize hall was opened
to the public. But her cheek was very pale, and her
eyes were weary. Places had been assigned them by
the courtesy of the authorities, as persons interested in
the case; and Elma looked eagerly towards the door
in the corner, by which, as the usher told her, the
judge was to enter. There was a long interval, and
the usual unseemly turmoil of laughing and talking
went on among the spectators in the well below.
Some of them had opera-glasses and stared about them
freely. Others quizzed the counsel, the officers, and
the witnesses. Then a hush came over them, and the
door opened. Cyril was merely aware of the usual
formalities and of a judicial wig making its way, with
slow dignity, to the vacant bench. But Elma leaned
forward in a tumult of feeling. Her face all at once
turned scarlet with excitement.


384 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xli.
"What's the matter, darling?" her mother asked, in
a sympathetic tone, noticing that something had pro-
foundly stirred her.
And Elma answered with bated breath, in almost
inarticulate tones, "Don't you see? Don't you see,
mother? Just look at the judge! It's himself! It's
Sir Gilbert!"
And so indeed it was. Against all hope, he had
come over. At the very last moment a telegram had
been handed to the convalescent at Spa:
"Fallen from my horse. A nasty tumble. Sus-
tained severe internal injuries. Impossible to go the
Western Circuit. Believe me if you can. Wire reply.
—Atkins."
Sir Gilbert, as he received it, had just come in from
a long ride across the wild moors that stretch away
from Spa towards Han, and looked the picture of
health, robust and fresh and ruddy. He glowed with
bodily vigour; no suspense could kill him. Eefusal
under such circumstances was clearly impossible. He
saw he must go, or resign his post at once. So, with
an agitated heart, he wired acquiescence, took the next
train to Brussels and Calais, and caught the Dover
boat just in time for acceptance. And now he was
there to try Guy Waring for the murder of the man he
himself had killed in The Tangle at Mambury.


( 385 )
CHAPTER XLII.
UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE.
When Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve left Spa, he left with
a ruddy glow of recovered health on his bronzed red
cheek; for in spite of anxiety and repentance and
doubt, the man's iron frame would somehow still assert
itself. When he took his seat on the bench in court
that morning, he looked so haggard and ill with fatigue
and remorse that even Elma Clifford herself pitied him.
A hushed whisper ran round among the spectators
below that the judge wasn't fit to try the case before
him. And indeed he wasn't. For it was his own trial,
not Guy Waring's, he was really presiding over.
He sat down in his place, a ghastly picture of pallid
despair. The red colour had faded altogether from his
wan, white cheeks. His eyes were dreamy and blood-
shot with long vigil. His big hands trembled like a
woman's as he opened his note-book. His mouth
twitched nervously. So utter a collapse, in such a man
as he was, seemed nothing short of pitiable to every
spectator.
Counsel for the Crown stared him steadily in the
face. Counsel for the Crown—Forbes-Ewing, Q.G—<
2 c


chap, xlii.] UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE.
387
mere polite form. How frightened we all are, to be
sure, when we know we're on our trial!
The opening formalities were soon got over, and then,
amid a deep hush of breathless lips, Guy Waring, of
Staple Inn, Holborn, gentleman, was put upon his
trial for the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt, eighteen
months before, at Mambury in Devon.
Guy, standing in the dock, looked puzzled and
distracted rather than alarmed or terrified. His cheek
was pale, to be sure, and his eyes were weary; but as
Elma glanced from him hastily to the judge on the
bench she had no hesitation in settling in her own
mind which of the two looked most at that moment
like a detected murderer before the faces of his accusers.
Guy was calm and self-contained. Sir Gilbert's mute
agony was terrible to behold. Yet, strange to say, no
one else in court save Elma seemed to note it as she
did. People saw the judge was ill, but that was all.
Perhaps his wig and robes helped to hide the effect of
conscious guilt—nobody suspects a judge of murder;
perhaps all eyes were more intent on the prisoner.
Be that as it might, counsel for the Crown opened
with a statement of what they meant to prove, set forth
in the familiar forensic fashion. They didn't pretend
the evidence against the accused was absolutely con-
clusive or overwhelming in character. It was inferential
only, but not circumstantial—inferential in such a
cumulative and convincing way as could leave no
moral doubt on any intelligent mind as to the guilt of


390
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xlh.
the question of motive. There were two motives the
prosecution proposed to allege: first, the known enmity
of recent date between the two parties, believed to have
reference to some business dispute; and, secondly—
here counsel dropped his voice to a very low key—he
was sorry to suggest it; but the evidence bore it out—
mere vulgar love of gain—the commonplace thirst after
filthy lucre. They would bring witnesses to show that
when Mr. Montague Nevitt was last seen alive, he was
in possession of a pocket-book containing a very large
large sum in Bank of England notes of high value;
from the moment of his death that pocket-book had
disappeared, and nobody knew what had since become
of it. It was not upon the body when the body was
found. And all their efforts to trace the missing notes,
whose numbers were not known, had been unhappily
unsuccessful.
Guy listened to all this impeachment in a dazed,
dreamy way. He hardly knew what it meant. It
appalled and chilled him. The web of circumstances
was too thick for him to break. He couldn't under-
stand it himself. And what was far worse, he could
give no active assistance to his own lawyers on the
question of the notes—which might be very important
evidence against him—without further prejudicing his
case by confessing the forgery. At all hazards, he was
determined to keep that quiet now. Cyril had never
spoken to a soul of that episode, and to speak of it, as
things stood, would have been certain death to him. I


chap, xlii.J UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE.
393
discovery to part with it so readily. It was full of
money—Bank of England notes; and through the
transparent paper of the outermost among them the
finder could dimly read the words, " One hundred."
He rose in his place, and held the pocket-book aloft
in his hand with a triumphant gesture. Cyril tried in
vain to clutch at it. The witness turned round sharply,
disturbed by this incident. "What's that ?" the judge
exclaimed, puckering his brows in disapprobation, and
looking angrily towards the disturber.
"If you please, my lord," the innkeeper answered,
letting his jaw drop slowly in almost speechless amaze-
ment, "that's the thing I was a-talking of: that's Mr.
Nevitt's pocket-book."
"Hand it up," the judge said shortly, gazing hard
with all his eyes at the mute evidence so tendered.
The finder handed it up without note or comment.
Sir Gilbert turned the book over in blank surprise.
He was dumfoundered himself. For a minute or two
he examined it carefully, inside and out. Yes; there
was no mistake. It was really what they called it.
"Montague Nevitt" was written in plain letters on the
leather flap; within lay half-a-dozen engraved visiting-
cards, a Foreign Office passport in Nevitt's name, and
thirty Bank of England notes for one hundred pounds
apiece. This was, indeed, a mystery!
"Where did it come from ?" the judge asked, draw-
ing a painfully deep breath, and handing it across to
the jury.


394
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xlii.
And the finder answered, "If you please, my lord,
the gentleman next to me pulled it out of his pocket."
"Who is he ?" the judge inquired, with a sinking
heart, for he himself knew perfectly well who was the
unhappy possessor.
And a thrill of horror ran round the crowded court
as Forbes-Ewing answered, in a very distinct voice,
"Mr. Cyril Waring, my lord, the brother of the
prisoner."


( 395 )
CHAPTER XLIII.
SIR gilbert's temptation.
Cyril felt all was up. Elma glanced at him trembling.
This was horrible, inconceivable, inexplicable, fatal.
The very stars in their courses seem to fight against
Guy. Blind chance checkmated them. No hope was
left now, save in Gilbert Gildersleeve's own sense of
justice.
But Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve sat there, transfixed
with horror. No answering gleam now shot through
his dull, glazed eye. For he alone knew that whatever
made the case against the prisoner look worse, made
his own position each moment more awful and more
intolerable.
Through the rest of the case, Cyril sat in his place
like a stone figure. Counsel for the Crown generously
abstained from putting him into the witness-box to
give testimony against his brother. Or rather, they
thought the facts themselves, as they had just come
out in court, more telling for the jury than any formal
evidence. The only other witness of importance was,
therefore, the lad who had sat on the gate by the


396 WHAT'S BRED IN THE. BONE. [chap, xliii.
entrance to The Tangle. As he scrambled into the box
Sir Gilbert's anxiety grew visibly deeper and more
acute than ever. For the boy was the one person who
had seen him at Mambury on the day of the murder;
and on the boy depended his sole chance of being
recognised. At Tavistock, eighteen months before, Sir
Gilbert had left the cross-examination of this witness
in the hands of a junior, and the boy hadn't noticed
him, sitting down among the Bar with gown and wig
on. But to-day, it was impossible the boy shouldn't
see him; and if the boy should recognise him—why,
then, Heaven help him.
The lad gave his evidence-in-chief with great care
and deliberateness. He swore positively to Guy, and
wasn't for a moment to be shaken in cross-examination.
He admitted he had been mistaken at Tavistock, and
confused the prisoner with Cyril—when he saw one of
them apart—but now that he saw 'em both together
before his eyes at once, why, he could take his solemn
oath as sure as fate upon him. Guy's counsel failed
utterly to elicit anything of importance, except—and
here Sir Gilbert's face grew whiter than ever—except
that another gentleman whom the lad didn't know had
asked at the gate about the path, and gone round the
other way as if to meet Mr. Nevitt.
"What sort of a gentleman?" the cross-examiner
inquired, clutching at this last straw as a mere chance
diversion.
"Well, a vurry big zart o' a gentleman," witness


clUr. xliii.] SIR GILBERT'S TEMPTATION. 397
answered, unabashed. "A vine vigger o' a man. Jest
such another as thik 'un with the wig ther."
As he spoke he stared hard at the judge, a good
scrutinizing stare. Sir Gilbert quailed, and glanced
instinctively, first at the boy, and then at Elma. Not
a spark of intelligence shone in the lad's stolid eyes.
But Elma's were fixed upon him with a serpentine
glare of awful fascination. "Thou art the man," they
seemed to say to him mutely. Sir Gilbert, in his awe,
was afraid to look at them. They made him wild with
terror, yet they somehow fixed him. Try as he would
to keep his own from meeting them, they attracted him
irresistibly.
A ripple of faint laughter ran lightly through the
court at the undisguised frankness of the boy's reply.
The judge repressed it sternly.
"Oh, he was just such another one as his lordship,
was he?" counsel repeated, pressing the lad hard.
"Now, are you quite sure you remember all the people
you saw that day? Are you quite sure the other man
who asked about passers-by wasn't—for example—the
judge himself who's sitting here?"
Sir Gilbert glanced up with a quick, suspicious air.
It was only a shot at random—the common advocate's
trick in trying to confuse a witness over questions of
identity; but to Sir Gilbert, under the circumstances,
it was inexpressibly distressing. "Well, it murt 'a
been he," the lad answered, putting his head on one
side, and surveying the judge closely with prolonged


WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap. xuu.
attention. "Thik on 'ad just such another pair o' 'ands
as his lordship do 'ave. It mart 'a been his lordship
'orself as is zitting there."
"This goes quite beyond the bounds of decency," Sir
Gilbert murmured faintly, with a vain endeavour to
hold his hands on the desk in an unconcerned attitude.
"Have the kindness, Mr. Walters, to spare the Bench.
Attend to your examination. Observations of that sort
are wholly uncalled for."
But the boy, once started, was not so easily repressed.
"Why, it was his lordship," he went on, scanning the
judge still harder. "I do mind his vurry voice. It
was 'im, no doubt about it. I've zeed a zight o' people,
since I zeed 'im that day, but I do mind his voice, and
I do mind his 'ands, and I do mind his ve-ace the zame
as if it wur yesterday. Now I come to look, blessed if
it wasn't his lordship!"
Guy's counsel smiled a triumphant smile. He had
carried his point. He had confused the witness. This
showed how little reliance could be placed upon the
boy's evidence as to personal identity! He'd identify
anybody who happened to be suggested to him! But
Sir Gilbert's face grew yet more deadly pale. For he
saw at a glance this was no accident or mistake; the
boy really remembered him! And Elma's steadfast
eyes looked him through and through, with that irre-
sistible appeal, still more earnestly than ever.
Sir Gilbert breathed again. He had been recognised
to no purpose. Even this positive identification fell
flat upon everybody.


chap, xliii.] sir Gilbert's temptation. 399
At last the examination and cross-examination were
finished, and Guy's counsel began his hopeless task
of unravelling this tangled mass of suggestion and
coincidence. He had no witnesses to call; the very
nature of the case precluded that. All he could do
was to cavil over details, to point out possible alter-
natives, to lay stress upon the absence of direct
evidence, and to ask that the jury should give the
prisoner the benefit of the doubt, if any doubt at all
existed in their minds as to his guilt or innocence.
Counsel had meant when he first undertook the case
to lay great stress also on the presumed absence of
motive; but, after the fatal accident which resulted in
the disclosure of Montague Nevitt's pocket-book, any
argument on that score would have been worse than
useless. Counsel elected rather to pass the episode by
in discreet silence, and to risk everything on the
uncertainty of the actual encounter.
At last he sat down, wiping his brow in despair, after
what he felt himself to be a most feeble performance.
Then Sir Gilbert began, and in a very tremulous
and failing voice summed briefly up the whole of the
evidence.
Men who remember Gildersleeve's old blustering
manner stood aghast at the timidity with which the
famous lawyer delivered himself on this, the first
capital charge ever brought before him. He reminded
the jury, in very solemn and almost warning tones, that
where a human life was at stake, mere presumptive


'400 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xme
evidence should always carry very little weight with it
And the evidence here was all purely presumptive.
The prosecution had shown nothing more than a
physical possibility that the prisoner at the bar might
have committed the murder. There was evidence of
animus, it was true; but that evidence was weak;
there was partial identification; but that identification
lay open to the serious objection that all the persons
who now swore to Guy Waring's personality had
sworn just as surely and confidently before to his
brother Cyril's. On the whole, the judge summed up
strongly in Guy's favour. He wiped his clammy brow
and looked appealingly at the bar. As the jury would
hope for justice themselves, let them remember to mete
out nothing but strict justice to the accused person
who now stood trembling in the dock before them.
All the court stood astonished. Could this be
Gildersleeve? Atkins would never have summed up
like that. Atkins would have gone in point-blank for
hanging him. And everybody thought Gildersleeve
would hang with the best. Nobody had suspected him
till then of any womanly weakness about capital
punishment. There was a solemn hush as the judge
ended. Then everybody saw the unhappy man was
seriously ill. Great streams of sweat trickled slowly
down his brow. His eyes stared in front of him. His
mouth twitched horribly. He looked like a person on
the point of apoplexy. The prisoner at the bar gazed
hard at him and pitied him.


ohap, xliii.] SIR GILBERT'S TEMPTATION. 401
"He's dying himself, and he wants to go out with a
clear conscience at last," some one suggested in a low
voice at the barristers' table. The explanation served.
It was whispered round the court in a hushed under-
tone that the judge to-day was on his very last legs,
and had summed up accordingly. Late in life, he had
learned to show mercy, as he hoped for it.
There was a deadly pause. The jury retired to
consider their verdict. Two men remained behind in
court, waiting breathless for their return. Two lives
hung at issue in the balance while the jury deliberated.
Elma Clifford, glancing with a terrified eye from one
to the other, could hardly help pitying the guiltiest
most. His look of mute suffering was so inexpressibly
pathetic.
The twelve good men and true were gone for a full
half-hour. Why, nobody knew. The case was as
plain as a pikestaff, gossipers said in court. If he had
been caught red-handed, he'd have been hanged without
remorse. It was only the eighteen months and the
South African episode that could make the jury hesitate
for one moment about hanging him.
At last, a sound, a thrill, a movement by the door.
Every eye was strained forward. The jury trooped back
again. They took their places in silence. Sir Gilbert
scanned their faces with an agonized look. It was a
moment of ghastly and painful suspense. He was
waiting for their verdict—on himself, and Guy
Waring.
2 D


402 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xuv.
CHAPTER XLIV.
AT BAY.
Only two people in court doubted for one moment
what the verdict would be. And those two were the
pair who stood there on their trial. Sir Gilbert couldn't
believe the jury would convict an innocent man of the
crime he himself had half unwittingly committed.
Guy Waring couldn't believe the jury would convict
an innocent man of the crime he had never been guilty
of. So those two doubted. To all the rest the verdict
was a foregone conclusion.
Nevertheless, dead silence reigned everywhere in the
court as the clerk of arraigns put the solemn question,
"Gentlemen, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty?"
And the foreman, clearing his throat huskily,
answered in a very tremulous tone, "We find him
guilty of wilful murder."
There was a long, deep pause. Every one looked
at the prisoner. Guy Waring stood like one stunned
by the immensity of the blow. It was an awful
moment. He knew he was innocent; but he knew
now the English law would hang him.


CHAP. XLIv.]
403
AT BAY.
One pair of eyes in the court, however, was not fixed
on Guy. Elma Clifford, at that final and supreme
moment, gazed hard with all her soul at Sir Gilbert
Gildersleeve. Her glance went through him. She
sat like an embodied conscience before him. The
judge rose slowly, his eyes riveted on hers. He was
trembling with remorse, and deadlier pale than ever.
An awful lividness stole over his face. His lips were
contorted. His eyebrows quivered horribly. Still
gazing straight at Elma, he essayed to speak. Twice
he opened his parched lips. Then his voice failed him.
"I cannot accept that finding," he said at last, in a
very solemn tone, battling hard for speech against
some internal enemy. "I cannot accept it. Clerk,
you will enter a verdict of not guilty."
A deep hum of surprise ran round .the expectant
court. Every mouth opened wide, and drew a long
hushed breath. Senior counsel for the Crown jumped
to his feet astonished. "But why, my lord?" he
asked tartly, thus baulked of his success. "On what
ground does your lordship decide to override the plain
verdict of the jury 1"
The pause that followed was inexpressibly terrible.
Guy Waring waited for the answer in an agony of sus-
pense.' He knew what it meant now. With a rush
it all occurred to him. He knew who was the mur-
derer. But he hoped for nothing. Sir Gilbert faltered:
Elma Clifford's eyes were upon him still, compelling
him. "Because," he said at last, with a still more evident


404
WHAT'S BBED IN THE BONE. [chap, xliv.
and physical effort, pumping the words out slowly, "I
am here to administer justice, and justice I will ad-
minister. . . . This man is innocent. It was I myself
who killed Montague Nevitt that day at Mambury."
At those awful words, uttered in a tone so solemn
that no one could doubt either their truth or their
sincerity, a cold thrill ran responsive through the
packed crowd of auditors. The silence was profound.
In its midst, a boy's voice burst forth all at once,
directed, as it seemed, to the counsel for the Crown.
"I said it was him," the voice cried, in a triumphant
tone. "I knowed 'um! I knowed 'um! Thik there's
the man that axed me the way down the dell the
marnin' o' the murder."
The judge turned towards the boy with a ghastly
smile of enforced recognition. "You say the truth,
my lad," he answered, without any attempt at con-
cealment. "It was I who asked you. It was I who
killed him. I went round by the far gate after hearing
he was there, and, cutting across the wood, I met
Montague Nevitt in the path by The Tangle. I went
there to meet him; I went there to confront him; but
not of malice prepense to murder him. I wanted to
question him about a family matter. Why I needed to
question him no one henceforth shall ever know.
That secret, thank Heaven, rests now in Montague
Nevitt's grave. But when I did question him, he
answered me back with so foul an aspersion upon a
lady who was very near and dear to me "—the judge


406
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xur.
And if he had been a stronger or a healthier man, what
little I did to him would never have killed him. I
didn't mean to murder him. For that my remorse is
far less poignant. But what I did after was far worse
than the murder. I behaved like a sneak—I behaved
like a coward. I saw suspicion was aroused against the
prisoner, Guy Waring. And what did I do then?
Instead of coming forward like a man, as I ought, and
saying' I did it,' and standing my trial on the charge
of manslaughter, I did my best to throw further sus-
picion on an innocent person. I made the case look
blacker and worse for Guy Waring. I don't condone
my own crime. I did it for my wife's sake and my
daughter's, I admit—but I regret it now bitterly—and
am I not atoning for it \ With a great humiliation,
am I not amply atoning for it? I wrote an unsigned
letter warning Waring at once to fly the country, as a
warrant was out against him. Waring foolishly took
my advice, and fled forthwith. From that day to this"
—he gazed round him appealingly—" oh, friends, I
have never known one happy moment."
Guy gazed at him from the dock, where he still stood
guarded by two strong policemen, and felt a fresh light
break suddenly in upon him. Their positions now were
almost reversed. It was he who was the accuser, and
Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve, the judge in that court, who
stood charged to-day on his own confession with causing
the death of Montague Nevitt.
"Then it was you," Guy said slowly, breaking the


( 409 )
CHAPTER XLV.
all's well that ends well.
Granville helped him on his arm into the judge's room
amid profound silence. All the court was deeply
stirred. A few personal friends hurried after him
eagerly. Among them were the Warings, and Mrs.
Clifford, and Elma.
The judge staggered to a seat, and held Granville's
hand long and silently in his. Then his eye caught
Elma's. He turned to her gratefully. "Thank you,
young lady," he said, in a very thick voice. "You
were extremely good. I forget your name. But you
helped me greatly."
There was such a pathetic ring in those significant
words, "I forget your name," that every eye about
stood dimmed with moisture. Eemorse had clearly
blotted out all else now from Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve's
powerful brain save the solitary memory of his great
wrong-doing.
"Something's upon his mind still," Elma cried, look-
ing hard at him. "He's dying! he's dying! But he
wants to say something else before he dies, I'm certain.
. . . Mr. Kelmscott, it's to you. Oh, Cyril, stand


410 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xlv.
back! Mother, leave them alone! I'm sure from his
eye he wants to say something to Mr. Kelmscott."
They all fell back reverently. They stood in the
presence of death and of a mighty sorrow. Sir Gilbert
still held Granville's hand fast bound in his own.
"It'll kill her," he muttered. "It'll kill her! I'm
sure it'll kill her! She'll never get over the thought
that her father was—was the cause of Montague
Nevitt's death. And you'll never care to marry a girl
of whom people will say, either justly or unjustly,
'She's a murderer's daughter.' . . . And that will kill
her, too. For, Kelmscott, she loved you!"
Granville held the dying man's hand still more
gently than ever. "Sir Gilbert," he said, leaning over
him with very tender eyes, "no event on earth could
ever possibly alter Gwendoline's love for me, or my
love for Gwendoline. I know you can't live. This
shock has been too much for you. But if it will make
you die any the happier now to know that Gwendoline
and I will still be one, I give you my sacred promise
at this solemn moment, that as soon as she likes I
will marry Gwendoline." He paused for a second. "I
don't understand all this story just yet," he went on.
"But of one thing I'm certain. The sympathy of every
soul in court to-day went with you as you spoke out
the truth so manfully. The sympathy of all England
will go with you to-morrow when they come to learn
of it. . . . Sir Gilbert, till this morning I never
admired you, much as I love Gwendoline. As you


412
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap. xlv.
would be much better off, even so, with their third of the
property each, than they ever before in their lives
could have counted upon. As for Cyril, he was too
happy in Guy's exculpation from the greater crime, and
his frank explanation of the lesser—under Nevitt's
influence—to care very much in his own heart what
became of Tilgate.
The only one man who objected to this arrangement
was Mr. Reginald Clifford, C.M.G., of Craighton. The
Companion of the Militant Saints was strongly of opinion
that Cyril Waring oughtn't to have given up his prior
claim to the family mansion, even for valuable consider-
ation elsewhere. Mr. Clifford drew himself up to the
full height of his spare figure, and caught in the tight
skin of his mummy-like face rather tighter than before,
as he delivered himself of this profound opinion. "A
man should consult his own dignity," he said stiffly, and
with great precision; "if he's born to assume a position
in the county, he should assume that position as a
sacred duty. He should remember that his wife and
children"
"But he hasn't got any wife, papa," Elma ventured to
interpose, with a bright little smile; so that can't count
either way."
"He hasn't a wife at present, to be sure; that's per-
fectly true, my dear; no wife at present; but he will
probably now, in his existing circumstances, soon obtain
one. A Man of Property should always marry. Mr.
Waring will naturally desire to ally himself to some


chap. xlv.] ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 413
family of Good Position in the county; and the lady's
relations would, of course, insist"
"Well, it doesn't matter to us, papa," Elma answered
maliciously; "for, as far as we're concerned, you know
you've often said that nothing on earth would ever
induce you to give your consent."
The Gentleman of Good Position in the county gazed
at his daughter aghast with horror. "My dear child,"
he said, with positive alarm, "your remarks are nothing
short of Eevolutionary. You must remember that since
then circumstances have altered. At that time, Mr.
Waring was a painter"
"He's a painter still, I believe," Elma put in, paren-
thetically. "The acquisition of property or county rank
doesn't seem to have had the very slightest effect one
way or the other upon his drawing or his colouring."
Her father disdained to take notice of such flippant
remarks. "At that time," he repeated solemnly,
"Mr. Waring was a painter, a mere ordinary painter;
we know him now to be the heir and representative
of a great County Family. If he were to ask you
to-day"
"But he did ask me a long time ago, you know,
papa," Elma put in demurely. "And at that time, you
remember, you objected to the match; so of course, as
in duty bound, I at once refused him."
"And what did your father say to that, Elma?"
Cyril asked, with a smile, as she narrated the whole
circumstances to him some hours later.


414 WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. [chap, xlv.
"Oh, he only said,'But he'll ask you again now, you
may be sure, my child.' And I replied very gravely,
I didn't think you would. And do you know, Cyril,
I really don't think you will, either."
"Why not, Elma?"
"Because, you foolish boy, it isn't the least bit in
the world necessary. This has been, all through, a
comedy of errors. Tragedy enough intermixed; but
still a comedy of errors. There never was really any
reason on earth why either of us shouldn't have married
the other. And the only thing I now regret myself is
that I didn't do as I first threatened, and marry you
outright, just to show my confidence in you and Guy,
at the time when everybody else had turned most
against you."
"Well, suppose we make up for lost time now by
saying Wednesday fortnight," Cyril suggested, after a
short pause, during which both of them simultaneously
had been otherwise occupied.
"Oh, Cyril, that's awfully quick! It could hardly
be managed. There's the dresses, and all that! And
the bridesmaids to arrange about! And the invitations
to issue! . . , But still, sooner than put you off any
longer now—well, yes, my dear boy—I dare say we
could make it Wednesday fortnight."
THE END.


LONDON:
PltlNTKD BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS. LIMITKD.
STAMFORD STRKET ASP CIIAHINO CROSS.